View Full Version : Katrina’s Taming

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 09:40 AM
Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Katrina will lose all she owns unless she can get a massive loan. A long time girlfriend comes to the rescue at a price. The price for Katrina is heavy. A highly intelligent super fit strong-willed outdoor free spirit and sportsgirl, Katrina must submit to being tamed.

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 1 - Introduction

“Stilt her.”

It was Jackie's voice but as I had never heard it before. It was not a shout. It was a firm assured command issued in a calm firm voice, a voice that said that she was going to enjoy watching what she had ordered her two pretty girl companions to do to me.

“Stilt the bitch.”

Jackie's repeat command brought me back from my dazed reverie. Jackie and I went back a long way, right back to childhood schooldays. We had remained close friends even in the final years when it was clear that I was the clever one and she seemingly destined for no great achievement.

We split for a time when I had gone up to Camford where I got my first in modern languages. We had kept in touch but were a little estranged. Envy played some part. Jackie was jealous of my education. Yet Jackie had no cause. It was she who was the 27-year-old millionaire and I, twenty-six now, the unemployed graduate who had never found her place in the world of work till the wonderful job I had just been dismissed from after only three months.

There were three pretty young girls videoing what was happening to me on that warm June Saturday afternoon in the lounge of my ground floor London apartment. Two operating individual cameras, and one on sound. This was Jackie's business. This was how she had made her millions. “Spe******t erotica” she called it. “The customer wants to be sure it's the real thing happening on their screen,” she'd say, “And when they buy my stuff they know they get nothing that isn't 100% kosher.”

I'd known for a long time that she made films of girls being tortured sexually. Jackie never put it as basically. But that is what she did. I never really listened when she was in boasting mode, as often she was when she was tipsy. But I took in that there were also invited audiences who paid $2,000 a head to witness live, and participate in the fantasies that she made real, with absolutely no make believe for the poor girl victims. And the girls she had were always so incredibly beautiful. “They want triple-A meat, and I don't accept less”. She'd say. “I never did, not even in the beginning.”

And that was what was hurting momentarily as I heard that command. Was that how Jackie had always regarded me. Was I just “triple-A meat” to her?

I knew that at school she had had the “hots” for me. She had always been a girl for girls. Me, I wanted none of that and had gently but firmly declined her when, in our later teens, she'd grabbed me at the end of one of our drunken nights out. “I only want a kiss you goodnight,” she'd say, but I knew full well it was not a sisterly kiss she was after.

For me it had been a succession of boyfriends each worse than the one who went before. “Was Always Not Quite Entirely Right” Jackie would giggle about the latest John or Joe that had left me crying on her shoulder. “It spells ‘wanker' you know”. She'd then snort with laughter, and we'd both be cheered up: she could be so loving a friend.

We'd both been the belles of the school. Nobody was in our league for looks and figure. And we knew it. At eighteen I was (and still am) five feet seven, 115 pounds, with a 36D; 24, 37 figure, light brown hair, and very dark brown eyes. I can still turn any man's head at a mile distance and more, with my lovely face and my long strong and superbly shapely legs.

And we were bitches to the boys and girls who lusted after us. I worked hard on my body (and still do). Swimming, belly-dancing, sword fencing, skating, running, cycling, aerobics, step-dancing, horse riding, and sex, lots and lots of sex, when I can get it.
I loved sex. If only I could have found a man who could even half deliver on his boastful promises. I never did. I did a better job for myself than any stupid selfish man ever did for me.

There was never a time when I was not on the move. I loved the open air and freedom. I could never, but never, sit still when I had the chance to avoid it.

That is how I lost the job and was about to lose my apartment. I'd opted for a weekend hiking in Scotland when I was supposed to be preparing for a meeting. We lost the contract and my employers soon found that they: “were going to have to let me go”.

Ordinarily I had never asked and never would ask Jackie for money. She'd let it be known I only had to mention it and she would willingly provide.

Before I started buying it, she'd offered to loan me the money for my apartment, interest free. She'd then said that if I was that proud about borrowing from her, I could pay her interest on the loan if it made me feel better. But I had insisted on a mortgage from a bank.

Job gone now and the housing market dead that was where my problems lay. I had a massive loan on a very expensive fashionable-London property worth less than the money outstanding. I had no job and a gigantic loan to repay.

I'd swallowed pride. I'd phoned Jackie and asked her point blank if she could loan me $250,000. Of course I reminded her of how she had always offered money and apologised that I had been so proud and independent before, adding that I was desperate, as she well knew, else I would never have swallowed pride to phone her

I left all this in a voicemail message. Jackie was not in her office.

An hour later, I'd had a phone call from Jackie's secretary. “Jackie says to see your email”, said the girl's voice.

And that was where it all began. Pleased that Jackie had seen fit not to discuss my predicament with her secretary, I turned on my computer and opened my mail, getting rid of the usual uninvited credit card offers and other junk to open Jackie's message to me in answer to my prayer to her. As I read her message, my mouth fell open, and I felt a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach.

My first subsequent reaction was anger. And yet I read and re-read the message. And, as time drifted past and I calmed down, there was another strange feeling it was giving me between my legs. The more I had read it the more strangely exciting I had found it. Exciting in a nerve tingling way. It turned my tummy over. It excited me in spite of myself. It simply read:

“The Longing Alms 8.00 tonight. Miniskirt and t-shirt. No bra. No panties. Bare legs. Minimum three-inch heels. No money unless you submit to being tamed in public and on film. You have no choice. Jax ”

I was never one to exhibit myself in the manner of dress prescribed, and it took all my courage to wear what Jackie had directed.
Why did I do it? I do not know even now. That message and my subconscious knowledge of my dependence on Jackie had suddenly touched off something new in me.

I dressed like a whore on a warm summer's night and found every man's head turning as I glided into the Longing Alms public house, a place where Jackie and I had often driven.

Jackie and two young female companions were already there. Jackie knew she had won as soon as she saw how I was, or perhaps one should say was not, dressed.

We sat at a table next a wall in an alcove. Jackie motioned for me to sit between the two girls (they were no more than eighteen I'd swear). The girls and I sat with our backs to the wall. Jackie sat opposite us.

I tried to smile at Jackie. But that was not the way that things were now. There was no answering smile. The public house was busy. Many more were drinking outside. The sun was still shining. It was hot and humid.

My incredible nervousness at my vulnerable nakedness beneath my skimpy garments was causing contractions in my bowels. But I feared to move from my seat. My fear at what was going to happen only increased as my peripheral vision told me the girls either side of me were drinking in the beauty of my bare thighs.

Jackie looked around to ensure she was not overheard, before quietly looking me straight in the face and saying in a low whisper: “You will not cross your legs”. I blushed and averted my gaze. Jackie nodded to her companions, whom I later found were wired for video recording and sound: “Stroke her”, she whispered.

I sat bolt upright as I felt the warm pretty soft hands of the sexy pretty girls on my knees. I put my arms by my side to stop them touching me. They lifted my arms back by the elbows and insisted firmly by their actions that I keep them on the table.

I blushed crimson as they worked, hidden by the table, to pull the hem of my skirt even further up than it had naturally ridden when I sat. I would never before have let girls touch me as these girls were now. But what choice did I have?

Again I tried to put my arms by my side and thereby stop them from touching me, but they each pushed my arms back onto the table even more insistently. The girl on my right leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Our orders are to stroke you, you bitch, and you are going to be stroked. So put your hands on the table and part your lovely legs”.

I moved my thighs nervously a little wider. “Wider bitch”, the same girl hissed. I obeyed. The two girls set up an insistent rhythm and pattern running their eager hands up and down one each of my thighs. Up and down the inside of each of my thighs in coordinated unison they stroked me back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, from my knees to my groin.

On and on and on and on they went their gentle but firm slow rhythmic stroking, every stoke reminding me how naked and publicly exposed I was.

Jackie went to buy all of us a drink and left me being ravished, hidden by the table and the alcove location.

On and on and on and on and on and on and on it went stroke after gentle insistent stroke up and down my soft girl's thigh flesh. I was becoming mesmerised losing my mind to all sensations other than that of my gorgeous bare thighs being stoked over and over and over and over again.

Jackie had long since returned with drinks. Mine was only bottled water. Obviously I must experience my ravishing in full with all my senses alert. And they were alert: my nerve ends were zinging.

After twenty whole minutes of this continuous rhythmic slow firm gentle stroking of my nude thighs, my legs were like jelly, and my eyes closing with sensational rapture. My cunt juices began to seep from my she-lips. I let out a stifled sexual cry.

It was now the girl on my left who leant over and hissed in my ear: “You dirty bitch”. The stroking went on and on and on and on, ten, twenty, thirty minutes more: seemingly endlessly. And again I cried out, this time a little louder. Jackie covered for it with a laugh and made out it was the punch line to a joke.

Then she nodded. “How wet is she?” she asked.

The stroking stopped and I braced myself as the girl on my right eased me forward and ran an enquiring finger along my oozing she-lips. She held the finger up. Jackie nodded in acknowledgement.

I wanted so much more from that finger. I wanted the thigh stroking to continue. I found myself now squeezing by thighs together, though not daring to cross my legs. I was on the verge of an orgasm and must obediently suffer my terrible frustration. I lightly bit my lower lip and my eyes darted from side to side. I was begging the girls with my eyes. I was begging them to finish me.

“What score?” said Jackie to the first of the two girls.

“100 out of 100” for me”, came the answer. “Me too, and some!” said her companion.

I hung my head in deep blushing shame. Then I noticed that a pen and paper were in front of me. I struggled to hold the pen so adrift from the world was my mind, but somehow I signed.
I had signed Jackie's contract. I was to star in one of her infamous films. A film through the sales of which the money Jackie would loan me would be recovered many times over.

Jackie ordered me home and said to be ready at 2.00 the next afternoon: a Saturday. I was to be delivered up that evening, she said. “We've promised the best entertainment yet. And I just know you're going to be just that!”

How I managed to stand and walk alone out of the Longing Alms that night I will never know. My legs felt as if I had even yet, at twenty-six, not learned to walk for the first time. Jackie purposely caught my arm and pulled me to her to hear her final order. “Don't you dare play with yourself”.

I would not. I somehow knew that my frustration was part of my taming. I steadied myself by holding chair backs as I staggered toward the entrance door.

“Why do lovely young girls like you need to get so stupidly drunk? We don't want drunks in here!” said an old lady near the door, as I walked rubber-legged flush-faced stunned-eyed out to my car.

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 2 – Katrina is Made Ready

Arriving back at my apartment from the Longing Alms, I threw off my soiled clothes and took the longest shower of my life to wash the sweet sweat from my body. I must cool down! What had they done to me? Why had I let them do it? A mature twenty-six year old woman used as a sex toy by girls barely out of sixth form.

Above all, why and why did I feel as I did? Sexual; sexy; humiliated; elated; angry; pleased; hateful; ecstatic; unhappy; giggly, frustrated and excited, each and every one of these by turn and turn again.

I knew that I had almost begged those pretty young girls to take me to climax. I felt deep shame at this latter thought, and yet that shame started the musk in my cunt again. I clutched my belly with both hands and let out a gasp as I bent double with shock at the lightening speed return of extremely heavy and intoxicatingly heady sexual arousal.

In bed I fought and fought not to finger my slit and clit. Tossing and turning, my mind going over and over and relentlessly over the humiliating sexual stroking I had been given. I was sure I would never sleep but eventually did and woke at 10.00 the next morning feeling totally wretched.

I drank coffee and wandered around my apartment like a zombie, all the time asking myself how on earth I could ever pass the time till 2.00 that afternoon and whether anyway I shouldn't run away. I had fuel in the car. I could be halfway to Scotland or flown from any airport by the time Jackie came for me. I showered again and went back to bed. It was gone noon when I awoke once more, fresh as the earliest spring daisy.

Another shower and then my hair and some light make-up. No damaged fingernails. Thank goodness for that. I was always catching them. No nail varnish. Somehow I thought they wouldn't allow nail varnish. What to wear!? For goodness sake, I had no idea what to wear! It would be hot again. June had scorched for days. There might be some travel. Jackie's place was out of London: middle of nowhere.

I settled for a white vest, blue denim skirt and almost heel-less open toe summer sandals. No underwear. It was obvious that there must be no underwear. The excitement of dressing like a slut made my tummy tingle once more. I checked myself in a full-length mirror. My lovely firm pert breasts were swelling the vest to bursting. My nipples were eye-catchingly obvious where they pushed out the thin fabric. Was this a bit too much: a bit too sexy?

For heaven's sake, why was I only thinking of sex all the time?

The girl in the mirror was astonishingly beautiful and stunningly attractive. But there was more to me than an angel's face and deep dark brown eyes. I was and am an intelligent, no, a very intelligent woman. And yet I was standing there and turning and admiring the effect of my pert full round and heavy breasts on the skimpy vest, the way my extremely smackable bum filled out my skirt, the trim slimness of my waist and, above all, the shapeliness of my legs, with their firm calves and curvaceous, perfectly proportioned, thighs. I went back to my dressing table and checked my lipstick. Despite my brain, or even because of it, I was all giddy girl again.

It was 1.00 pm, an hour early, when my doorbell rang. I looked through the safety spy hole. It was Jackie already. With her was a bevy of pretty girls carrying equipment including lights and cameras. My “taming” as Jackie had termed it, was to be professionally filmed.

My stomach churned as I opened the door. Unsure what to say I said nothing. The two girls that had stroked me made straight for me, held one hand each and told me I looked absolutely delicious. And I blushed. I blushed like a girl winning her first ever compliment.

Attempting to be the perfect hostess, I asked if everyone wanted coffee, but was totally ignored.

Lights were being set up, cameras and a sound boom readied. One of the two young girls asked me if I wanted to use the bathroom before filming started. This in my own apartment! My bathroom, not hers!! And yet I meekly and politely answered: “No thank you”.

Jackie was directing preparations. One of my straight-backed dining chairs was placed in the middle of a pool of light. “Don't let her sit,” ordered Jackie referring to me, “We don't want to have to wait for any pressure marks to go”.

Jackie, my oldest friend, had not looked at me once. That hurt me. One glance from her would have been the smallest and biggest comfort to me right then.

I was becoming frightened. Terrified would be more the word. My mind was racing. What were they going to do to me? What must I suffer for the $250,000 I so desperately needed? Could I call this whole thing off even right now?

It was as if Jackie could read my thoughts: “Oh for goodness sake, someone get her stripped!” she ordered.

The two girls came to me and without a word, let alone the seeking of my consent, they unzipped my skirt and dropped it to my ankles, before pulling my vest over my head, and unbuckling my shoes. My clothes and sandals were thrown well out of sight of the cameras. They then further brushed my rather wild brown locks till they shone and crackled with static, and gathered them into a ponytail.

The filming began with Jackie directing the camera to take in the whole of my naked body, head to foot, front and back. More shots concentrated on my breasts and close up on my pretty rosebud-pink nipples with their one-inch diameter areole. And yet more were taken of my bum, finishing with a particularly lengthy look ground-upwards at my tightly closed in-curling she-lips. I was ordered to keep my head up, though I wanted to die from the blushing shame of being ravished this way by the cameras.

Then came Jackie's order, “Stilt her!”

My mind raced as I was led to the dining chair in the spotlights. I was letting all this happen freely; yet I was a prisoner. I could hardly run away, stark naked as I was. I followed obediently as the girls took my hands with their own warm soft pretty hands and led me to the chair. As I heard one of them whisper: “Be brave”, I went into a reverie about Jackie and me and our past together.

“Stilt the bitch” Jackie barked, as much for the film's theme as to snap me, her victim, alert once more.

I had no idea what the order meant.

Then I was shown them: my stilt-booties. They should have been a fantasy; but they were absolutely here and now and very very real. They were incredible. Made of black soft leather reinforced by shiny stainless steel, they were the sexiest booties you could imagine and beyond, way beyond, even that.

But there was something very strange about them. Their heels were, though it sounds unbelievable, nothing less than twelve bright shiny stiletto stainless steel inches, tapering down to contact of less than a one-eighth-inch square on the ground. Twelve inch heels if I had it right! The heels were far far longer than my foot. Yet were they heels?

If the definition of a bootie's sole, as it surely must, necessarily dictates some contact with the ground, the sole of these booties was a sole in name only. The sole had no contact with the ground whatsoever. Also made of shiny stainless steel, it flowed in a rigid curve from the heel to the toe-end of the booties, where it bent slightly back again. But nobody's foot could bend that way. What was going on?

The soles of the booties curved back in the same way as a ballet shoe curves back when the ballerina en-pointes. But these soles were rigid, not flexible like a ballet shoe, so the wearer's foot would be constantly forced back to make her toes point to ground when she stood. But they curved the wrong way! What WAS going on?

Their intention was pretty certain; it was to hold the wearer in constant en-pointed tiptoe. To ensure this, the toe–end of the bootie was squared off. It would be the toe-end of the bootie the wearer would primarily stand and move on. The “heels” touched the ground with minimal distance between toe-end and “heel”. But were they heels: which was the heel and which the toe-end? It was only clear where the foot must go.

As the “heels”, if they were heels, were twelve-inches, so the sole and toe combination must match that, and did. From where the tips of the big toes of the wearer would lodge within the bootie when worn, was a three-and-a-half inch toe-end to the bootie speedily tapering down, to match the length of the “heels”, till it touched the ground with miniscule contact.

Miniscule contact of the toe-end was absolutely assured, because the toe-end tapered down to finish in a one-inch broad quarter-inch wide extra-hard flat steel tip, a tip that could and would give the wearer of the bootie no stable contact with the ground. She would stand in the booties on the toe-ends, with the “heels” for occasional redress of balance and no more. But the soles curved the wrong way! What on earth was going on for goodness sake?!

Of course, that was it, of course!! These booties were a mistresspiece of design. Those were no heels; but those were the toes: that was why the soles seemed to curve the wrong way: they curved the right way!!

How could I be so stupid?

It was so clear to me now, the wearer would be put in the equivalent of ballet shoes with rigid soles to hold her foot constantly on tiptoe. And the heels? They were not heels: they were a means for the wearer to stand. They were not at the rear of the bootie; they were at the front!!!

The wearer would walk, or whatever, on her toe-tips stilted nearly four-inches high at that, and totally en-pointe, and rest the front “heels” on the ground only when stationary. As I imagined this, I gave a little girly fart of fear and excitement: sexual excitement. This was indeed to be cruel. These weird reverse booties were incredibly cruel and incredibly sexy.

Only the one-inch wide contact with the ground from the flat-tipped toe-ends would give the bootie any stability at all, and that would be only on the split hairs breadth side of totally non-existent. Standing in these booties, the wearer would be teetering murderously tiptoed with the weight of her whole body on the very tips of her big toes within them and only the very barest minimum of contact with the ground. And the stability of that contact would be so far absent as to be almost more theoretical than real.

She would be a complete prisoner who must beware every step and even her standing in fear of a fall. Constantly self-conscious of her legs formed in permanent incredibly sexy and deeply sexual en-pointe, she would at all times have to balance herself against the slightest stagger.

The cameras zoomed close-up to examine my face and eyes as I was made to study the booties held before me by one of my young girl tormentors.

I slowly shook my head in amazement that any girl could be expected to wear these. But a girl was going to wear them. That girl was me. How could I possible stand let alone walk in such monstrously weird and deeply sexy foot-ware?

The cameras took in the puzzlement on my gorgeous face and my look of astonishment at what came next.

My torture was begun. It was a two-girl operation to fit the booties on me. One held my right leg up and the other eased my toes into the first bootie. This gave me a chance to study one of the booties more closely, as I must to understand them and how I was to stand and move in them, as I would inevitably be forced.

My foot was being easily slid into the rigidly formed en-pointed-ballerina-shaped foot housing of the bootie. It opened like a bellow, and was lined with velvet-like white material, with support for the arch of my foot within it. My foot went in easily enough, though I found it decidedly uncomfortable as the rigid sole of the bootie bent my foot backwards to ensure my big toe would point straight down when I stood.

To make sure my pretty foot was right home, the bootie was placed, with my foot deep into it, on the floor, and my heel grasped and pushed a little. I winced as my foot went finally down to the end of the compartment made for it, and my big toe was pushing on the velvet that would be my only cushion when I was standing in the bootie. The bootie had clearly been precisely tailored to the size and shape of my foot.

Now I fully realised, that what I had at first thought must be the heel, was indeed at the front of the bootie. This “front-heel” pointed straight to ground when my bootie was on the ground. I was therefore reversed. My big toe was behind the “heel”. The “heel” could only be used for balance when I was stationary.

Once my foot was fully in, the bellows-like compartment of the bootie that held my foot was made tight around the foot by an outside strap that was buckled around the bootie at the point where the middle of the sole of my foot was inside.

At the top end of the bootie, the “front-heel” turned into a broad strap that would go around my ankle to hold the bootie immovably in place. This strap was also now taken round my ankle and buckled and padlocked in place at the back of my ankle.

The cameras lingered for the foot fetishists who were a big market for Jackie's videos, on the operation being repeated with my left foot. Fixing the booties had finished with both of them having their top straps buckled and padlocked tightly around my strong but dainty ankles.

I now sat with both stilt-booties tight strapped buckled and padlocked firmly in place on my cruelly bent-back feet. With the stilt-booties on the ground, my feet were held in a permanent en-pointe stance. My big toes were pointing rigidly straight to ground. I sat with my already naturally beautiful calves given a new and compellingly sexual sexy curvature. My charms were deliciously delightfully enhanced.

These booties, these incredible booties: rigid ballet shoes with stainless-steel soles bending my pretty feet back so that I had my big toes pointing straight down, with their “front heel” like stilts as the only saviour of my falling over forwards in them when I stood still, and minimal saviours at that, were now tight strapped, ankle strapped and ankle-strap padlocked, onto my feet.

I had not practiced ballet since I was a child, and my feet were no longer used to being bent back this way: tears were in the corner of my eyes; it was so painful. But there was only one order that could now be given. The one I dreaded at that moment the most.

“Make her stand”, Jackie barked.

The girls took my hands. I had no choice. The cameras whirred drinking this moment in. I sat back on the chair once, then twice, then a third time in my failure to lock my knees to hold myself erect. And then I did it. I was standing. My hands were let go and my chair taken away. I was standing, very uncertainly my sexy legs shaking like a newborn lamb’s in my stilt-booties. It felt absolutely incredible I just knew that I was being displayed so very fantastically sexily.

I was standing permanently en-pointed in my ballet-booties, on the very tips of my big toes like a prima ballerina. It was dreadfully painful too but oh so very sexy. I rested the front-heels on the ground. I stood with my fantastically shapely super-strong sexy girl's legs quivering with the strain. I stood, resting on the front-heels, with no rear heels, I stood murderously tip-toed, sensationally steeple legged, I stood the epitome of sex on legs: sex on super-girlised legs.

I was a girl standing on legs so fit and strong and so bounteously beautiful, but legs so helplessly held as to put her in the prison of fear from her precariousness. My legs were captured and held sexually imprisoned. I had no escape. I could barely stand. I could maybe walk. But I had no escape from my captors. I was helpless. My gloriously sexy legs were imprisoned, so I was imprisoned.

And yet I felt liberated. This was how my beautiful legs were meant to be displayed.

A girl's legs have function and wonderful beauty. I was, for once, letting the full wondrous beauty of my legs be seen, function could take second place.

Function would be curbed and controlled by these booties. The curbing and controlling of the function of my legs only enhanced the wonderfulness of the way they were now displayed. And the way I would be forced to walk would add more of the sensuous sexualness already natural to my femininity. I would be super-girlised.

It was dreadfully painful because the whole weight of my body was on the very tips of my two big toes and the nails of those toes was being driven back into the flesh of my toes by the pressure upon them.

My weight was forced entirely onto my big toes because the only way I could stand in the stilt-booties was, of course, on the booties' totally unstable tiptoe-ends with the front-heels of the booties barely contacting the ground and providing only minimal respite when I succeeded in transferring some of my body weight to them from moment to moment.

The fear the thought of falling engendered in my belly made my tummy churn. I held my stance stiff as a soldier at attention, but found I had to move minimally but constantly to hold my balance. I was a prisoner in my booties. I was a prisoner of my booties. I was a prisoner tortured by fear of falling knowing the certainty that I would break an ankle leg or thigh were I to topple over.

I was permanently en-pointe, forced onto tiptoe by the booties.

My wonderful legs had taken on a new powerful and overwhelmingly sexy shape. My calves were stretched long tightly and femininely muscularlarly. My dimpled knees were locked a little back from straight, as the whole of my legs were delightfully bowed very slightly backwards. My gorgeously rounded thighs looked monumentally strong. My back was wonderfully curved. And the perfectly pert extremely smackable hemispheres of my bum were deeply side-dimpled and even more extraordinarily spankable.

Despite my superb fitness, my legs continued to shake with the strain of standing thus, and beads of sweat were on my prettily furrowed brow.
The muscles in my enforced dimpled smackable bum twitched enticingly as I constantly fought merely to stand, the blue veins in my thighs and legs showed lightly through my tanned white skin.

I was all girl-flesh and girl-blood and girl-sinew and girl-muscle and girl-arteries and girl-veins and girl-curved with my powerful legs imprisoned controlled and tamed. I was a prisoner of my stilt-booties. My legs, my incredibly gorgeous legs compellingly curved, contoured, controlled, unconsentingly captured, and captivatingly caught.

“Oh god I cannot stand like this” I pleaded.

“Not only will you stand like that, but you will also walk or even run if so ordered” sneered Jackie.

“At no time will you be helped: whatever happens. If you stagger or fall you will be left to stagger or fall. No mercy will be shown you by anybody at any time”, she continued in her quiet but forceful tone for me and for the film audience to be.

“If you fall, it will be taken as disobedience. Such disobedience of your order to stand and walk or run in your stilt-booties will be severely punished. If you fall, whether you are injured by your fall or not, you will be whipped without mercy to force you stand once more”, she hissed.

“You will obey all orders you are given, without hesitation. Even the slightest infraction will be severely punished.”

“Your wildness will be tamed. You will be made tame-girl by whatever extreme measures are necessary to employ. You are a wilful wild bitch. Now you are our prisoner, you will be forced to become one-hundred percent tame-girl no matter what it takes”, she scowled and hissed in a harsh stage whisper.

As I listened to this tirade I blushed: I blushed because my slit was beginning to moisten with my musk. I was becoming very deeply sexually aroused by this cruelty to me in both its physical-mental and aural-mental manifestations. I was beginning to be tamed by being emphatically girled. I must submit to being cruelly tamed.

My body was being girled so that my mind would be tamed. I would be driven by their torture to be so conscious of my charms that I could have no other thought than my charms.

I would become my girlbody. I would become my girlbody, mind and soul. I would crave nothing other than to be tame-girl. I would focus every last scintilla of my heart and soul on being tame-girl. I would achieve the only manifestation of heaven on earth: absolute charms. I would become heaven on earth: girl.

My young tormentors now brought a micro-dress to where I stood in the spotlights. It was in blue rough denim of a very simple straight “tube” line, with broad straps at the shoulder.

They rolled it up around its open top and lifted it over my arms to pull it down over my otherwise naked body.

It hung on my shoulders by the two 2½-inch broad straps fastened to the dress itself front and back by three buttons front and back on each strap. The neckline, more a “chestline”, was level all round.

At front it was just low enough to show the beginning of my nude-breasts' cleavage. The hem was just six inches below my now wonderfully tight dimpled buttocks. They fitted a broad black belt loosely, to gather in the dress, and to show how slim my waist was. The fitting of the belt pulled the dress' hem another inch up my nude thighs.

By now I was surrendered mind and body totally to sexuality. Lightening had struck three hundred and sixty degrees by one million dimensions in my brain. I had surrendered body and mind to my captors.

“We are going on a journey” announced Jackie to me and the future audience of the video. “At this very moment, a cab is on its way here. You will walk unaided to the cab and from the cab into the good old London underground, dressed and shod exactly as you are right now.”

My incredulity at this seeming impossibility and my awareness of my vulnerable nudity beneath the airy now four-or-five-inch hemmed micro-dress, showed on my lovely frowning brow and in the gasp of astonishment I uttered.

“You will not be alone. We will be filming you and your pretty escorts. The line if we are challenged, and believe it or not, we almost certainly won't be, is that we are on a fashion shoot, and that you are a model demonstrating tomorrow's clothes and footwear today.” Jackie's voice was firmly unemotional.

Jackie concluded: “Your escorts carry whips and believe me they will use them if you even show the slightest sign of daring to disobey me or them. You have no entitlements whatsoever. You are ours body mind and soul. You are nothing. You are just bitch meat and you will be treated like bitch meat, until you are made tame-girl.”

The “rattle, rattle, rattle” of a diesel engine could now be heard getting ever closer outside. It drowned out the little squeak that had escaped my pouting mouth. A squeak caused by the shock as my humiliation and torture had fully sexually dampened my cunt, and my she-lips were even now glistening with my musk beneath my micro-dress.

I was girl before, indisputably girl before, outstandingly girl before, but now I was more girl than that girl.

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 09:42 AM
Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 3 – Katrina's Painful Journey

My only practice at walking in my twelve-inch stiletto-front-heeled tiptoe-ended stilt-booties would be as I stepped across my lounge and into my hallway before the outside path to the waiting cab. My first steps were tiny and extremely hesitant. Then I found I could best walk, indeed only walk, with my feet turned slightly out from straight, giving me an exaggerated dimple-bummed strut.

I must of course transfer the weight of my body to the cruel uncertainty of the tiptoe-ended tip of my advanced foot, whilst praying that the tiptoe-toe-end of my anchored bootie would hold from taking my miniscule purchase on the solid ground beneath me away.

If I were not to be ripped into a forward and backward legs splits I must have the infinitesimal contact with solidity of the advanced bootie anchored before I dare lift the rear bootie to advance it in its turn. And so I advanced extremely tentatively: exceedingly slowly, wiggle-rotating my gloriously firm side-dimpled bum hemispheres divinely.

Perspiration on my pretty knitted brow, my lovely dark-brown eyes were cast down at my en-pointe-imprisoned feet. My pretty pink tongue was between my lovely mouth lips and lightly between my bright white teeth, and my concentration was fierce for fear of falling, so fierce that my whole body suddenly had every pore ooze sweet sweat, such was my concentration and terror, the horror that I must fall: I must surely fall.

Only by the strength of the muscles in my calves and the sinew in my slender but strong ankles could I keep the toes of my booties pointing the way that I wished to advance and it took all my ferocious concentration to dictate just that.

As I gained confidence, I was able to step a little quicker and look where I was going. As I strut-walked I was forced to sway my bum hemispheres super-enticingly.

I had no choice. My bondage dictated this wonderful sexiness. I heard one of my girl tormentors say, “wow!” as she watched me step so divinely sexily, daintily and femalely, and the undulating wiggle it gave to my oh so smackable bum. I was sex on legs: and what incredibly beautifully shaped legs.

Then I staggered and cried out in fear. As I waved my lovely slim arms aloft to keep my balance I screamed just knowing I was going to fall, terrified in anticipation of my shapely legs being broken.

Nobody in my entourage moved a muscle as my body swayed back and forth and I cried out for help, until with sweat-beads pouring down my face I found equilibrium once more, and stood rigidly still petrified, begging for mercy.

“You were ordered to walk bitch”. I looked at my tormentors with pleading dark-brown eyes. “You were ordered to walk bitch”, Jackie repeated. Move that pretty little bum of yours, and move it now or you will be whipped.”

One of my escorts uncurled her long black leather whip in readiness. Even more terrified I obediently recommenced my walk. Tears from my fears welled in my eyes. My cunt was wet again. Not this time with musk, but with piss that had almost trickled from my slit in my terror of falling.

I cannot deny it hurt to walk permanently in enforced en-pointe. But in my renewed mind, as I regained false confidence in my walking, I was pleased to be pleasing with my femininity and ultimate charms. What was a little pain compared with being so devastatingly girl?

My fear at going out into the real world, in enforced permanent en-pointe in my tiptoe-ended stilt-booties, and stark naked beneath my rough denim micro-dress, had now to be overcome. I was at the threshold of the door of my street-level apartment after a two-minute struggle to even wiggle-walk across a room.

The cab driver, who had obviously been told the cameras were on a fashion shoot, merely asked if I was she, if I was the model. He didn't wait for his answer as I wiggle-walked more into his view he just bellowed to nobody in particular bar the whole world had it been listening calling for all to, as he put it: “Just look at the legs on that!”

I could feel his staring eyes on my swaying, spankable, deep concave dimpled bum hemispheres, as I wiggle-walked bare legged (bare everything if he but knew) past his open mouthed astounded speechless gawp, my face almost purple with my blushes.

The poor man was totally transfixed by my charms. He went on and on about how unfair it was to poor mankind that a girl should look like I did. And how no man could ever satisfy a creature like me. He was not averse to crudity, and perhaps chosen by Jackie deliberately because she knew he had a loud dirty mouth, and the plus that would be for the theme of her film.

The poor man went on and on in my hearing as I was settling my sexy side-concave-dimpled bum on the rear seat of his cab, still blushing deep scarlet.

Then he asked for my name, and I heard Jackie answer that I was called Katrina. He looked my way again. I was sitting, cab door still open, showing a vast expanse of bare thigh because my denim micro-dress had unavoidably ridden up, and he kept using my name and telling me I was “a goddess”.

For effect, Jackie half lied to the cabbie that I was a lesbian. It immediately silenced him. Then, after an age thinking, he concluded that of course I must be because only another girl could ever possibly satisfy a goddess like me.

It was not the poor man's intention to humiliate me, but that was the effect. And the intention of Jackie, as my chief torturer, was thereby achieved.

I spent the whole of the drive to the underground station trying not to attract this poor besotted man's eye in his driving mirror. He went very quiet in fact. He was obviously wondering how he could get a closer look at me.

At the station he switched off his engine and immediately turned around. I already had one long en-pointe leg out of the cab door and my micro-dress was unintentionally ridden right up showing everything, or rather, that there was nothing under it, right to his face.

The little flash he got given of the tight in-curled lips of my slit stunned him completely. As I wiggle-strut-walked away with my curled-up-whip carrying escorts, I continued to blush with him shouting after me telling the whole world my real name.

His out loud crude musings continued as I wiggled and strutted and swayed into the underground station, accompanied by cameras and crew, still filming my humiliation.

A passing American latched on to what seemed to be going on, and pronounced, since he was witnessing the very opposite of behaviour he expected in England, something akin to: “And I heard you Brits were tight assed”.

That amused Jackie as I continued to wiggle my painful way before her and my other tormentors. “Tight assed, we Brits?” I heard Jackie say in a very bad imitation of an American accent out of his earshot: “Well now honey pie, Katrina's sure is!” she giggled, and all my tormentors laughed at this crude reference to the deep smooth concavity of my bum cheeks caused by my legs being constantly in painfully enforced en-pointe.
I would never have dared join the laughter. Nor could I. I was in great pain. The walk to the underground station platform was a long way for me to wiggle en-pointe in my stilt-booties. My constant enforced tip-top-toe was now hurting my shins, the front muscles of my thighs and my superbly arched back. I was wanting to stop walking: to rest.

Jackie would have none of that: “Keep going bitch! Of course it hurts. It's supposed to hurt. You stop when we say stop and not before, unless you want to be whipped!”.

My pain increased. My right leg was cramping. And the way my body was forced to sway and wiggle excitingly sexually and sexily had another consequence beneath my rough denim micro-dress.

Every step caused my lovely pert firm nude free flowing breasts to sway. That was also deeply enjoyably sexual and sexy for all the onlookers. But for me it was becoming another source of pain as my soft pretty rose-pink nipples constantly rubbed against the inside of the course cloth. They were becoming very sore and were throbbing.

On this hot humid London June Saturday as I wiggle-strutted along, tiptoe-ended stilt bootie ballet-legged en-pointe stepping, in public torture and humiliation, the sweat glistened on my exposed body and ran in droplets in my cleavage.

“Let her rest a while, she's in a lot of pain”, said the kind girl among my tormentors.

Without a moment's hesitation, Jackie's voice behind me snapped: “No!”.

At last we were at the train platform.

Passing male commuters stared at me, bumping into each other in their eagerness not to take their eyes off my legs and my bum.

Then two older women, well past their full flower days, talked about me close-by as if I were stone deaf. They referred to the way I was dressed and asked how anyone could be expected to wear booties such as I had on: “No real person could wear them” they opined, despite the evidence before their very eyes. They concluded that I was, “a pretty little thing” and that made me blush deep scarlet once more.

I wiggle-walked another extremely painful ten yards. I was blushing bright crimson. The humiliation of my public display as a human sex toy and the cruel bondage that had made me so incredibly sexual and sexy, and my pain, had got me aroused once more.

My nipples were throbbing and peaking, and between my thighs the lips of my slit were wet with my musk. Jackie knew how it was, even without hearing my sexy little gasp as my musk lavishly lubricated the insides of my she and my clitoris began to pulse. I was abandoned to my sexiness. I was submissive in submissive heaven and hell.

The torture of wiggle-strut-walking on super tiptoe, my big-toes crushingly loaded with all my 115 pounds, in total uncertainty of any grip on the ground of the tiptoe-ended en-pointe stilt-booties, was excruciating now.

My calf muscles were locked, my slender ankle sinews agonisingly painful as they had fought so long and continuously to stop the tiptoe toe-ends of by torture booties twisting my ankles. I was in agony.

A train pulled in and its doors slid open.

Three young men getting off the train saw me and began falling over each other in their astonishment at my wonderful charms. Jackie had a chat with them as this train pulled out. It was obvious that the talk was about me, but that I was not to hear what was said. I was ordered onto the next train to pull in.

I tried not to show in my face how much I longed to sit down. The two pretty girls escorting me manoeuvred themselves, either side of me, to one of the two side–on bench seats in the carriage facing-inwards. I sat carefully, so as to ensure my micro-dress' hem did not rise too far, but I was still showing thousands of square miles of wonderful strong sweat-shiny nude thigh.

I thought I could rest. But then I looked up. On the opposite bench was an old man and two of the three young men from the earlier train.

The third young man wanted the old man's seat but the old man wasn't going anywhere whilst he could feast his eyes on my delectably legs. “I'll give you five-hundred cash”, said the boy not on the bench to one of his mates with the seat he sought. “No way, no way, I wanna see this”.

“See what?” I thought.

The train pulled into a station. Passengers came and went.

The girl on my right then leant over and whispered in my ear, “When the train pulls out this time, you give the boys a treat. When it gets moving, you're going to part your lovely legs.” She hissed. “you had better ease forward now, because not only do they want to see enough so they can be sure that you really are a girl, but they've been promised they'll see your pink.” I turned to look at her. “Don't you dare question my orders. You will do it,” she hissed.

The train doors were sliding closed. I eased my lovely bum to the edge of the bench and, deep-blushing-pink of face. I looked hard to my right as if I were taking an interest in where the train was going, whilst, agonisingly slowly parting my nude thighs wider and ever so slowly wider.

I turned my head back forward when I was aware than my outer she-lips had opened and my inner pink ones were exposed to view. The two boys had their eyes out on storks, attention totally riveted. The old man gawped open-mouthed licking his lips. I hung my head, chin on chest, tears welling at my utter public shame. I was being mentally raped as they gorged their eyes on the moist pink inside my she.

Our station was next. I was bidden to rise. My legs refreshed by the chance to sit, I was in less pain as I stood en-pointe in my cruel tiptoe-ended stilt-booties again, to wiggle-strut my sexy bum out onto the platform.

The cameras continued to take in everything for the public that would eventually buy the DVD and videotapes. Even my crimson-faced pink-inner-lips gynaecological humiliation had been secretly filmed.

Jackie looked me in the eyes for the first time in my taming.

I was aware that we were waiting for a chauffeuse's driven car to take us all to Jackie's mansion where I was to be the centre of attention in the rest of the weekend's entertainment. That much I knew, but what was still to be done to tame me was not revealed.

Surely I was now tamed. I had submitted totally. My tiptoe-ended en-pointe punishment stilt-booties had me imprisoned. Constantly under threat of being toppled by the one-inch-wide tiptoe-ends taking my tenuous ground grip away, with the all but certain consequence that I would break an ankle leg or thigh, I could at least surely not be more controlled.
But my being controlled, indeed imprisoned by my stilt-booties, was not the same as my being tame. Jackie and my tormentors knew that were I released from my punishment booties right there and then, even after all the torture I had suffered in them, the wild-girl element in my still not tamed nature would soon come to the fore once more.

Jackie began to make an announcement to camera as the other camera drank in my sweat glistening body:

“Despite the pleading in her angel's face, indeed because the pleading in her angel's face tells of her still innate wildness, Katrina must undergo yet more punishment, more restraint, more humiliation. She must have every last atomic sub-particle of wildness completely driven out of her. She must, for her own good, undergo more torture so as to break the last vestige of her will. She has not even begun to be tamed yet. And she is still a million miles from being tame-girl.”

She continued talking, as if in a documentary. Jackie was doing a wind up speech for the end of the first video of my torture:

“The last resort when we meet such wilful resistance is extreme indeed. We share your wish that we should tame Katrina without harming her incredible beauty. But if she does not respond to the next phases we will have to have recourse to the last resort. And in the last resort we will, have no doubt whatsoever, we will strip her totally naked and bullwhip her naked body until her will is broken and she surrenders to become tame and finally tame-girl”.

My cunt was juicing as my humiliation and the emphasis on my helplessness at the hands of my captors was reinforced in my mind by this talk. The camera was very close up on my features as the threat that I would be bullwhipped if need be, registered in my mind for the first time. And I knew that Jackie would have it done to me too.

I gasped a sexy gasp as my clitoris danced pulsing and throbbing in my completely musk wetted she. The more helpless I felt, the more sexual and aroused I became.

A sleek black car was approaching.

“You will travel on the nearside rear seat of the limousine,” Jackie instructed me. “You will raise the rear hem of your dress as you sit and ensure, absolutely ensure, that there is no clothing between your body and the seat. And, if you leave snail-slick on the leather, not only will you lick it clean but you'll have your bum whipped!” She continued so as to further humiliate me knowing, as Jackie instinctively did, the high-pitched state of my sexual arousal.

It was now four in the afternoon and, such was the slowness of my imprisoned en-pointe wiggle-strut walk, I had been tortured and shamed for a solid two hours. Was there to be no end to my suffering? I knew I would obey totally of course. I so wanted not only to be sexy, but also to be a good girl and be tamed to become tame-girl.

The car pulled up and my door was opened for me.

The cameras moved in to scan the length of my sweat bedewed legs as I lifted the rear hem of my skirt to clear my deep concave dimpled sweat sheened bum hemispheres. The cameras also took in the horrified look on my lovely face as I peered into the car through the opened door to see where and how it was intended I sit.

Jackie's face had the grin of the Cheshire cat when she saw that I had seen the equilateral triangle of cold rough-hewn iron bar that was fixed on the seat of the car, lined up front to back relative to the car seat. I obediently moved into the vehicle as I now knew how I had to sit. I manoeuvred my she-lips astride this cold unrelenting punishment bar.

My angel-face was watched with unmercifully cruel pleasure as I slowly relaxed my legs and took my hands off the seat so that the whole weight of by body was being taken by my supremely delicate little she. My outer she-lips were divided either side of the triangular lip-divider and I moaned with the pain as my inner she-lips began taking the full weight of my lovely body.

“It hurts so!” I pleaded.

“Of course it does you stupid bitch”, answered Jackie. “You must learn to take your punishment like a girl”.

“You will sit upright there for the journey. If I am not satisfied that you have taken this part of your taming like a girl, I will personally whip your pretty little bum cheeks till they bleed”, she spat.

I sat all the journey through with my full weight on the lip-divider, and the microphones picked up my cries of pain as the chauffeuse seemed to purposely pick the roughest route so that she could thoroughly enjoy my suffering.

And suffer I did in extremis. I was ordered to sit bolt upright. I had to have my hands on my lap. I must keep my legs together and not take any of my weight on my legs. All of my 115 delectable pounds were thus forcing my most sensitive organ wide open so that the totally unyielding lip-divider sundered my even more sensitive and soft inner she-lips.
My delicious bum was nowhere near touching the seat. It was agonising, and my eyes ran with my tears as I cried and sobbed with the unbearable pain as my cunt was bruised scraped and hideously grazed by every turn and bump and every slide of my poor she-lips up and down the lip-divider.

My horrible torture was only relieved by the copious musk that I was excreting into my open purse: lubrication that I could not control. It came so freely and in such abandoned abundance because of the pleasure to my mind of being so humiliatingly brutally tortured.

It was 5-o' clock when the car halted at the top of the long driveway to Jackie's home.

I was so relieved when the car stopped. I had been in absolute agony throughout the journey as my cunt was bounced and bumped and slid on the lip-divider that held my soft super-sensitive pink inner she-lips asunder.

Only a mile to Jackie's house now and surely my suffering would then be quickly over.

But no: nothing of the sort.

Jackie personally got out of the car as it stood at the top end of her mile-long drive, and opened the door where I sat. “Out bitch” she ordered.

I uttered a cry of excruciating pain and grasped my belly as the circulation shot back into my bruised cunt lips when I took my weight off the lip-divider.

I cried out in utter agony at the bittersweet end to that phase of my taming. So terrible was the throbbing pain in my sex that I initially did no hear my next order until my pain reluctantly eased.

“Strip”, Jackie was ordering me, “Except for your en-pointe punishment stilt-booties, strip naked and right now, bitch”.

I fumbled dazed fingered with the buttons holding the straps on my denim dress. My assembled torturers cheered, as it's front fell to my waist and my wonderful firm pert breasts swung free. I undid the waist belt. Dress and belt slid slowly over my deep dimpled sweat sheeny bum to the floor round my stilt-booties. With great care lest I fall, I stepped out of their encirclement.

Jackie threw my clothing in the car and slammed the door I had exited. I stood before them all, naked: totally stripped nude but for my enforced en-pointe stilt-booties.

Without a further word Jackie and the girls got back into the car. The engine was started and it began to glide away.

“Oh don't leave me like this, please don't leave me like this. Please, please!” I begged all but screaming with fear they would not hear me.

My pleas were worthless. The limousine was picking up speed! I squealed with fear and begging, leaving me standing in the open air all but totally naked and still imprisoned by my punishment booties.

Then no, it stopped and came back to me: Jackie and my other two tormentors got out again.

I tried to smile in apology for my dreadful fear and weakness at being left totally bare but for my stilt-booties in the middle of nowhere to fend for myself.

I also tried to please because I knew I would be punished for calling out. As they walked back to me, I heard Jackie say mockingly: “She shouldn't be stark naked out in the open like this, put something on her.”

I knew that Jackie was already holding something behind her back that a camera was studying. But it was not that that was brought to me next.

The girl that had put my booties on, had three different lengths of white silk rope in her hands and was fashioning a loop in one of them. When it was ready, she passed that loop over my head and arms, leaving my arms free, down so that it was around my waist with its long loose end dangling on the ground at my rear.

Her gentler companion now tied my wrists together in front of me. And then the bondage expert girl put rope around my upper arms just above my bent elbows at the back of me, to pull my upper arms as hard together behind me as they would go given that my wrists were tied at my front.

When she had finished, my bound hands were at my belly I could only just move my arms. At that point she turned to Jackie.

“You finish it” said Jackie, having been offered the chance to do so.

The expert girl finished my binding.

She pulled the white silk rope loop already around my slim waist, tight, and then passed the loose end between the cheeks of my bum hemispheres over my rear hole, and then parted my she-lips with it. I gasped and moaned as she pulled it as hard as she could up into my front hole before tying it off at my already bound wrists.

Jackie inspected my cruel bondage. “Now our frightened little girl has something to wear” she sneered.

She tugged on the rope dividing my already extremely sore outer and inner she-lips. I gasped at the pain. Jackie then produced what she had been hiding.

“Not those as well”, begged the gentler girl. “Oh yes” said Jackie, “those as well: definitely those as well”

Hidden from my eyes, she handed to the girl binding me, a pair of nipple clamps. The girl who had bound me so expertly smiled at my fear. The girl who sought some mercy for me, again entered a plea on my behalf.

“I am prepared to show mercy”, said Jackie. “Let Katrina make her choice. Either she wears the nipple clamps for calling out without permission to speak, or she takes ten lashes for it. Which is it to be?”

Without a moments hesitation I chose the clamps, even though I had not yet seen them, deliberately hidden as they had been from my view.

My torturer took great delight now in showing both the camera and me the vicious clamp she was about to fix to my nude left nipple.

She opened it out to show the six razor sharp needle-pointed “teeth”, two within its bottom jaw, and four within its top jaw, and how they protruded through answering holes in the opposite jaw when the clamp's “mouth” was closed. I noticed with fascinated horror that its “mouth” was big enough to be able to bite the whole of my nipple including its areola.

But my terror of what was about to come was completed by my being eyes transfixed by the terrible six-inch needle that formed a central “tongue” protruding five-and-a-half inches beyond the needle-toothed jaws of the clamp itself.

“They call these Piranha clamps,” Jackie announced to the cameras and me with glee hardly hidden beneath her matter-of-fact tone. “Their tongues go into your milk ducts. The teeth in the jaws will then hold the tongues in your teats. I am told it is unbearably painful. But you called out as we drove away. You had no permission to speak”, she concluded icily.

“Arouse her” Jackie ordered.

I could not run away imprisoned as I was by my tiptoe-ended stilt-booties and with my arms tied hard behind my back, my hands tied at my belly.

The kind girl took gentle hold of my left breast and squeezed it while the other girl rubbed my nipple with the flat palm of her hand. I was, perversely, already so sexually aroused from my torture that my nipple was rock hard immediately.

The nasty girl took over entirely now. She teased my nipple with her first and second fingers and thumb, gently tugging it, “milking” me, and getting my nipple to erect itself to full rock hard stiffness, which it readily did.

Then she held the end of my lovely left breast just behind the nipple with her fingers and thumb pressing so that the milk-hole in my pretty pink nipple was opened.

I gritted my teeth knowing that I was about to be searingly slowly pierced. My torturer carefully located the bluntish point of the knurl-shanked six-inch long “tongue” needle into my nipple's milk-hole and began to slowly, slowly, slowly, to push it into my milk duct hole.

I screamed and pleaded and begged for the penetration to stop.

“Oh god, oh god, oh please don't, don't I beg you please don't, oh god it hurts it hurts, oh please oh please stop” I cried. And yet the needle tongue was as yet only one-inch into me. I continued to beg and scream as the needle was pushed into my milk hole until at last the Piranha-clips horrible jaws, as yet unopened, were touching my nipple.

I looked down at my nipple opening with the eyes I had shut tight at the horrible pain of having my milk duct pierced, and saw that the needle tongue was deep within my lovely titty. The camera moved in to show the trickle of bright red blood running out of my tortured tit tip.

I bore five-and-a-half-inches of needle deep inside my left titty already, as the piranha clamp's horribly toothed jaws were opened, the needle tongue given a last violent screamingly painful push to its full six-inches through my tit's milk hole, and the Piranha's jaws slowly closed so that its top and bottom teeth bit right through my nipple, holding the clamp to my nipple and its horrible six-inch needle tongue six full inches deep within my lovely breast.

I squealed and squealed and squealed with the pain.

Tears coursed down my angel-face. I had never endured such pain in my life before. My nipple, indeed my whole left tit filled my mind with pain. And I screamed and begged all the more as the brutal torture was repeated on my right titty and its milk teat hole.

But my titty torture was not over yet. Jackie ordered that the end of my Piranha clamps be fitted with a weight. I was shown this device as it was also being displayed for the camera, and the second camera took in my face's stunned tear-stained expression.

The weight comprised two three-inch chains that would hold it hanging from my tit piercing piranha nipple clamps. Between the chains, there hung a sealed one-inch diameter one-and-a-half foot long plastic tube half full of white coloured water – mock milk.

Jackie gleefully told the future film audience, and me that the six-inch needle “tongues” that had been pushed into the milk holes in my nipples were as hollow as hypodermic syringes used by doctors to inject *****, and that I was about to be fitted with a milker.

However, as I was “an arid bitch”, there was no point in fitting the mini-churns and tubes to take the milk that would be urged from my nipples through the needle tongues were I lactating.

Both the cameras and I were now shown the milker.

As already described it was a one-inch diameter one-and-a-half foot long straight plastic tube, half full of white coloured water, in mockery of milk I quite rightly assumed. Two metal bands through which the tube ran, and to which the suspending chains were fixed, were adjusted to space the chains at the same gaps as my tortured nipples, and a grub screw in each band tightened to hold the tube from sliding through the bands.

And then a demonstration was given, to show how rapidly the mock milk, the white water half filling the sealed tube, would rush from one end of the tube to the other at the slightest motion, never for one millisecond being still from motion from one end of the tube to the other, given the slightest impetus from movement.

The chains would be clipped through the purpose made holes in my Piranha nipple clamps. And thereafter, as my titties swung naturally, so this weight would swing to and fro pulling my titties down in turn and turn about, and swinging them uncontrollably from side to side as the water within the tube swashed from one end of the tube to the other.

Were I lactating, this pulling and swinging of my breasts would have milked me, through the hollow needle tongues than those that were six-inches deep in my milk ducts. I would have been helplessly constantly “self-milked”.

The weight was fitted and even as I stood and breathed it began to swing from side to side and set my titties into a slow left right, left right, swing in rhythm, with downward pulling of each udder in turn, over which I could have absolutely no control. It was as if my titties had declared their independence of me.

Of course my breasts, naked as they were, would jiggle and swing divinely as I moved were I free of the clamps and the milker. But the milker swung and pulled my breasts purposefully. It enforced a full side-to-side constant uncontrollable titty swing with accompanying pulling down of alternate titties. The swinging pulled on my penetrated and bitten nipples horribly painfully.

As I winced and breathed deeply the swinging increased. I gasped and breathed harder, and my tortured titties swung side to side and were tugged down and sprung back up alternately a little faster and little harder still.

I gasped again and moaned as this torture and the knowledge in my mind that it would be never ending, wet my cunt with my musk, and my titties swung side to side, side to side, up and down, and up and down faster and harder still.

Foolishly I winced with the pain at the pulling on my piranha clamped teats, and the rhythmic swinging of both my breasts side-to-side in unison, and the pulling down of each breast alternately increased yet more.

In my mind I was being milked despite being barren.

They finally drove off now and left me. I was left in the public open air, stark naked, nude, without a stitch of clothing, exposed, savagely cruelly bound, vulnerable, abductable, rapeable, helpless to run or even move at more than the snail-pace that my imprisoning tiptoe-toe-ended en-pointe stilt-booties would barely allow me.

I was terrified as I began my girly wiggling sexual sexy strutting en-pointed leggy titty-self-milking shuffle to the house a mile away.

I wiggle-strutted along alone en-pointe and frightened at all times that I must surely fall. My arms were tied tight above the elbow behind my back, my hands in front of my belly. If I fell! If I fell I would break my legs as assuredly as I could do absolutely nothing to break my fall.

I was terrified in my lonely exposed totally naked helplessly bound vulnerability.

I wiggle-strutted alone, nude for the whole world to see me. Naked, for them to see my superb legs: nude for anyone to see my lovely breasts, and my enforced side dimpled oh so whipable bum.

Who was behind that next tree?

Was my totally nude bound body being ogled by eighteen-year old schoolgirls enjoying my torture and wishing they could feel me and play with my adult's tits and soft brown curly-hair adorned grownup's slit? Was there a band of drunken men who would knock me over, completely helpless as I was and have their choice of orifices in which to use me?

My poor tormented breasts were now being swung in unison violently as the motion of my walking increased the sloshing of the water in the milker and swung it and my poor titties left and right, left and right, and alternating titties up and down, up and down, “milking me”, as I wiggle-walked terrified agonisingly slowly along the path to Jackie's home.

I wiggled along almost crying tears with my fear, talking to myself to keep up my spirits, forced to, once in every while, stop and rest my en-pointed legs, by standing in my booties using the precarious “front-heels”.

The house seeming to get further away as I must wiggle-ballet-strut walk in my enforced limited step every twist in the path.

And yet one part of my torture was both a failure and a success. If the rope parting my sex was to chafe and hurt me, it was a failure. But if it was to arouse and lubricate me it was outstandingly successful. My torture had made me extremely slut-wet, and the silk rope in my slit was sopping with my musk.

I wiggle-ballet-strutted nude, alone, in frightened en-pointe sexy steps in my stilt-booties with the mockingly cruel milker swinging my titties violently from side to side, for fully an hour in the gaze, unseen by me, of the telescopic camera lenses, and the glare of the summer sun, until at last my sweet sweat lathered beautiful body reached Jackie's house, the place where I, girl, would be tortured into girl-girl: tamed, broken of all wilfulness and wildness forever, to become tame-girl.

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 4 – Katrina In The Girl-Cage

With sweet sweat trickling in rivulets down my nude body, I at long, oh so long last, wiggle-strutted onto the patio in front of Jackie's superb country house. And I stood, totally exhausted, my legs shaking with the strain of my cruel mile-long hour-long stilt-bootie en-pointe wiggle dimple-bummed strut-walk.

Even as the masked guests gathered round to ogle me, my milker, piranha nipple clamps, and binding ropes were being removed.

As the needle teeth of the piranha clamps were released from biting as they had right through my bare nipples, and the six-inch tongues that penetrated my milk-holes were slowly pulled out, I openly cried tears from the pain and the relief from pain that hit my poor tortured breasts at one and the same time.

I felt such love for my torturers at that moment that I would do anything they wanted from me. I was sure that I momentarily experienced girl-girl and thought I must now be tamed into girl-girl and thus tame-girl

I, of course, still wore my tiptoe-ended en-pointe punishment stilt-booties. And within them I still stood with all my 115 superb pounds entirely on the very top tips of my big toes. I was still a prisoner of my stilt-booties and my fear of a bone-breaking fall, as my extremely tired legs shook almost uncontrollably, despite my being able now to rest standing using the front-heels.

I was physically exhausted.

Though proud of my superb fitness I could not deny that my tormentors had ground me down entirely, physically and, indeed, mentally.

I was made sex on legs by their bondage of my body, and I was now sex on legs in my mind also. I wanted nothing other than to be girl. I wanted nothing other than to be sexual. I wanted nothing other than to be sexy. I wanted nothing other than to be pleasing to the eyes of my beholders male and more especially female.

My mind was filled with girl to the exclusion of every other thought.

I knew I was stunningly beautiful and sexy and desired by all the women that looked at me. I knew too that they were jealous of me. They would not want to suffer one scintilla of my torture but they were with cold green-eyed envy of my displaying my beauty and being the centre of everybody's attention.

But even the most unalterably heterosexual woman at Jackie's home that day would not hesitate for a micro-second to have me in her bed alone with her. There was no woman there who did not long to have my body. There was no woman there who did not long to have my unwounded body to caress and the chance to kiss me to oblivion and take me to ecstasy.

And I, hitherto only admitting to heterosexuality, had become unalterably one-hundred-percent gay-girl. I would never again desire sex with a man. I knew, absolutely knew, that my incredible beauty should only ever have been surrendered to another girl. And I wanted to be tamed and become tame-girl.

Of course, that I could think that I still wanted to be tame-girl was admission in my mind that I was still not in fact tamed. I knew in my mind I must suffer more, and suffer more I undoubtedly would.

I was handed an opened bottle of water and reached out a long fingered pretty hand for it.

Before I could grasp the bottle, Jackie stepped up before me and slapped my lovely angel face hard.

“Where are your manners bitch?” I gasped in my shock at the harsh blow. “Please may I have water?” I begged. Jackie nodded assent. “Thank you” I responded meekly and shyly as I took the bottle for which I was absolutely desperate.

I thirstily gulped the first and then a second pint bottle and was handed a third.

The masked assembly of paying guests walked around me to take in the sexiness of my naked body.

“You've done superbly well getting this one Jackie”, sneered one leering masked man. “She's far and away the best meat we've had. Prime cut meat, and some!”

I was reviving but too exhausted to try and see if I could recognise anybody despite their disguises.

I did not seem to know any of them; but someone recognised me.

“That's Katrina!” she exclaimed in half laugh at her astonishment. “Jackie, you've excelled yourself my dear. You've got Katrina. You're actually taming the delectable Katrina! Wow!!”

Initially, this silly upper-crust voice rang no register in my mind of who she was or how she could possibly know me. But that was just my tiredness.

I now blushed deep scarlet at the onrush of realisation that I was totally nude and in submissive stilt-bootie bondage in front of the most junior of junior office girls working for my mother's company.

My beautiful body was being tortured for the pleasure of a girl whose total ineptness had filled my mother's conversation about her, moments after this girl and I had first met and this girl had ogled me at the company's Christmas party.

This girl had followed me all that evening clearly stunned by and overwhelmed by desire for me. And now she had all she had wished to see that night, and more. She had her revenge for my ignoring her love and lust.

“You will drink until you are ordered to stop” Jackie whispered as I was trying to hand back my half consumed third pint water bottle.

I obediently retained the bottle gulped its remaining contents down at intervals, and gently reached out my pretty hand for a fourth.

“You will drink that and at least three more beyond, and you will retain it”, Jackie ordered.

Jackie now clapped her hands to get the attention of what must have been fifty guests. And she begged to be excused, saying that dinner would be in half an hour to forty-five minutes and meanwhile she had work to do to prepare the table decoration, as a good hostess must.

I had managed to force myself to drink a fourth pint of water. Jackie ordered me to drink more quickly as she did not want to have her guests kept waiting.

I knew I must obey though I could see no reason for drinking so much.

There were expressions of disappointment now as I was led away by my tormentors into Jackie's home and a room I knew, as her long time friend and frequent past visitor, to be next to her huge dining room.

I found myself blinking to adjust my lovely dark brown eyes from the glare of the outside sun to the cool comparative darkness within.

They sat me on a chair and, at Jackie's instruction, my en-pointe stilt-booties were being removed.

This might be thought blessed relief, but my newly bared pretty feet were agonisingly painful, my big toes being severely savagely bruised as they were from bearing the whole weight of my body on very top tiptoe for endless hours. My every other toe too was blue purple and black with crushing.

I had not hitherto felt the pain as opposed to the precariousness of my ballet-bootie imprisonment. My feet had eventually gone numb, even almost as if dead, within my stilt-booties. But now blood was pumping back into my toe ends and with it feeling, and that feeling was purgatory, and I winced and moaned at the extreme pain of it.

I was forcing myself to sip from my seventh pint water bottle as Jackie told me, completely unemotionally that as final taming, I was to spend twenty-four hours in a girl-cage.

The relief flooded through me. I could rest. My torture was over. Anything would be bearable after the cruelty of my stilt-booties and what they had done to my breasts. Anything. What was twenty-four hours in a cell compared with the hell I had just gone through?

Jackie went on to say, for my benefit and the microphones recording the soundtrack of my torture, that my grasping of the pint water bottle without asking first had clearly shown that I was still a very, very, long way from being tamed.

Beyond any doubt, I needed to be forced to understand humility. I would be tamed. Despite my will, I would be made girl-girl and become tame-girl.

Resistance would be broken. I had clearly not suffered enough to learn the error of my wilful ways. Accordingly, I must undergo the girl-cage for twenty-four hours in which I would suffer, as untamed-girl should.

She now ordered my two girl tormentors to fit my purse with a slut-lip-gaper.

I made no effort to resist as the girl that had wanted to show me mercy, gently placed an “X” shaped device, with “Y” shaped ends at each end of the X arms, between the outer lips of my sex. Its effect was to prop my otherwise tight outer she-lips slightly agape for reasons that I could not even begin to guess at that stage.

I had already noticed a box, what I concluded must be a box, on a hand operated pallet truck in the middle of the floor of the outer room I was in.

I studied it now as I sipped to the end of my seventh pint of water. And a slow cold chill suddenly ran its icy fingers down my spine. It was there for a purpose. What could that purpose be?

Half dazed in my overwhelming tiredness I stared at it.

I tried to analyse it. The box was two feet by two feet square at its base standing on the pallet truck, and two-and-a-half feet tall.

Its strongly hinged lid, which had a number of small holes drilled in it, was open.

The box, lid included, was made of strong transparent rigid “plastic-glass” with all its edges reinforced by bright steel strip.

It looked, if anything, like a hinge-lidded aquarium. From all four of its top corners there hung down individual lengths of strong metal chain.

I jumped with shock as Jackie's voice behind me ordered: “Cage her.”

My arms were grasped and for the first time in my taming I fought against my captors. I had fully realised what they were going to do to me and it was horrible, absolutely horrible.

I had no chance against them. They were rested and strong; I was tortured and weakened.

They frog marched me on my poor cruelly sore and brutally bruised feet toward that dreadful tiny little box. This was the girl-cage. I just knew this was the girl-cage. Two-foot square base by two-and-a-half-feet high, a tiny near cube of transparent plastic. How could I possible fit into that?

“Please don't do this to me”, I pleaded, “Please, I beg you, anything, anything, but please don't, don't do this!” As ever, Jackie was completely unmerciful.

I was now in front of the cage and looking down into it. “Feet in front of the bar at the bottom, and then fold your legs as you sit. Keep your arms out. Is that clear?” she directed.

Her question did not invite an answer. It was an order. I obeyed. I lifted one lovely leg and then the other so that I stood on the floor of the box, where I saw, even in my horror, that there was a curious drain hole.

I still pleaded with my silent dark brown eyes for mercy.

As I stood in the cage, its top edges were just above the level of the bases of my bum cheeks. I looked down and found the bar referred to by Jackie. It ran from side to side at the bottom of the cage an inch back from one of its four windowed sides.

They held the cage steady as I obediently stood on my toes behind the bar. Again I was lifted, sexy legs down-pointed, en-pointe. It was agony for my tortured feet and I cried out in pain.

My only relief was to sit. I lowered my gorgeous oh so smackable bum into the cage hanging onto the sides with my pretty hands as I folded my body slowly in, so that my breasts were pressed into my wonderful thighs as I sat compressed in the cage.

I sat hard-folded double on tiptoe my wonderful legs tight squeezed jack-knifed pressing my enormous folded thighs up hard against my breasts. Between my thighs my gaped she-lips smiled vertically.

As had been my order, my arms were still out of the cage. Indeed, my arms and head were all that were still free from the crushingly tight imprisonment I had been forced into to finally tame me.

Each of Jackie's deputies took one of my arms, folded forearm to its upper, and tucked the folded arm in, against my side, in the cage.

The seemingly impossible was achieved; my gloriously beautiful, sexual, sexy body had been forced into the tiny girl-cage. I could hardly breath so tightly was I bent double and compressed.

Once more I looked at my tormentors in silent pleading. Jackie was putting a transparent plastic tube through the cage lid and offered it to my pretty mouth. “You'd better keep that where you can get it if you don't want to die of thirst” she sneered.

I held the tube in my teeth as my head was forced down to my knees by the ventilated lid of the cage being closed and securely padlocked.

My brain whirred. I tried to move. I could not. I could flex my fingertips and my toes but nothing else. I was held totally rigid. I could just breathe in short panting gasps that caused by breasts, and especially my nipples to rub on my thighs against which they were pressed crushingly hard. Oh god, how was I to survive twenty-four hours of this!? “Have mercy, please have mercy!” I moaned.

I was aware now that the pallet truck was taking the girl-cage, with me jack-knifed gorgeous firm folded leggy body in it, into the dining room.

In the middle of that room a chain was lowered from a beam, the four chains at the corners of my cage fixed to it, and I was hauled slowly aloft to hang at onlooker's head height on display, for the perverted pleasure of the diners when they were brought in.

My cage swung and twisted till it settled. Tears ran down my pretty face as I sobbed in my dreadful fear that I could not possibly survive twenty-four hours like this.

Jackie put the finishing touches to my cage. I had already noticed the drain hole at the bottom. Jackie now screwed a bottle-shaped transparent plastic sump into this, and fitted the other end of the clear plastic tube that went into the top of the cage and to my mouth lips, to the bottom of that sump.

Then though a hatch in one side of the girl-cage, a hatch I had not noticed and that was now out of my sight in my cruel, cruel jack-knifed imprisonment, a small transparent lidded box was introduced. A box that clicked neatly into the slot made for it. A box the lid of which, now inside my cage, could be opened by pushing a wire through a tiny hole in its base to push it out. A box that I would have been as horrified as my tormentors were gleeful to know, contained what must have been in excess of two-hundred active buzzing hungry and crawling meat flies.

I was aware of this inexplicable buzzing noise as I tried to move in my girl-cage, only to set it swinging and twisting uncontrollably as I fought my savage imprisonment, crying out in my torment for mercy.

Jackie ordered that her guests be allowed in.

The guests came in and shouted with joy at what they saw. “Jackie, oh Jackie darling, you have excelled yourself this time my dear. I knew you had imagination, but this! The poor bitch!!” shouted the girl who knew me by name. “What she must be suffering!” “Oh Jackie! And she is your friend. Did you say twenty-four hours? Twenty-four hours like that! Oh my god, it's making me wet just looking at her.”

Now a man spoke out with overwhelming enthusiasm for what he saw: “You've always done us proud Jackie, but this, this, this is superb; first rate, capital, the most erotic sight I have ever seen in all my days! What wonderful thighs she has and how you have managed to show them at their thunderously strong best! You should have been an artist Jackie. No. You ARE an artist!”

“I can't disagree with that”, said another male voice, “How the poor little cow must be suffering. Twenty-four hours you say. My goodness what a joy. ‘A girl in hell'”, that's what you should call the film. It's bloody marvellous what you come up with. I just want to be jerked-off slowly taking a good close look at this gorgeous babe. I want to enjoy this as it should be enjoyed. Those thighs, those glorious thighs, they are monumental”.

The guests sat around with me in their full view to dine as I continued to suffer in hell.

Sweet musky sweat trickled down my body and water vapour from my body heat and my breathing ran down the clear plastic walls, as I squatted rigidly immovably in my cage. Sweat dripped from my lovely face onto my thighs and ran down to the bottom of the girl-cage into the sump.

The enforced shallowness of my breathing was making my oxygen starved mind spin. I was jack-knifed totally and utterly rigidly unable to move a millimetre and yet momentarily in my mind I was walking and then running naked through a field of tall grass fresh wetted by summer rain, free as a wild pony.

The noisy chatter of the diners stopped as my cage swung and twisted and I cried out for the first time with the extreme agony of cramp in my muscles. Both of my superb legs and my pretty right arm were seized solid by the terrible pain. And there was nothing but nothing I could do to relieve it. How could I when I could not move? I just could not move!

Cramps came over me in successive waves and in successive waves I screamed with the pain. No more brutal torture could have been devised than that I was suffering. I was held in inhuman hell for the sexual gratification of complete strangers who would jerk-off over the film of my cruel slow suffering.

I blinked the sweet sweat from my eyelids and squealed with the pain again as yet another wave of cramp took my calves into spasms of agony. I begged and begged to be released from my purgatory.

Then I let go my bladder and a torrent of white-yellow piss hissed from by purse so that I sat in a horrible pool of piss and sweat, until it had trickled into the waiting sump.

I had no time to be disgusted at the way I had had to behave like an animal, more terrible cramp took both of my stupendous thighs and I bellowed in my excruciating pain.

“We shouldn't dine alone they say”. Jackie sneered mockingly. “Shall we release our fellow guests: the flies?”

At a nod from Jackie, the crueller of my two young girl torturers took hold of my swinging and twisting cage and pushed open the lid of the box within it through the hole in the box's base.

All bar one stupid fly that could not smell the feast my lovely bare sweat bathed salty body would present, buzzed eagerly up and outwards. Then even that last lazy fly caught the smell of my delicious musk and joined the fray.

I screamed with horror as the two hundred-plus hungry flies began to crawl all over me.

I must needs close my eyes as they crawled on my face and tried to enter my pretty mouth before flying off to join companions already with their tickling taunting and mocking feet crawling on my breasts and up and down my thunderously strong thighs. There, with some, the crawling stopped as they puckered their snouts to suck my lovely salty flesh.

I screamed with horror at this savage inhuman debasement. I was just meat. I could do nothing to fight off the attention of the hundreds of these vile filthy insects crawling on my nude body.

And already, I could feel these huge fat flies finding their zigzag way within the soft brown perspiration matted pubic hair, nearing my gaped sex.

I screamed and my girl-cage nearly spun as I fought off the horrible inevitability for which my sex had been gaped.

As ever, I was aroused by my torture and my musk was abundant. Like honey to bees, my musk with its musk was attracting the flies to congregate at the lips of my purse.

Yet initially it was strangely anticlimactic when they began to crawl into me.

They loved my purse. They loved my musk. At least one hundred flies were in or around my she-lips. Those inside were tasting my soft pink inner she-lips and some were seeking to enter deeper into my super sensitive organ and yet others had found my clitoris on which they were feasting.

And I suffered their crawling tickling itch-making attentions patiently. I suffered the ultimate humiliation of my torture tamely. The only evidence I showed was the perfectly acceptable one where my tamers were concerned. My purse oozed a continuous steady trickle of fresh musk showing my stupendous arousal, as I moaned and purred and gasped with pleasure at enduring my unfulfilable sexual need to come.

After a short time went by, every fly was now either crawling inside or along or waiting to enter my gaped outer she-lips. They loved my girl musk as it oozed copiously, encouraged by their attentions to the sensitive pink softness within me.

My inner she-lips were smothered with eager flies tickling me subtly unbearably with their feet and sucking snouts. Others were also fighting to taste my engorged clitoris standing proud of its hiding hood. I was being driven insane by their minute attention to my soft sensitive inside pink.

My musk was pouring from me as the flies were performing their unwitting foreplay. Moans and girly-innocent gasps were being uncontrollably uttered from me: not by me, but from me: I had no control now over what I was saying and the sounds I was making. I was in the highest state of sexual arousal I had ever experienced as yet in my young life, as the flies continued to tickle and tease and torment my pink inner softness.

The flies continued to feast on my snail-slick and some to fly out around and back into my gaped cunt for more of my honey. And my honey flowed and trickled never-endingly uncontrollably onto the cheeks of my bum and the bottom of the girl-cage and into the girl-cage's sump.

I was so sexually aroused by this humiliating insect foreplay that I had become just sex. My nipples were become as hard as iron, my clitoris stiff as steel and my wholly wanton sexual moans and girly-cries, sighs, screeches, gasps, groans, and squeaks those of a wild animal rather than a human girl.

I was sex and I wanted I so wanted I so needed to come. I was aroused beyond arousal. I had lost my mind to pleasure as the flies tortured me with their constant innocent attentions to my most intimate and sensitive parts.

Then I became aware of a chant and a thumping on the dining table where the guests were beside themselves in their enjoyment of my torture jack-knifed in my cube prison, crawling inside my most intimate part with flies.

I had been momentarily insane with pleasure from the endless foreplay of the never-ending nerve-end tormenting flies crawling around and sucking with their snouts on the flesh inside my gaped cunt. I now came round from being wholly distracted sex to the loud bawdy shouting of my tormenters as they gawped at my perfect body being tortured in the girl-cage: being tortured by the girl-cage.

“Drink; drink; drink”, they bellowed in a slowly rising dirge. And each shout of “drink; drink; drink” was accompanied by: thump; thump; thump on the dining table. More cramp bit my thighs and I squealed and hollered my pain once more. How could I stand this for twenty-four hours? How? Just how?!

I had forgotten my other-worldly insanely high pitch of arousal of but moments ago now.

The guests had seen that the sump was filled to its two-pint brim with my piss and sweat, and honey.
“Drink; drink; drink; drink; drink”, they chorused. Could this be my saviour? Would the agonising cramps cease if I was less dehydrated? It seemed to make sense. I felt for the drinking tube with my lovely mouth and began to draw on it. I only got air. I realised I needed to suck, then stop its end with my tongue, and then suck again, until my refreshment came through.

That I was drawing on the tube was evident to the audience, which went totally silent with its eyes fixed solely on the foul white-yellow liquid I was drawing up nine-inches and stop, nine inches then stop as I sucked with my pretty pouting innocent mouth-lips on the tube.

I was all for giving up on my sucking, when I saw between my thighs, despite the steamed up walls of my all but two-foot sided cube prison, that liquid was coming. I had sucked it almost up over the top of the girl-cage, and it was about to flow into my mouth, as the thumping and the chant started up again louder still: “drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink”.

Then they cheered and whooped and bellowed and congratulated each other as I drank.

I sucked the foul white-yellow liquid into my mouth and swallowed it.

It was horrible. It stank. It was salty. It was acidic. It burnt my mouth. I was drinking my piss. I, of course, knew I was drinking my piss. I was forced to drink my piss. The more I drank the thirstier it made me and the more I drank. I was desperate. I sucked and sucked on the tube till I had swallowed the whole two pints of piss, sweat, and snail-slick.

This would be part of my torture. I would be continuously thirsty and would draw on my only source of liquid, liquid that could only make me thirstier. Then eventually I would piss and my piss would be thicker and saltier and fouler smelling and more acidic and less thirst quenching than before. But I would suck it up from the sump of the girl-cage because that was all I had to drink. Then I would piss once more and my piss would be still thicker and still saltier and fouler smelling and more acidic and still less thirst quenching than before. And so on cruelly round and cruelly round.

I cried. Tears welled and spilled from my gorgeous dark brown eyes. For nearly an hour now in my jack-knifed imprisoned hell I had suffered the cramps of the damned and been inhumanly humiliated mocked and abused. I felt abandoned. I had no idea how long I had suffered, I only knew that I could not bear this torture any longer. I sobbed and cried and begged and begged to be released.

Then came another shock to me. My steady shallow breathing was constantly rubbing my rose-pink nipples on my sweat lubricated thighs. I had already found it sexually arousing, but had fought it off. But there was now a lull in my cruel cramps and the feeling in my nipples as they constantly rhythmically rubbed on the huge thighs of my folded legs was turning me on incredibly sexually once again.

My breathing got quicker. My nipples were rubbed more intensely. They began to peak and dance once more. The effect of the rubbing grew more intense, more stimulating. I was being helplessly masturbated by my stupendous thighs.

The fat flies continued to torture me by crawling uncontrollably in and out and around my purse. I gasped as this stimulation of my nipples and from the flies inside me had its inevitable effect in my she. My musk oozed super abundantly again and trickled out of my purse onto the cheeks of my bum once more. My fly smothered clitoris began to throb and dance like never before.

I breathed more quickly still. My nipples were rubbed more rapidly on my thighs. My clitoris pulsed. I fought successfully against the inevitable as I thought. But no. My stimulation was ever present. I was jack-knifed into this tiny box so tightly that there was no escape from it or from my sexual self-stimulation. I could not move a muscle.

My breathing continued my nipple rubbing. I was abandoned to it now. My clitoris was steel hard erect and harder, and being aroused the more by what seemed a hundred eager sucking and crawling insatiable flies. My sex-honey was trickling like volcanic lava from my slit onto the cheeks of my bum and the floor of the girl-cage. I breathed faster still.

The total rigidity of my imprisoned jack-knifed body in its miniscule cube cell was now arousing my sexuality once again. I was enjoying, sexually, enjoying the brutality of my tiny cell and its use to exhibit me and the humiliation of the mocking audience and the fact that I was being treated as if I were no more than meat and that I was being filmed so my body and my torture could be sold to anyone who cared to buy and my total immobility and the savageness of the cramps and my total imprisoned immobility and the fact that I could not move and the fact that I was jack-knifed immovably and cruelly into that tiny cell and the fact that I could not escape this torture and the fact that I could not move a millimetre and my being forced to drink my own piss and the fact that I was jack-knifed shoe-horned folded double into this tiny cell where I could not move and inside my cunt was crawling with tickling and sucking flies and the fact that though I was not in any way bound I could not move I just could not move, shoe-horned in this miniscule girl-cage and the fact they had mocked me as I drank my piss and the shoe-horned jack-knifed immovability of my beautiful body my torture my horrible torture, the flies and my horrible torture, the horrible torture of my wonderfully beautiful body and the constant rubbing of my nipples on my tremendous thighs…………. and I orgasmed!!!

I squealed and screamed and squeaked as I orgasmed. Time over time I orgasmed, each orgasm more powerful than the one before. I howled and bellowed and screamed and moaned in total sexual abandon, as I orgasmed from the submissive pleasure of my torture in my wildly swinging and twisting savagely cruelly imprisoning girl-cage.

“Well, well, well, Katrina my perfect darling, I do believe you've come, you gorgeous bitch!” Jackie mocked, sneeringly.

…………And the second hour of my twenty-four hours in the girl-cage began………..

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 09:44 AM
Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 5 – Katrina's New Career

Jackie was as good as her word about the loan. You might think I had paid a heavy enough price for it. In one way you would, of course, be entirely right. I had undoubtedly undergone the cruellest of torture and humiliation from Jackie and her fellow pornographers.

In another way, forgive me, but you would be wrong. The price I had paid was worth it for the new girl that dawned when the twenty-six-year-old forced foetus positioned creature that had been me in the girl-cage had been re-born into the world following her twenty-four hours in that horrendously cruel womb.

I was re-born girl-girl. Before what has been referred to as my taming, I had deluded myself for all my preceding twenty-six years that I needed a man to make my life whole and worthwhile. I now knew that love can take many forms and that the standard issue boy and girl togetherness I had longed to find before my cage experience was not the only answer to a maiden's prayer, and absolutely not at all the answer for me.

These were, of course, not my immediate thoughts on my release from the cage. After such suffering it was some time before I was able to think clearly or at all.

I was housed in Jackie's country mansion and nursed by Jackie herself for many a day after my “re-birth”. It might seem strange to relate that Jackie and I were still on the friendliest of terms and continued our relationship almost as before she had organised my subjection.

In my torture, Jackie had played her role, and undoubtedly enjoyed her role, and enjoyed it all the more because she had had me as her victim.

For my part too, I had “acted” a role. I am not saying by this that there was any pretence at all about what had been done to me. But my “taming” had only been a theme for Jackie's film. What had been done to me had been chosen by Jackie to fit that theme. I had “acted” my part in it insofar as my whole life till then had been one long enjoyment of freedom and movement and irresponsibility and I was therefore perfect for “the part”.

As I have said, it might seem strange to relate that Jackie and I were still on the friendliest of terms and continued our relationship almost as before she had organised my torture. In fact that is a slight untruth. We were, it is no lie, on the friendliest of terms still. But for me now, after the cage, “friend” was too weak a word by far for what I wanted Jackie to be with me.

If there were a stronger word in the dictionary than “lover” I would use it here and repeat it endlessly. I would do anything for Jackie now. I adored her. I worshipped her. I longed for her to take me to her bed and have me, just as Jackie had longed to have me when, before my subjection, I had always spurned her desire for my body.

But, for my dismissal of her desire over all the years since our school days together, Jackie had just had her revenge, and what my every look tried to tell her about my longing, did not seem to register with her now.

You may well ask why I did not just come out with it straight and tell Jackie I loved her. You are, of course, entirely right to ask. I can only answer that I could not take the risk. I wanted a sign from Jackie, just the smallest, just the least but most significant sign, before I dare speak. My heart would have been broken beyond all hope had I spoken and been spurned. All my torture would have been as nought compared with that. I could not take the risk. I would suffer for love but I could not risk the death of all my hopes.

And now you ask why my looks did not tell her what I longed for Jackie to know. Please understand that I could not chance anything that would turn Jackie from me. I must be subtle: my heart ached, but I must be subtle. I consoled myself that it was better heartache than heartbreak.

Was Jackie aware of my feelings? I have asked that question so many times that it is no surprise that you should ask it too. I hope she was. I hope she was. I could forgive her anything. If she knew but had decided she did not care, I could forgive her even that or worse. Perhaps, truth told, looking back, I wanted her to break my heart, but it felt the opposite of that at the time: entirely the opposite.

Jackie had loaned me the money as she had promised. But a loan is a loan and needs repayment. I had no job, how could I repay Jackie's loan?

There was, of course, the film of my suffering. But somewhere along the way Jackie had decided to keep that.

Sale of the DVD and video would have repaid my debt and brought profit beyond. Perhaps you will say that by keeping me in monetary debt and having the video of my torture still in the can, Jackie was ensuring that she still had leverage over me. It is hurtful for me to have to say so but I cannot deny that it could look that way.

Jackie and I talked about my future and I was so relieved when she said that she was keeping the film that I almost leaped up and kissed her. Goodness, how I wish I had done!

Oh how I had blushed with pleasure as she had praised my facial and physical beauty and offered me a job as a model. She assured me that my money debt to her would seem “chicken feed” to what I could gain as income from modelling.

Okay, this was not to be catwalk fashion-ware I would be displaying: I would be nude or semi nude in most of the picture spreads, but Jackie knew people and there was fetish gear I would look divine wearing. I could use a false name….a website on the internet would be a must…

Jackie did not need to sell her idea to me; if it were to be for her, I would do it. She had gone on to say that it would mean travelling worldwide for months on end, but she did not need to tell me that either, I knew I would do it for her no matter what it involved……

…..I had then returned to my own apartment and the phone had begun to ring with offers of modelling assignments. Jackie had one of her managers take me on her books and I flew hither and yon to wonderful countries villages, towns and cities where I stopped in the best ****** and ate divine food.

To be totally honest, I was no model really. At least, in the beginning I was no kind of model. I was so shy of undressing before the camera and knew nothing of posing or composing my face. But, in time and with the patience people showed me, I relaxed and really enjoyed my new career.

My first photo spread was in “Pink Girl”, one of Jackie's publications for the gay-girl market. From the outset I made it a rule, and had it accepted, that I would at least keep my panties on. Nobody minded this. My physical assets were outstandingly beautiful, and the world could see all they desired to see short of the ultimate, and seemed to be pleased to be teased that way. The number of “hits” on my website certainly told that that was the way it was.

Indeed, the “tease” of my always keeping my slit covered was a marketable commodity. Advance publicity that I would be in “Pink Girl” for December 20** without my panties quadrupled sales. There was in fact only the one picture of me totally nude: totally nude that is, except for the semi-transparent dressing gown the multiple folds of which in the vital spot strategically curtained my sex.

My career was going splendidly within the year. But my love life was non-existent. Every flight that took me out of England also took me away from Jackie.

Of course I met girls who wanted me. There was a charming photographer, Mi Li, a Korean beauty, who told me she loved me and kissed me passionately. And oh how my body had responded to her lips on my mouth. My panties had filled with my nectar in an instant. I could never tell Jackie how I had longed for this girl to kiss my lower lips. Nor would I ever tell Jackie how I had masturbated afterwards in recollection of the kiss from this brown-eyed dark-haired golden butterfly, and had fingered my slit picturing this lovely little angel enjoying watching me suffer in the girl-cage for her ….

From Jackie I heard almost nothing. At least, I heard almost nothing directly. I was always aware that she, as the overall manager of the outfit I was working for one minor wing of, kept an interest in my progress. It only occurred to me much later to wonder if she would have kept me on her books if I had not been contributing at least in a small way to her profits.

I had not lost any of my longing for Jackie over the year that my modelling career apprenticeship had me almost always away from my London home. So, you can imagine how my heart fluttered when, back in London for two weeks as I was, the phone had rung and Jackie had invited me to a party at her London address.

I rushed out immediately to buy a dress and shoes so that I would not disgrace the event. I had money to spare and would buy the best. Okay, Jackie had said not to go to any bother, that it was just “a business affair” and that it was only for some Japanese girls who owned a company working in the same line as Jackie, that wanted to talk about co-operation and the wider opening of the Japanese market for Jackie's products…

It might be as boring as that for Jackie, but for me this was my chance to shine for her, to stun her, to knock her dead with my beauty, to win her love, to gain her heart…

Black was the order of the day for me. The party was to be in the early evening. I donned a black quarter-cup support brassiere that lifted my otherwise bare breasts so that they would fill superbly and excitingly enticingly beautifully the dress I had chosen. Up my superbly shapely long legs I rolled black stockings with rose flower and leaf pattern in their tops, and fixed these to my black suspenders.

I would wear no panties. I wore my hair drawn up into one very tight flat bun on top of my head.

Then I put on the dress I had chosen for Jackie. It was a black velvet dress that covered to my ankles and took on the shape of my lovely body, clinging to me as closely as I longed for Jackie to do. Its sleeves were to my wrists. It covered my upper body entirely, finished with a Chinese style collar at my neck, and it hugged my lovely smackable bum.

As I stood shoeless in it, to check its straightness in my full length mirror and that I had zipped it right up at the back and tucked the zip away from sight, the hem of this dress, my knockout dress for Jackie, was trailing on the ground.

Had I made a disastrous mistake about the size? I quickly put on my four-inch stiletto-healed sling-backs and looked again. And as I slinked toward the mirror, the whole of my beautiful suntanned black stockinged right leg was revealed by the single vent that ran from my dress' hem to my stocking tops, and I smiled at the stunningly lovely me that was in the mirror and giggled with the joy of my charms, and blew my mirror me a silly girly giggling kiss. Only heaven or a girl could fill that dress as divinely as I did.

My impatient cab driver had rung the bell on the outside door of my apartment three long times by now and had just taken to knocking, when I opened the door and he immediately removed his baseball hat in open-mouthed honour of me, as I swept out, blushing with delight at my compelling beauty, before him.

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 6 – Jackie's Little Party

My stomach did somersaults of joy and fear at the prospect of meeting Jackie again. Would she see me as I longed for her to see me? Would she recognise my love for her? Would she at least be delighted at my beauty? Would I not be the most beautiful girl at her party apart, of course, from Jackie herself?

At least in that Jackie was the first person to see me as my cab dropped me off and she opened her door in person to let me in, I was not to be disappointed.

“What are you dressed like that for?”, she demanded.

Tears welled in my eyes at this cruel blow to my hopes.

“Go to the next-door room the girls there will dress you. You're here to serve as a waitress not to show off!” Jackie snapped.

I fought back bitter tears of total disappointment. Why had I been so stupid as not to ask whether I was there as guest or as one of Jackie's employees? But even then, why had she to be so unkind?

I could hear Jackie apologising to guests that the waitress was here and if they would just be patient…. and I lost track of the rest of her announcement as I went into the room she had sent me to.

I had just entered when Jackie came in behind me.

“Strip totally nude” she commanded me

“I've promised these girls a treat and you are not going to let me down”

I, of course, recognised the two girls in that room as being Mina and Nina, my tormentors from my hideous girl-cage torture. I also, of course recognised what they were holding in readiness for me: a new pair of stilt-booties.

I stripped nude as I had been ordered and I felt that same strange combination of fear and excitement that had hit me at the beginning of this change to my life, when Jackie had emailed her peremptory demand that I submit to being tamed. I blushed because my quim was once more getting moist, excited by my fear and by my submission to the command of others: Jackie's command above all.

It had been over a year now since I had last worn stilt-booties with their miniscule grip at the toe ends for the wearer forced onto tip-of-tiptoe within them, and with only their “front heels” with the one-eighth inch square contact of those heels, to enable her to stand, and of no aid to her walking.

These new booties were being slipped onto my dainty feet by my eager tormentors, who were soon strapping tight closed the “bellows” into which my feet had been slid and fixing the straps around my pretty ankles to fit my punishment-booties irremovably to my feet.

I was once more bade to stand, and lifted myself practicedly this time, having experienced the demands of these booties on me during my taming torture. Once more I arose on supremely erotically beautiful long long ballerinered legs en-pointed and skyscapered on the very tips of the tips of my big toes within these wonderfully sexual and incredibly sexy booties.

And I stood naked but for my booties blushing deep red with the knowledge of how helpless these booties made me, and how orgasmically lovely my legs were in them and at the deep concave dimples they gave me in my beautiful bum.

I looked around now still blushing at the unwavering agog admiration of my body that I could see in my tormentors' eyes. Indeed, I was enjoying their admiration as only a girl can, and as my quim showed by its invitingly moist lips.

The theme for this gathering was obviously going to be rubber. Such of my new stilt-booties that was not stiffening stainless steel, was in black rubber.

I was to be a waitress, and this waitress-to-be needed at least a skirt. And so I was having taken up my legs and monumentally strong thighs a rubber tube that would comprise my skirt. The dimensions of this tube had been carefully calculated to take into account my ample bottom. But, even so, it was only with the greatest difficulty and judicious application of talcum powder, that this skirt was pulled over my bum.

The result was a black rubber skirt that was a skirt only insofar as there is no other word for what I wore. It was no more than ten-inches deep this skirt and, consequently, showed bum cleavage at the top of my delightful rear, and made little pretence of fully hiding my nude sex at the front.

But it covered the concaved half-moons of my bottom super-huggingly, so as to make that which was already wonder-enticingly smackable into a vision of superlative erotic loveliness, as it matched every curve and dimple of my divine rear.

Next, a white rubber waitress' apron was taken around my waist just below my bellybutton, and its strings tied-off at the small of my back. This apron at least did for my modesty, that at the front which my rubber skirt almost totally failed to do. Even so, the apron came only four inches below the hem of my skirt and promised the joy of a flash of my nude split at any heaven-sent time.

There was something written in red on this apron in what I knew, given the nationality of Jackie's guests, to be in Japanese and which, therefore, was completely indecipherable to me, as Japanese was not among my accomplishments.

Jackie put her head around the room door at this point and urged my dressers to get a move on as her guests were being kept waiting for want of their waitress.

My captors now brought a gold coloured chain, slim and as pretty as many a necklace, though of bigger and stronger links, which they passed and padlocked tightly around my waist above my apron's “strings”.

At the middle back of this waist chain, there was a larger link. Through this larger link ran another chain of the same description as my waist chain, save that it was not to encircle me, but had at each end of it, black rubber cuffs which were now eagerly padlocked to my slim and dainty wrists.

The carefully calculated mischief behind this was that, as was demonstrated by one of the girls taking my hand in her long lovely warm fingers, I could, at any one time, because the chain which cuffed my wrists was limiting me, only have one hand in front of me.

I could take my right hand to a very little above my waist height but, in doing so, I drew the cuff chain through my waist chain and therefore took my left hand to where it could only touch my delicious left buttock.

I could, through this imprisonment by the wrists therefore, only have both hands at the same time at front, a little below hip height and, if anything, more at my side than really in front of me. I was, enforcedly therefore, to be cruelly confined to being a one-handed maid waitress.

My torturers now brought my head gear and my nipple-torment bra.

I had never experienced being masked before, but was in no position to protest, as one of the girls fixed onto my nose a light clip, such as that worn by divers, to close my nostrils. She then put over my face, a black stretch-rubber mask that covered even my ears as it was taken over my full face and strapped at the back of my head where my hair was still drawn up and away into the tight coil bun of light brown crowning beauty that adorned my head.

This vicious mask had a small round short tube at my mouth so that I could breath and, with my nostrils clamped and my nose entirely covered by the black rubber of the mask, I could only breath through this little tube.

At eye level, the cruel mask had two individual tube-blinkers. Of only a half-inch diameter and sticking out two inches rigidly straight from my face, they protruded before my face like obscene binoculars. They had no glass in them, but absolutely ensured that my vision was severely restricted, unless I moved my head: restricted to a degree distressing and frightening for a girl steepled in en-pointe-booties as precariously as I was.

It was therefore only with the greatest difficulty that I could see that my lovely 36-inch D-cup breasts were being encased in a rubber brassiere, the cups of which were stiff headless precise cones. These stiff cones shaped my wonderfully generous bosoms into obscene rigid conical volcanoes, seeming to stand straight out a mile from my chest bigger than their natural and wonderful size, with my nipples poking out like fiery-pink eruptions from their ends.

The bra was tight strapped at my back, and a curious device looking a little like a doctor's stethoscope brought to me. I was shown the details of this by Nina, the crueller of the two girls.

Having already experienced the refinements of torture Jackie was capable of devising, you can, I would think, imagine with what anxious curiosity I looked at this device for the little I could see because of my blinkers, and for the brief time I was shown it.

I could not understand what it was for but, where a stethoscope would fit in a doctor's ears, there were, instead of ear pieces, transparent cups within which was a wheel apiece with four flaps: a sort of paddle wheel such as is seen on the sides of paddle steamers, but with the paddles not encased at their sides.

These cups were fitted over my exposed nipples, protruding as my nipples did from my volcanoised tits, and snapped into place on four plastic clips for that purpose at top bottom and sides of my vulcanised volcano brassiere.

Now the single tube that would lead to the end of a stethoscope which would be pressed to the patient's chest, was passed up to my mouth. This single tube had a rigid plastic pipe within its end, and this was inserted into the precisely matching sized pipe in my mask in front of my mouth: the pipe which was the only means left for me to breath.

Black adhesive tape was wrapped around to hold the tube from the “stethoscope” into the tube through which I must breath. But I hardly noticed that as I became, from the moment that the tube was fitted into my mask's mouthpiece, only too fully aware of what this device was to do to me.

Despite the pounding in my heart from the stress of the bondage I was being put into, I breathed steadily and normally. And, as I breathed I drew my breath in or blew my sweet fresh exhalations through the single tube which divided in twain and led, through the resulting twin tubes, to the transparent caps over my nipples, where the wicked little paddle-wheels were thereby driven round and round and round by my breathing working a lightly sprung lever back and forth, and were thus made to constantly paddle my exquisitely lovely nude nipples.

This carefully calculated erotic torture hit my girlmind and my nipples were already dancing and trying to peak and thereby put themselves further into delightful harms way of the constant threshing from the paddle wheels in my entirely aptly named nipple-torment bra.

Finally, one of my captors knelt to fit a golden chain between the ankle straps of my en-pointe-booties. I was fitted with a hobble-chain. That hobble-chain, slim but strong, was no more than a totally unmerciful one-inch in length: I would be restricted to one-inch steps in my punishment-booties!

I was ready now. This erotic rubber maid slave waitress was ready to be commanded and used and abused at the will or whim of her captors.

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 09:46 AM
Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 7 – Katrina the Leggy Waitress

You can, I am sure, imagine with what care I had to wiggle sexy tiny stepping my erotically enhanced and encumbered body across the lower-floor hallway of Jackie's London apartment into the room where I knew my presence was long overdue: though my lateness was surely no fault of my own.

I wiggled my delicious rubber wrapped dimple-contoured bum cheeks, as I took enforcedly tiny-tiny mincing steps with my tightly-tightly hobbled ankles. I wiggled super-femininely, my beauty tethered tensioned torsioned and tied for the pleasure of others.

I was tethered tensioned torsioned and tied to enhance my charms, to show my stunning woman's body in an extreme of stress through dress that only served to enhance and emphasise the beauty that nature had given me, this delectable girl, wiggle-mincing skyscrapered-leggy-legged top-of-tip tiptoed and balletdancered in her en-pointe-booties.

I wriggle-minced tiny-stepped, a strong curved calved and monumentally strong thighed stupendously eroticised beauty, with concave hollowed buttock hemispheres, my titties sticking out like two round, too round, obscene conical mountains on my chest, my nipples being constantly chastised by my anxious breathing spinning the little paddles in my nipple-torment bra, my gorgeous squeezed purse lubriciously sweating between my gorgeous thighs under my hot rubber skirt, my face cruelly masked to hide my prettiness but show my submissive beauty, my head topped by my lovely hair coiled in a bun aloft to crown me princess imperial of all girls in any and all the universes of girls.

I was transformed into a Stepford maid. I wiggled into the room where Jackie held court and a silence dropped like a net over a tigress, as all eyes turned to absorb fully the beauty that was my tethered and bound body as I tiny-stepped into the room, tiptoe topped in my punishment stilt-booties one-inch hobbled leggily before them.

“Here's the damned maid at long last,” Jackie snapped for my ears to remind me of my submissive role.

I obediently wriggle-wiggle-trotted to the tray of drinks, which was resting on Jackie's bar, readied for me to distribute. With the greatest of difficulty, because of the chain hobbling my wrists so that I could only use one hand, I picked this tray up and proceeded in my wriggle-wiggle-tiny-one-inch hobbled-tip-of-tiptoe steps toward the thirty or so Japanese businesswomen that Jackie was entertaining. Once tiptoed among them I obediently proffered the tray in my right hand, whilst wiggling in tippy-toe tiny-steps with my helplessly held-back lovely left hand resting sexily on my rubber clung bum.

“Curtsy!!” Jackie shouted at me with a force that made me jump in metaphor at least.

“Where are your manners you useless bitch?!”

“I will not have bad manners in my home especially before my guests, and least of all from a stupid little bitch of a serving maid!”

I lowered my head in shame. I was shamed by Jackie's insult of me, her friend, of me who loved her devotedly. I was also shamed because my bondage, and the never-ending threshing of my nipples through my breathing working the nipple-torment bra paddles, and through Jackie's aggression, and through my being publicly humiliated before thirty strangers, had wet my pretty pussy purse and that wetness was even then threatening to escape my nether lips.

How could I curtsy with my ankles hobbled only one-inch apart? Putting my tip-of-toes tiptoed feet together, I bent gently toward crouching at both knees as if in the process of sitting, and lowered my shamed head, in what little I could do in my severe bondage to satisfy my mistresses quite correct demand that I show the manners due my lowest-of-the-low station in her household, and then rose again.

I wriggle-wiggle-trotted around obediently curtsying before every guest until my tray was empty. I then stood submissively by waiting to collect empty glasses.

One pretty Japanese guest could not take her eyes off me as I stood by with my tray in my right hand, my pretty left hand resting on the rubber clung half-moon of my wonderful rear.

When I had been up close to her, she had watched with fascination the little paddle wheels constantly flicking my nipples as I breathed through the tube leading to my mouth behind my mask and leading on to the twin ends of my nipple-torment bra.

Despite the steamed-up state of the containers they were encased by, this girl could see clearly how excited my nipples were at the totally unrelenting attention of the little paddles driven by my breathing through the tubes leading to the single tube leading to my mouth.

And excited indeed my nipples were. But, though I knew that my captors would not have frowned upon such an act of public masturbation, I was not so foolish as to adjust my breathing to pleasure myself. I was pleasuring myself even by breathing normally though.

My nipples were being constantly rhythmically flicked flapped tapped and tormented by the divinely evil little paddles. And, even as I merely stood patiently waiting to be a waitress, I gave out a little girly gasp, inaudible behind my mask, as my constant titty-tip torment increased the arousal already evident in she who nestled so warmly and snugly under my close-clinging black rubber micro-micro-mini skirt between my wonderful thighs.

And on and on and on it went – the constant unrelenting flicking of my nipples went on and on and on, breath as I must and torment and arouse my own nipples as I therefore also must.

The pretty Japanese who had been unashamedly ogling me, now held out her empty glass as did another girl nearby.

I wriggle-tiny-wiggle-girly-wiggle tiptoe-tip-top ballet-legged long leggy-stepped toward the first girl, obediently curtsied, and took her glass on the tray I held out in the one hand I was able to raise a little in front of me. But, as I was girly-wriggle-wiggle-stepping toward the second girl to take her empty glass, Jackie bawled out at me again:

“One empty glass back to the bar at a time you stupid bitch!!”

My eyes closed behind my tunnel-vision forcing blinkers as I registered the intentional cruelty of this. I must perform my maid's duty to take over thirty single empty glasses on my tray back to the bar one at a time in my hobbled and tiptoe tortured state, when my tray could carry of course far more.

I did as I was ordered, and this lovely girl watched my wonderful clinging close rubber encased dimple-sided bottom as it wriggled wiggled and swung super-sexually as I mince-stepped tiny-tiny quick-kick stepping in my one-inch hobble, with her one empty glass on my tray taking it back to the bar.

I was at least allowed to return to this girl with the long drink that was, curiously, to follow the wine. As I wiggled my lovely body toward this still stunned young woman, she had the close-up of the wording on my apron that she had sought to read as I had stood with empty tray obediently at the ready.

Hitherto her poor eyesight, which she vainly avoided wearing the glasses she knew she should to correct, had prevented her satisfying her curiosity, but now she had put her glasses on.

No doubt, other girls among the guests had already read what was written in Japanese on my apron, but his girl, having taken the tall drink I offered her after my obedient leggy curtsy, now read it out loud, astounded and made giggly by alcohol and her pleasure at what the notice printed in large bold red Japanese symbols on my apron read.

To my eternal shame she shouted out in English translation to the whole room, where Jackie's mocking laughter multiplied my deep shame, the wording on my apron:

The girl calling out from reading the apron I wore laughingly called out its mocking words:

“If my services are not entirely satisfactory, you may have me punished”.

As all the assembled women laughed aloud, I continued to mince and wiggle in my tippy-tiptoed skyscrapering-booties kicky-leggy as if this were something that happened every day. For me in my bondage it might just as well have been something that happened every day, for all I could do about it.

“I not satisfied”, said the girl who had read my apron notice out loud in her broken English, to my total horror,.

“I not satisfied maid. Maid naughty girl”, she laughed.

“You are very harsh madam” Jackie told her, “But you are entirely in the right, and your wish is my command”, she concluded.

“Prepare the chair”, Jackie ordered my other two chief tormentors.

Then, turning to the woman who had demanded I be punished, Jackie told her, conspiratorially, “Madam, the maid is admittedly a disappointing totally useless bitch, but we might as well have her serve us till we are ready to wind-up our little gathering”.

“Okay: I wait” said the girl raising an eyebrow to signal to Jackie her understanding of Jackie's desire to prolong my present erotic torture.

“As you can see ladies”, Jackie called out to all the women assembled in the room, “We can supply lovely models for the photo shoot you have in mind.”

What was that I had just heard? Did Jackie call me “lovely”? Did the love of my life praise my beauty? I stopped in the progress of my duties to turn myself to look at the face of my beloved. I wanted: no: I needed to look for the sign I had so longed for that Jackie loved me to the total distraction with which I loved her.

“Why are you not working you stupid stupid bitch?!!” Jackie snapped.

I turned with tears in my eyes, to wriggle-wiggle-mince-tiptoe-top-step about my leggy-legged duties once more, deeply hurt by Jackie's rejection.

Jackie continued her address to the Japanese businesswomen: “A calendar for each month of the year, with an erotic moving picture constantly repeating on a loop, is an excellent idea. And for it to be posted on the internet for people to download for a suitable fee, splendid. I can guarantee you twelve lovely models, one for each month..” she concluded.

Their business apparently settled, the guests and Jackie took seats so that they could watch me suffer as I struggled to wriggle-wiggle-walk in my one-inch hobbled bondage with their individual empty glasses and return with their tall drinks, of which a number of the guests were demanding more than the one.

I cannot deny for one moment that the sexiness of my erotic bondage and the humiliation brought about by my humbling and demeaning duties had got me sexually aroused. Add to this that my nipples were throbbing divinely from the constant beat of the paddle wheels within my nipple-torment bra and you have the picture of the peak of sexiness I was at toward the end of that evening.

I hardly need add therefore, that behind my white rubber maid's apron, with its savage, “If my services are not entirely satisfactory, you may have me punished” message emblazoned upon it, and only just under my skimpy black rubber tube skirt, my lovely pussy was oozing my nectar contentedly.

During the year since my girl-cage torture, I had not neglected to keep myself fit and trim, as a photographic model must, but two hours had now gone by with me on leggy tiptoe in my punishment-booties and I was feeling the physical and mental strain.

I stood once more obediently awaiting to serve my superiors when the Japanese who had demanded I be tortured, visibly purposely dropped her handkerchief on the floor of Jackie's sumptuous lounge.

Jackie smiled as she noticed this.

“Where's that damned maid?!” Jackie snapped.

“Come on you totally stupid idle and useless little bitch, pick it up!!” she demanded of me.

“My goodness where DO they get these bone-idle useless lazy good-for-nothing brainless little tarts from?!”

“Look at you, you idle little bitch, your mistress has dropped her handkerchief, are you really so damned stupid that you have to be told your duty is to immediately pick it up and present it back to her? Have you really no understanding of your place in this world? Do you really and truly not realise that little slags like you are a thousand to the cent?” Jackie ranted on and on…

“…Have you really got no gratitude to your superiors for saving you from selling yourself on the streets, because that is what you'd no doubt be having to do if we had not had the goodness to take you in, feed and shelter you, you useless little whore…”

“…For god's sake just look at yourself: you are even wearing uniform that we have had to buy for you out of our own pockets…”

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to clothe you in rubber aprons rubber mini-skirts and steeple booties to keep you clothed? Do you?! And those chains we have to bind you with to get even the slightest useful effort out of you, do you know how much they cost?! Do you, you worthless ungrateful lazy good-for-nothing little slag?!…”

“I was wrong to ever have bothered employing you. I should take your uniform off you now and throw you naked back into the gutter from whence you came, you useless little bitch!!”

“…Get MOVING you stupid useless whore!!”

I wriggle-wiggle-kicky-leggy-stepped, shamed to my core, over to where the handkerchief lay, and lowered myself to a murderously precarious huge folded legged squat, to reach out with the one hand my bonds allowed me to use, and take up the dropped handkerchief.

As I lowered myself to the squat, all eyes were on my legs and the women nudged themselves as my white rubber maid's apron ceased to cover what my black rubber skirt hem had never really fully covered, and my extremely wet purse was wholly clearly to be seen smiling between my wonderfully strongly-thighed folded legs.

I rose slowly, curtsied humbly, blushing deeply with shame at my sexual arousal from Jackie's tirade, as I offered this handkerchief back to its owner, who simply ignored me.

“What took you so damned long, you idle bitch?!” Jackie demanded.

“You damned well need to be reminded of your station in life, you lazy slut. Take the useless idle bitch and fit her with the bowl mask, and then let's see if an hour or two in the punishment chair will drive some lessons into her useless arse!!”

Mina and Nina, my two pretty tormentors had made ready for me in the neighbouring room in which I had been bound as a serving maid. They now took my arms and led me back there at such speed as I could manage in my one-inch hobble.

No fellow woman protested this fellow woman's humiliation and torture. My fellow women were enjoying my suffering too much for that.

To my great relief, in the preparation room my torturers removed the rubber mask that covered my face, the nipple-torment bra, my apron and my skirt, which they had to cut off, so tightly did it hug my wonderful contours.

They smiled and nudged each other as they looked at the incredibly aroused state of my nipples from their never-ending paddling when in the nipple-torment bra.

As they wiped my face of my sweet sweat, they unclipped my nostrils and I was left standing just in my stilt-booties with one-inch ankle hobble and the chain that went around my waist and the cuffs linking my wrists.

I was naked but for these and the glorious princess imperial crown that was my hair still drawn up and coiled in a tight light-brown bun atop my head.

My relief was only momentary though. Mina and Nina, the girls attending me had malign smiles. They knew what was coming next.

It seems to be only in old cartoons on TV now, that one sees a goldfish in a round bowl. I was, or at least my head was, about to become like that goldfish.

My torturesses now placed in my sight two halves of what looked like two halves of such a goldfish bowl, or maybe an imaginary spaceman's helmet. It combined the two. Like a goldfish bowl the two halves curved up to an open top with flared out lip and, like a space helmet, there was also an opening at the bottom where, in this case, the “bowl” or “helmet” mask turned into a short round pipe to go around the wearer's neck.

As I studied this device lost in a dream at the relief from my stress and torture as I sat. One of the girls wound, quite tightly around my neck, some black rubber tape about four or five-inches broad and sticky on both sides. She wound this around my neck from a reel, over and over itself, so that I finally had three layers sticking to me.

Each of my tormentors then took a half of the helmet bowl and brought them to where I had been sat so that they could prepare me. The open halves of the helmet had a tongue and matching groove respectively. The groove was lined with a rubber seal.

My captors now put the two halves carefully together one over my face and the other over the back of my head. The tongue in the rear half was mated into the groove of the front half so that the seam they formed when combined ran alongside my ears, and the rubber seal in the groove made the two halves one combined unit, from the open flared “goldfish bowl” rim down to and including the two halves of pipe that now formed a whole pipe around and containing my neck.

Four clips on each side of the grooved half of the bowl also mated and clicked into matching tongues on the tongue side, so that my helmet was fixed immovably in place.

Once in place, the open flared top like that of a goldfish bowl, was some two-inches above my coiled head hair. At the bottom, the short pipe was already stuck to the sticky tape that had been wound around my lovely neck.

The girl who had wound the tape around my neck, now repeated the three winds of the double-sticky-sided tape, but this time over the pipe running out the bottom of my helmet and over the still exposed original tape winding, so that pipe going all around my neck as it did, was sealed by an outer seal to the inner seal to which it already stuck. A stretch rubber brace was then brought and taken around my neck and strapped at its back.

I now gazed out at the world like a 22 nd century space-girl. I looked out through a clear plastic-glass helmet as if I had just landed from planet girl. As I sat dreamy-eyed, the sexual arousal of my nipple threshing and serving maid bondage having receded by now, I had no idea whatsoever why I had been fitted with this strange helmet.

My short dreamy reverie was short-lived. Without a word, my tormentors took my elbows and made clear that I was to stand and walk back into the room where Jackie's party guests were still assembled.

I obeyed unquestioningly, and wriggle-wiggled-tiny-kicky-stepped once more tiny-tip-top-tiptoed super-high forced leggy-legged in my en-pointe-ballet-punishment-booties savagely controlled by the cruel one-inch hobble between my dainty ankles, back in among my fellow girls.

I was back in among my fellow women, but outside their fellowship. I was a girl apart. I was a victim and they the victors over me. Theirs and theirs alone was the freedom: mine and mine alone was the imprisonment and suffering.

Any one of them could have rescued me from my plight: none of them would. I was beneath them. I was beneath their contempt. In their eyes I was just dirt. I was a stupid girl who seemed to love being abused and, for them, it was wonderful to see me abused, so why not just let me be abused for the pleasure it gave them? If I was so very stupid as to let these things happen to me, I deserved all I got didn't I? What harm was it doing to me to be sexually tortured?

Whether any of these women ever thought of me for one moment as a fellow girl I do not know, but if they ever did, they must have excused themselves along some of the preceding lines because, as I wiggled back into the room they were in, none flicked an eyelash other than to clear her eyes to more clearly see what had been done to me and what was to follow.

Jackie's smile was distressingly evil as I wriggle-wiggled back in alone ahead of my torturesses.

The centre of the room in which I had so recently been the subservient serving maid, had been cleared and rearranged. I now saw, as I was meant to see, hence Jackie's grin, that there was a large square wooden platform in the middle of the room and, bolted to the platform, in the middle of the platform, and with its back to me, a straight backed, high backed, wooden chair.

This wooden chair was of the build and strength of a park bench, but was a seat for one only. Alongside it was what I recognised as a chamber pot. It was made of metal, and had a little spout lip like a jug has to pour from. And alongside that in turn was a curious two-step ladder like arrangement made of the same rugged wood as the chair and the base to which the chair was so soundly and immovably bolted.

I stood in my space helmet goldfish bowl open topped mask in my murderously tiptoeing booties the lovely creature from planet girl, awaiting my instructions.

The guests, my two torturesses and Jackie moved to stand around the edge of the platform in front of the chair…

“Come here bitch!” Jackie snapped. I saw that both she and her fellow tormentors of me, Mina and Nina, had black leather whips at the ready, “Come here bitch!” Jackie repeated.

I dutifully wiggle-tiptoe tiny-trot stepped to where Jackie was indicating, to where Jackie had ordered I must be, to where all the women were assembled to witness what was to happen, and I turned and looked with absolute horror, total horror, complete and all encompassing horror at what was prepared for me!

“Sit down straight backed right back on the chair bolt upright thighs together” Jackie ordered, but I did not hear her as I looked at the chair I was now in front of having hitherto, purposely no doubt, only been able to see its rigidly straight high back.

This chair, this horrendously horrible chair, looked to some extent like a commode. I could see that it had a depression in its near rear centre and what was obviously a drain hole. Even as I looked at the chair, the metal chamber pot with jug-like lip was being slid into grooved slots that took its flanged rim directly under where this drain hole would serve.

At the top of the back was something I could see now that I stood in front that I could not have seen from standing to the rear of the seat.

At the top of the back of the seat was a sort of stocks in the same horizontal plain as the seat of the chair. One half of the stocks was built into the top of the back of chair itself. This was the non-moving half. I could clearly see that this half of the stocks had a single semi-circle hole in its centre.

Hinged to this non-moving half of the single-hole stocks, was a hinged second half with matching semi-circle hole in its centre. This hinged half was, as I studied the chair, opened out and away to the side. The moving half of the stocks had legs dangling from it that would, clearly, support it from the arms of the chair when the stocks were swung shut. Indeed there were securing connections for these supporting legs for the front half of the stocks on the chair's waiting arms.

When I sat in it too, there would be solid wings up to the chair's arms either side of my thighs to keep my thighs hard together.

But, that I was looking at a commode was not what horrified me. What horrified me, what was fully intended to horrify me, what I had been summoned to witness before all my fellow women gathered to see me see it for the first time, were the dozens of strong steel spikes of the thickness of sewing needles that stuck savagely, cruelly, rigidly, unyieldingly, unmercifully, upright from the seat of that chair.

These dreadful spikes, sharp pointed in shiny steel, thrust upwards for the most part one-inch from the seat where by poor buttocks and handsome thighs would be when I sat. But, in the most strategic place, not only because they had to compensate for the hollow that led to the drain, but because of deliberate forethought and cruel invention, where my quim would nestle, the spikes were not only thicker and stronger but fully seven-inches or more in their brutal length.

“Sit bitch,” Jackie ordered, “Sit straight backed right back on the chair bolt upright thighs together” Jackie reminded me.

I must obey. I must do as I was ordered.

Every eye watched my every move as I wiggle-walked to the chair and turned myself to sit on it.

And I begged for mercy. I begged not to have to sit in that seat of unmerciful pain. I begged the women who were Jackie's guests seeking their sympathy as fellow women to persuade them to plead in turn for me with Jackie.

My only answer was from one of my torturesses aiming her cruel whip at my belly causing me to stagger even though she did not in fact strike me.

“Do as you have been told bitch”, Jackie angrily slowly forcefully shouted at the terrified girl that was her victim: poor me.

Ii was clear that resistance was totally useless.

I do not even now know how I found the courage but, as my tormentors gloated with glee and threatened with their whips, I lowered myself as slowly as I possible could given my tiptoed state. I lowered myself hands at hip height until I could feel the points of those spikes. The first to touch me were the extra-long spikes strategically positioned for where my lovely purse-lips would be when I was fully sat.

Once more I begged for mercy. Once more a whip was raised in threat.

I had, of course, thought of the Indian fakirs who lie on beds of nails. But these were no nails: these were super-sharp needle-spikes and I was crying out in absolute agony as I finally had to let my superbly delicious 115 pounds press on the seat, and I was pierced in my lovely bum and my beautiful thighs, stabbed what seemed a thousand horrible and horribly painful times as my lovely body sat obediently straight backed right back on the chair bolt upright thighs together, just as I had been ordered, and screaming with the pain.

The tears ran from my eyes not for the terrible pain of the stabbing spikes penetrating the lovely soft flesh of my gorgeous bottom and thighs, but from the truly dreadful agony of the extra-long spikes that had now gone right through the lips of my soft and lovely and loving purse and, inside it, through my inner nether-lips.

I cried out with the excruciating agony and begged to be released, even as my two torturesses were putting a strap across my lap at my hip bones to pull me hard and fully down on the spikes on which I was skewered, and another around my trunk just above my breasts to hold be sitting upright on my spikes.

I continued to cry the tears of the agonised and to sob the begs of the hellishly tortured as I endured the terrible pain of the spikes through my southern lips outside and inside.

The pain was unbearable and I must needs cry out with it, helpless as I was to relieve myself from it. I sobbed and begged for Jackie to let me up, even using her name and telling her that I loved her.

The horror of the pain can be of no surprise considering that, although I could not myself see them, several of the longer spikes had gone right thorough my love lips and were sticking viciously victoriously up between my thighs, with trickles of my bright red blood running down them.

I was bolt upright in the straight backed seat, the back of which rose to some two-inches above my head, just short of the same height as the lip of the transparent “space-helmet-goldfish-bowl” mask in which my head was contained.

My two girl tormentors now ensured the narrow top neck of my mask just below the lip around its top, was slotted within the half-hole in the half-stocks integral with the top of the chair back. They then swung shut the other half of the stocks so that they entirely gripped the top of my goldfish bowl mask, locked the stocks shut, and secured the legs that supported the front half of the stocks to the arms of the torture chair.

I now therefore sat, in my agony, bolt upright with the transparent bowl mask that contained my head below the stocks built into the top of the back of the chair. The stocks gripped the top of my goldfish bowl mask. The lip of my goldfish bowl mask was just above the top side of the hole in the stocks, with the top of my head open to the air through the hole in the stocks.

I sat crying and begging in agony and was ignored, as my captors brought the wooden ladder like arrangement to where I sat.

This was put in front of me. But in my pain I hardly noticed what was happening and had no idea what it was being done for.

The “ladder” had two steps: at either side of the second step as a rigid upright pole. The ladder was tilted at an angle in front of the chair where my lovely legs were. Thereafter, it was secured to the front arms of the chair and to where its bottom end was on the floor plate the chair was mounted upon.

The second and last step of the ladder was at the level of my knees. I therefore now had two ladder steps in front of me, leading up to the height of my lap.

I continue to cry out my never-ending agony as the spikes that had gone right through my love-lips and were protruded visibly up between my thighs, tortured me unbearably painfully.

Yet I could see through my lovely dark brown eyes opening and closing as waves of pain swept through my tortured nectar-pot, that my beloved Jackie was inspecting the arrangements fixed to my chair.

“I can wait if someone else needs to go first” Jackie said calmly and cooly.

“No. Please”, said one of the Japanese women who had not spoken before, “You have entertained us so wonderfully that on this occasion it is not bad manners for the host to go first.”

“Thank you”, said Jackie, and at that I watched through the terrible pain filling my sex, Jackie's dainty white stiletto sling-back shod feet standing on and testing the first step of the ladder in front of me. Jackie then turned and nodded to her guests as if to say, this is good, very safe and very sound.

She then, still holding one of the upright poles to steady herself, she took the second step and trod immediately thereafter, without the least hesitation or consideration, with the full painful compressing pressure of her stiletto heels on my totally naked flesh, on my bare thighs, using my nude thighs as if they were a platform.

I screamed and howled with the pain as she stood on my thighs in her stilettos driving the spikes that were already deeply into the back of my thighs as I sat, even further into me.

Her cruel heels pressed the flesh and muscle of my glorious thighs into agonising deep hollows that would soon turn to heel-imprint-matching blue-black bruises where she had stood in her heels, and I screamed with the pain.

My eyes closed with the purgatory I was in, as Jackie stood on my nude thighs. She had at first faced me, but was turning now. I felt some relief from the terrible stilettos, as she must have sat down on the top of the stocks-containing-frame that was above my head.

I opened my eyes and could see the gorgeous calves of Jackie's expensively stockinged legs. And around her calves were her lowered panties.

I looked up within my transparent helmet mask, as if I needed to, to be sure of what was being done to me.

I looked up and saw Jackie's gloriously beautiful naked sex above me, her panties having been taken down, her skirt hem having been lifted away and, as I looked up a strong gush of Jackie's urine hit the front of my goldfish bowl mask as she relieved herself into my helmet fully, to the point where her last drips anointed my lovely top-of-head-coiled hair.

I flicked my eyelids to remove the horrible burning urine that had splash-bedewed them and between Jackie's lovely calves I saw all her guests in paroxysms of mocking laughter as they pointed at me.

I began to sob with my pain and this, this abject rejection of my humanity, this cruellest of cruel use of me.

Jackie climbed down, “Who's next?” she asked.

These young Japanese would never have normally done in such a public way what they now did to me, as each in turn stepped up the two ladder rungs to walk brutally on the platform made by my nude thighs, take down her panties and pee into my all but hermetically sealed helmet mask.

Even as the fourth girl urinated on my head and down my face within the mask, the mask was full beyond my mouth and approaching my nostrils.

The horror of the acidic pee in which my chin and lovely mouth lips bathed was increased by its heat and its terrible stench, I sobbed and cried and tears ran down my beautiful face to add themselves to the urine that was now above my nose as the fifth and sixth girl pissed on my head and face.

Jackie and companions watched with absolutely unshakeable concentration, staring in fascination at my face in the mask and cheering in savage uninhibited celebration as I, as I was forced to unless I wished to drown, opened my pretty mouth, closed my lovely eyes, and swallowed three large gulps of the pee in which my face was being covered.

Even as I swallowed, another pretty girl was sitting on the human toilet that I was made into by my bondage, and her urine was running through my lovely hair into my head bowl to raise the pee level above my nose once more and cause me to have to drink the hot stinking filthy salty acidic mouth burning nostril nauseating pee in which I would otherwise certainly choke.

Over the course of the next hour, all thirty girls emptied their bladders into my helmet, some of them more than once, as they re-charged themselves with drink, and I swallowed what must have been some two gallons of the indescribably disgusting stinking urine.

Even as I obediently played my role as a human toilet, I suffered the never-ending agony of their high heels on my now completely bruised nude thighs, the spikes on which I was sitting and, by literally the longest possible margin not least, the savage spikes that were right through my poor love-lips.

In the midst of the enjoyment of my torture it went all but unnoticed by Jackie and her guests that I had, as was inevitable, filled as my poor belly was being by my enforced swallowing of pint after pint of pee over the space of the hour, let go my own bladder and, under the chair to which I was impaled by the brutal spikes, the chamber pot was half-filled by my pee, for the greater part the pee of my torturers recycled through my lovely body.

It was Jackie, of course it would be Jackie, who heard the musically pretty dribbling of my pee as it trickled into the metal chamber pot.

The relief of my bladder brought back the memory, as if I could ever forget, of what had been done to me in the girl-cage. As a consequence, my quim, now that it had for the moment done its secondary duty, began, strangely and perversely began, to feel the pleasure of my terrible pain and total helplessness and absolute degradation.

In spite of everything that I was suffering still, and I was even then nearly up to my nostrils in pee, I once more began to feel my charms. I was humiliated girl. I was tortured girl. But I was also sexual and sexy girl. For me, though I would never have been able to admit it to myself then, there was a form of sex and sexual pleasure and relief that was of a higher calling than that experienced by the average girl, whatever the average girl may enjoy to bring her off.

I normally had willpower over this and would never admit in my routine day-to-day life that it had any part to play with me. But I am a girl. A very, very sexy girl. I have my needs and, if my needs could be fulfilled only under the heavy cruelty I was enduring, my lovely head brain was going to have to stand aside while she, the mistress between my legs, the mistress that knew what my head brain would always and forever deny, would have to take over from the head brain of the normal me to ensure I satisfied my physical cravings.

She between my legs now had command over me. She ordered my head brain to move entirely to one side. Her command over me was total. My head brain surrendered without resistance. She between my legs moistened her wonderful lips and began to dribble with the excitement of having all my girlbody at her command. For winning the battle over my head brain, she then raised her victory standards, by causing my exquisite nipples to erect and harden. Her sword, my clitoris, was already coming out of its scabbard.

Now the brain between my legs took over my voice and I moaned and sighed and squeaked at the pleasure of the horrible pain I was in and the absolutely total degradation I was forced to submit too. And my lower-lips-brain dribbled her lovely saliva uncontrollably even as Jackie took the chamber pot full of my pee out from underneath where my sex was dripping my nectar and carried it up the steps in front of me.

And she stood with her cruel stilettos on my bare thighs once more, and lifted the chamber pot full of my pee so that its jug-like lip was ready to pour, and shifting her feet on my totally-bruised nude thighs terribly painfully for me, she slowly poured the pee that had passed through my body into my bowl mask so that the chamber pot was completely empty and my bowl mask was filled up to my eyes.

“Waste not want not!” she laughed as she poured.

And then she stepped down off the steps that led to the platform comprising my nude thighs, and she and all the other women stood back and watched as I, as I had to, began to drink down the recycled pee which covered my eyes, and swallow it to recycle it once more through my wonderful body, and as I drank down the piss, she between my legs, she who was impaled upon a half-dozen razor sharp spikes through her outer and inner lips, continued to torrent my lubricant, and as I gulped, bubbles rose through the pee to end in my sexual squeaks as they broke surface and burst, and I began to orgasm. And I moved the little I could being tight strapped in my seat and as I did so the tip of my sexually aroused swelling clitoris was suddenly touching the tip of one of the razor sharp spikes piercing my cunt and I wanted this to happen. I wanted this to happen. I wanted to happen what I did not want to happen. I wanted to know the excruciating pain of my clitoris being impaled by this serendipitously placed spike and my mind was also filled with the terrible horror of this happening. And I became aware that such was the relationship of my poor clitoris to the spike that if I continued my sexual arousal the spike would penetrate the length of my clitoris. All this thought in the splittest of split seconds. And this splittest of split seconds thought in itself aroused me the more and my clitoris swelled and was speared right through down its length by a razor sharp spike sticking up from the punishment chair, and I blew a billion bubbles in the pee I was all but drowning in, as my scream of the extremist pain was one and the very same as the agonised scream of a girl in the absolute pitch of the most joyful and heavenly wonderful orgasm she had ever yet endured, and the pee filling my helmet mask bubbled like a volcanic geyser as I gulped it down with eagerness, the eagerness of a girl in sexual heaven, and I drank and drank and gulped and swallowed the pee which now tasted like the sweetest of sweet wine to me, until my final gargling scream of multi-orgasmic heaven took the very last drops of foul pee over my eagerly awaiting palette…

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 8 – The Day Dancer

I had been made more than a little ill by my experience on the spiked torture chair and had lain abed for many a day and night, perhaps even for weeks, nursed in Jackie's London home. And, I will swear even now, that it had been Jackie's lovely lips that had kissed me gently on the forehead each night and morning.

Despite, or was it because of all the terrible torments I had endured at her hands, my love for Jackie still knew no bounds. Therefore, imagine the leap my heart took when full consciousness of my surroundings returned to me, and I reached out an arm stretching in the double bed in which I was supine, to feel a still warm patch next to where I lay naked.

I immediately sat up fully awake to look and see. There was nobody there, but the state of the bedding, and its fading warmth, and the hollow in the pillow told me that there had been. And then joy of joys for me, I found a hair on the pillow. This hair was undoubtedly Jackie's colour or was it Jackie's colour? I so wanted it to be Jackie's colour that it was Jackie's hair to me denying the flash of doubt that had gone through my hyper-state mind.

My beloved had lain with me in my bed. I had shared a bed with Jackie the love of my life. Jackie must love me too. It must be so mustn't it?

Even though the curtains of the room in which I was abed were drawn shut, I could see that it was light outside. I could not lie there for evermore I told myself, and decided to ready myself for an awakening session in Jackie's gym.

Jackie would be the last to take exception to my using her gymnasium and the last to object to my being there wearing only the tiny white micro-panties I had put on, not being able to find any other clothing, though I had grabbed the towel and shower gel apparently left out for me.

Then I noticed a light fresh-fruit based meal and fresh orange-juice on a tray, which must surely have been left for me. I sipped my drink and nibbled at an apple slice. All who know me have always remarked on how little I seem to eat. A girl has to look after her figure of course.

Without really thinking about it, as I shuffled about the bedroom aimlessly, yawning and stretching a little, and inspecting my flawlessly pretty face and oh so kissable lips in the mirror on Jackie's dressing table, I became aware of deep rock music coming through the walls of my room.

It got louder, and I now became all too aware of the thumping bass that penetrated through the bedroom door and walls and was accompanied by an occasional crack of what I could only assume, knowing Jackie, was a whip, followed by moans from a husky feminine voice, and loud laughter and giggles from several other women.

The music got louder and satisfaction of my awakening curiosity correspondingly more irresistible.

To this, I knew, or at least my instincts told me, Jackie was likely to object.

In respect of what was going on, I had no equal part to play with Jackie or the young sounding women who even now were emitting the laughter of astonishment as another crack of a whip had produced another pleasure-pain gasp and moan from whoever the poor girl was on the receiving end.

My role in the world at that time, though I would never then have admitted it, even though I mentally accepted it, was only the equal, if indeed that, of the poor girl with the sexy husky voice that somehow rang a bell with me even though she had not spoken a word as such.

If you had asked me there and then who the sexy voiced husky voiced girl was that was crying out in pain and pleasure, I would have answered Mi Li, the lovely Korean photographeress who had kissed me the once so passionately after a session we had done for a photo spread in “SapphFire”.

“SapphFire” was the gay-girl “pin-up” magazine chief rival to “Pink Girl”. My manageress had had a falling out with “Pink Girl” over outstanding payments for photos of me they had commissioned. This dispute caused a falling out, even though “Pink Girl” and “SapphFire” were both in Jackie's publication stable, and my manageress was Jackie's employee.

Another crack of whip on victim another cry from the poor victim more thumping music starting the same tune, if tune it could be called, over again, more amazed pleased and sniggering laughter from young women, what was going on? I just must find out what was going on!

I had been Jackie's friend and occasional guest long enough and often enough to know the layout of this, her London apartment. It sounded clearly to me that the “entertainment” was taking place in Jackie's downstairs lounge which could be easily overlooked from the balcony that one of the two doors of the first-floor room I was in, opened onto.

As if nobody were likely to see this door of my room being opened, and indeed they might well not do if too distracted, I got onto my knees to keep myself, as I thought, out of sight and sneaked onto the balcony keeping head low, startled initially by the music getting ear drum threateningly louder still as I opened the bedroom door to be hit by its full reverberating noise.

Rising from squatting on the stupendous thighs of my beautiful legs, I daringly popped my pretty head above the balustrade to see what was happening below in precisely the location I had assumed something to be going on in. And I watched totally transfixed.

I soon took in that my beloved Jackie, looking truly stunning in cowboy style boots, very tight jeans filled wondrously by her gorgeous little bum and an even tighter sweater, showing off her voluptuous upper body, was standing to one side from three pretty businesswomen.

At least, I assumed they were businesswomen from the way they were dressed. Just now they were stripped to their uniformly white blouses and two had their sleeves rolled up above their elbows, but they also had standard pinstripe skirts and looked, for all the world, as if the were from some bank or other financial institution taking a lunch break with added excitement.

The added excitement was being provided by Jackie. Or, it would be more accurate to say that the added excitement was being provided by Mi Li. Because it was indeed Mi Li, the gorgeous Korean photographeress who was on the receiving end of a cruel whipping down below me, and down below on her gorgeous body.

Mi Li was on the ground floor below the balcony, looking absolutely stunning. Her lovely little feet were shod in six-inch stiletto sling-backs, her hair, a good match for Jackie's in colour, was up in a ponytail, and she was dressed in some sexy garment that must have been devised by Jackie.

Mi Li was dancing to the heavy beat of the thumping music in front of the businesswomen. She had her pretty little hands cuffed behind her back.

Mi Li wore a dress down to her ankles. At least, it was down to her ankles and flowed in abundant lacy layers of red and white from her neck to her ankles at the back of her, but I could just tell that it was lifted away and open and exposing of her breasts and her sex at the front.

This lovely twenty-year-old Korean butterfly danced so very girlily and sexily and I could see from the look on a side view of her face, as she turned her face though not her body in her dance, that she was beside herself with pleasure: sexual pleasure.

The businesswomen were flicking out with their whips at poor Mi Li. They had three-foot long leather straps, which they were flicking in turn to whip poor Mi Li on her sex.

I caught sight of Mi Li's lovely legs and, from almost side-on, her beautiful firm pink nippled little breasts bouncing as she danced away rhythmically. And her businesswomen tormentors lashed out with their whips aiming at Mi Li's sex, aiming at what seemed to me, to be a curious and inefficient angle.

These would be torturers of Mi Li were pretty amateurish with cracking their whips, and the strange angle that they used seemed stupid to me as I watched and drank-in the lovely little Korean's sexy beauty, betraying my interest in what was going on, by the musky damp stain that was now very evident in the gusset of my tiny white micro-panties.

Unconsciously, I was dripping love-nectar into my panties at watching another girl being tortured. And I gave a little gasp as one of the whips flicked and I heard a loud smack and Mi Li stood stock still and moaned, and the striker with the whip jumped up and down with joy and her companions whooped with delight pointing arms outstretched at where the striking strap-whip had struck home on Mi Li, and then nudging each other to be sure they were all clearly witnessing that which was giving them such undiluted pleasure and overflowing excitement, as Mi Li recovered from the pain and began to dance once more.

The businesswomen speeded up the flicks of their whips and were getting better at it and the number of smacks on Mi Li's sex grew more frequent, and each one was greeted by Mi Li standing still moaning with pain and quite obvious husky voiced pleasure, and fighting the cuffs at her wrist in an understandable desire to use her pretty hands to sooth herself at front.

Two successive whip flicks then hit home on Mi Li and the businesswomen jeered as Mi Li nearly buckled at the knees as she cried out with the successive excessive pain. And the girls torturing her began to nudge each other and laugh and point and shout incoherently whoops of joy at their achievement of maximum pain for the little angel who danced displaying her exquisite body for their pleasure and, surreptitiously, mine.

Mi Li began her lovely body gyrating to the beat once more, and it was then that a particular hard and fast and accurate lash struck her from the side in the area of her groin, and she turned toward me and I let out an uncontrolled and uncontrollable squeak of shock pleasure and absolutely total surprise.

My uncontrolled and uncontrollable squeak of shock pleasure and total surprise was, in part from the huge squirt of nectar from my quim into my tiny little micro-panties caused by what I now saw.

What I saw, what turned toward me was the truly lovely shapely beauty of a Korean angel girl, with the exquisite features and almond shaped brown eyes, stupendously gorgeous little breasts, and supremely shapely legs of the gorgeous Mi Li, for indeed now I could see, even though I had no doubt before she had turned, that it was for absolutely certain, the stunning Mi Li who was dancing by day for the pleasure of these bank clerks, or whatever they were.

But what caused me to take in my breath suddenly and to let it out with a squeak that must have betrayed my presence, even though nobody looked up to where I was, was not just the squirt of my love-juice seeing Mi Li front-on caused me to produce, but the sight of what the torture had done to the deliciously sexy Mi Li between her legs.

For as Mi Li turned I could see with my full unencumbered 20:20 vision that this delicate doll Korean girl had in front of her, as part of her body, every bit as natural a part of her body as the rest of her porcelain doll delicately pretty perfection, and very much an extremely beautiful part of her body, the most enormous and stiffly erect penis I had ever seen.

Mi Li was a girlboy. Mi Li had an erect penis that looked swollen and painful in its own right, even without the whipping it must have been enduring for some thirty minutes by then.

Even allowing that Mi Li was but a little girl, no more than five-feet-one, her erect penis was massive. It stood stiffly upright unaided by any other factor than the state of Mi Li's arousal, at least nine inches, being above her belly-button as it mesmerically waved with the movement of her superb girlbody as she continued to try and dance to the beat.

Mi Li was a hermaphrodite. Mi Li had a penis and that penis stood upright proudly waving its joy-filled nine-inch-pleasure-erect state, its head further reddened and unnaturally swollen from the whipping it was getting, and Mi Li turned toward her tormentors once more, and one of their whips smacked the head of Mi Li's enormous erection with a vicious lash and an echoing “SLAP”, and Mi Li stood still and seemed to be having a fit as she went completely rigid and then shook uncontrollably. Fighting to free her hands to get them to her front, Mi Li uttered a deeply sexually sexy and almost inhuman grunt, followed by a long long groan, and the businesswomen cheered and jeered and whooped with pleasure, and then applauded as poor Mi Li's abundant semen spurted out of her sex's head, before running down that fiercely upstanding organ and dripping to the ground between her lovely parted legs.

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 09:48 AM
Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 9 – Katrina Entertains Guests

I quite literally jumped to my feet as one of my two tormentors, Nina, had come up behind unknown to me as I still squatted and peered over the balcony. She just whispered, “What do you think you are doing Katrina?” and the hair on the back of my neck stood as lighteningly quickly upright as I now did, confused and dazed before Nina, and realising she had seen the state the gusset of my tiny white panties was in, as a result of what I had been watching.

“I will have to report this. You are obviously too much on-heat”, Nina pronounced as if my girl's natural sexual reaction to erotic sensuousness were a guaranteed sentence upon me.

“Please…” I said, meaning to complete my plea but knowing even as I spoke just the one word that it was hopeless.

“Don't try to bargain”, Nina smiled unkindly, “You're in no position to barter. You're not a guest here; you're just a slut, a whore from the streets. Guest or slut you have certainly broken the rules of etiquette. How would you feel if you found some filthy little bitch tramp, utterly useless even as a maid, crawling around your home and poking her nose in where it is not wanted and has decidedly no right to be?”

Even as she said this, Nina had taken my wrists and was holding them together behind my back where, with two clicks I was in handcuffs and being taken down the stairs from the balcony, still wearing only my musk stained micro-panties, in front of Jackie, whose lunchtime guests, together with poor Mi Li, had now gone.

Jackie did not even bother to turn around as I stood awaiting a chance to plead with her.

“I know”, she said Jackie to Nina, resignedly. “She's down as tonight's entertainment anyway. We have the girls from her torture in the girl-cage coming to see Katrina being given something else to think about. She'll never learn it seems. Lock the house and put her in the gym so she can wake herself up a bit, and contemplate her impending punishment….”

And so I spent the rest of the afternoon being overseen by Nina and Mina in the gymnasium and in the shower.

It was whilst I was in the shower that, either because they thought I could not hear for the noise of the pump and splashing water, or because they knew I could hear them and had been prompted, that I heard Nina opine to Mina, that I was very beautiful and had a divine body.

This, of course, pleased me: I am, after all, a girl. It was what they said next that hurt. The gist of it was that they (Nina and Mina) could not understand why I would be hankering after Jackie, that Jackie had no time for me, even though she thought I was very lovely.

In the state of mind I was in about Jackie, I heard the first part of this, about my wasting my time, only to have the tape record of that instantly completely obliterated from my memory bank by either Nina or Mina saying that Jackie thought I was lovely. My love thought I was lovely. My love must therefore have a chance with my love surely!

My shower done I had other girly things to do, such as shaving my legs and my bikini line, and somehow, though they would never at this time condescend to converse with me, to have the two other girls there was company and comfort.

I returned, with my two escorts, to my bedroom, or rather the bedroom I had been allocated by Jackie.

Someone had been in that room just before my return, I was sure of that. I could smell some delightful scent and the en-suite shower was dripping where it had not been turned off properly.

It must have been Jackie, my love-fevered girlmind told me.

Secretly Jackie must love me as much as I her. I smiled inside at this joyful thought. Whether I was deluding myself or not was not a question that entered my mind. My beloved Jackie had said that I was lovely. Of course Jackie could not show her love in front of these minions, but Jackie was sharing my bed. There had been the evidence of the single loose hair on the pillowslip that very mid-morning hadn't there?

Obviously, Jackie had been back into the bedroom I was using and, because she clearly didn't want her juniors to know she had chosen me as her bed companion, at least for last night, had disappeared quickly, knowing I was being accompanied back.

Jackie could not afford to lose face here. That was why she had left this room instantly before we came back to it, and why, clever girl, she was using that scent.

Her scent, it must be her scent, still lingered in the air of that room. It was a scent I had never known Jackie use before. Therefore obviously she must be using a new perfume to disguise her visit to my room. That was the clever bit. That was how much Jackie secretly loved me.

As we entered the bedroom, fully without so much as a by-your-leave, Nina and Mina led me to the dressing table where they proceeded to comb and brush out my hair and raise it into a ponytail.

Believe me, to have these two very pretty girls dancing attendance upon me was something I found more than a little erotic.

I especially loved them brushing my hair as they did endlessly till it shone, and the innocent way that their perky breasts, all be they under their blouses, would press against me as these girls busied themselves around me, such that I knew that neither girl was wearing a bra, or indeed needed one, so pert and firm were they.

Of course I knew, having been clearly told, that some fate was destined for me that evening, and I also knew that there was no point in my asking what it was. All I knew and all I would be allowed to know was that I was to be, “entertainment”.

Of course I also knew what form that entertainment would almost certainly take. And, even though I had experienced tortures the like of which could surely not be exceeded by whatever was in store for me that evening, I was having trouble with my bowels from fear and had to excuse myself several times.

You ask the obvious question at this point: why did I put up with what was going on? Why did I not fight and protest and make the authorities aware of what was being done to me?

I can only answer with one word. The one word of my answer is “love”. Looking back at this distance I know now whom it was really love of. At the time of the events I only knew whom it seemed to be love of: it was love of Jackie.

By submitting to Jackie's will I was thrilling Jackie. Who would not wish to have her lover enjoy her? Even if the way in which Jackie had so far enjoyed me, my body and my mind, but most especially my body, was a little extreme by mundane standards, I longed for her to enjoy me once again. I was willing to show my love for Jackie through these extremes. If Jackie wanted me to suffer for Jackie, suffer for Jackie I willingly would.

If Jackie wanted me to suffer for her I would suffer gladly. And my suffering was getting me closer to my love wasn't it? Jackie had been in bed with me the night before hadn't she? Was it not her hair strand on the pillow, despite the colour not being quite right? Was it not her perfume in the room, even if she must have taken to wearing a new scent? Of course it was in both cases. I was winning over my love to me and I would suffer gladly this night for my love.

Time had moved on. I could hear chatter and laughter once again. I knew that guests were assembling and that that must mean that my fate, whatever it was to be, was not far off from being fulfilled.

Mina brought me a dressing gown and Nina put slippers on the floor. As Nina moved to the door Mina actually leaned over me as I sat on the stool before the dressing table and kissed me on the cheek telling me that I was “exquisite”.

My blush was deep pink as I stood to have her help me on with the dressing gown and then sit to put on the slippers.

Dressed thus I was led gently down a back staircase to Jackie's main dining room where young pretty maids, not encumbered like the slave maid I had previously been for Jackie, but free and unfettered in their micro-micro-mini-skirts, ran legilly hither and yon to be ready for Jackie and her guests.

All the way along my walk I found myself excited that whatever was to happen Jackie would be there to see and enjoy and I would therefore be performing for Jackie.

Once in Jackie's dining room I was ordered to strip naked and to climb a platform stepladder that was placed before some horizontal wall bars such as are seen in gymnasia. In this case the wall bars were hinged to the wall at one end, and had been swung out to allow access behind.

The skills of Mina, and more especially Nina, at bondage were now to be put to the test and not in the least found wanting.

I was ordered to stand with my back to the parallel bars. I therefore stood on the stepladder with my light brown pony-tailed head and neck above the wall bars. Mina now took my arms fed over the wall bars my Nina, and tied me with strong leather straps by the wrists to one rung below where my arms would ideally wish to be stretched to, if I had had any choice in the matter, over the wall bars.

To say that this hurt my shoulders would be a complete understatement. But as yet I still had the relief from my feet being on the ground, or rather on the platform top of the stepladder.

Mina was now around the front of me and was fixing two tight leather “garter” straps in half-inch broad brown leather around my beautiful thighs, just above my knees. Each of these “garters” had a dog leash type hook attached to it, and each of these hooks was at the front of both garters now around my lower thighs.

What horror was in store for me I did not know, but a new departure was evident in what was done next, as Nina put two half-inch broad brown leather straps around my neck. Each of these straps, one around my neck above the other in opposite directions, were made into a loop, by having their loose ends passed through a ring at their other ends.

Each of the rings through which the loose ends of these straps had been passed to make the loops around my neck, were now touching my slim neck.

The long loose ends of these two straps also had strong rings in them. These loose ends presently dangled down either side of my chest, toward my lovely breasts.

Now Mina brought a “bra” to fit to me. This “bra” was constructed from the same half-inch broad brown tanned leather of the strap around my neck. It was, in fact, a combination of leather straps and metal rings such as that at my throat.

I was shown this “brassiere” so that I could suffer the psychological effect of being made mystified as to its purpose, knowing in the back of my mind that it was going to torture me in some way I could not yet work out for myself.

The “bra”, as I looked at it, had no cups for my lovely breasts. Instead of cups, there were two circles formed by individual leather straps, one strap for each tit.

These two leather straps were made into two individual circles, one to go around each of my breasts. The loose ends of each of these loops had, as with the straps around my neck, been passed through a metal ring so that they formed the circles to go around my tits.

And, in this case, the straps making the individual loops had saw-toothed plastic edges, so that as the straps were pulled through the rings making the loops, they could go through but not come back. These saw-toothed plastic edges were the equal, but on a larger scale, of the one-way ridges in plastic cable-ties such as are now used to tie the wrists of prisoners of war.

At the loose dangling ends of both of these two circle-forming leather straps, there were metal rings of the same type as those at the ends of the strap around my neck.

The two saw-tooth-edged circle-forming leather straps that one could easily see, else why the two, were destined to go around my warm firm naturally big 36 inch D-cup titties, were linked together, where my cleavage would be once the bra was on me, by another very small short strap with rings at either end, through which the two circle-forming leather straps ran.

To fix this leather strap bra to my chest, the ring-fitted long loose ends of the straps forming the loops to go around my individual tits, were passed around my back, through a larger metal ring there, the saw-toothed edges holding them from slackening, and their ringed loose and still free ends doubled back on themselves to be brought back around in front of me.

Mina and Nina now gathered rings together.

Nina took the neck strap ring at my left side, and the ring from the left “bra strap” that had gone around my back, through a larger ring, and then been doubled back to my front and, having gathered these two left side rings together, just as Mina had for the rings on my right side, used a dog clip to temporarily hold the gathering of rings in one place in front of me.

I was, believe me I was, totally baffled at what was going on.

I had so far experienced only that bafflement. I was now about to experience pain.

Yet two more half-inch broad straps were produced. Each of these had buckles. Then the girls produced a set of two strong steel hooks linked by a short leather strap.

Nina and Mina now also had a stepladder apiece and worked either side of me.

The two steel hook arrangements were fixed alongside each of my shoulders onto the wall bars' top rung, where my aching arms were drawn over the top of the wall bars.

Now Nina took my right ankle and Mina my left, and pulled my feet up so that I was lifted off my stepladder, and put my feet through the wall bars to hold my gorgeous legs folded temporarily.

Next they took the two fresh straps with buckles and with them strapped each of my legs at the ankle around my stupendous thighs near my groin, fastening my legs inescapably individually folded double.

I was now in agony. The whole of my delicious 115 girl pounds were suspended over the wall bars by my pretty arms, and the pull on my wrists and arms was that suffered in strappado with arms up behind.

Thankfully, I could reach my feet through the wall bars, as had been done before my ankles had been tied to my thighs, and thereby relieve my poor arms a little. But this relief would not be for long.

Assistance was sought from the sexy young maids, and eagerly volunteered.

A lovely freckle-complexioned redhead of, I would swear, no more than eighteen years, if that, now stood on one stepladder to hold my tight tied folded left leg steady in her gentle cool pretty hands whilst Nina and Mina both, took hold of my gloriously sexy bound folded huge thighed right leg, and took my thigh up where the dog leash type hook on the “garter” around that thigh just above my knee, could be fixed to the long hook with short strap, fixed at its other end to the wall bar.

An exchange of stepladders now took place, and Nina and Mina lifted my stupendous left thigh up, to hook it by the dog leash hook on the garter just above the knee on that thigh, to the hook with short strap fastened at its other end to the wall bar on that side of me.

My two tormentors now thanked the sexy pretty multi-freckle-visaged young redhead, “Norna”, as they busied themselves removing the dog clips temporarily holding the rings from my bra strap, the one that went half-around my back and then doubled back, and fixing both these to the dog leash type clip rings fixed to my thigh garters left thigh and right thigh respectively.

Finally, where rings and hooks are concerned, they took the two rings at the end of the straps around my neck and hooked these to the respective dog leash clips on my thighs. The top strap around my neck had its loose end fixed to the dog leash clip on my left thigh, and the bottom strap around my neck had its loose end hooked to my right thigh.

I was now in so much pain from the whole weight of my gorgeous body being suspended from my wrists that all I could do was cry out in agony and beg to be released.

But they were not finished with my bondage yet. Around just above my individual ankles, Nina and Mina each clasped closed the “anklet” ends of individual curved wire rods – “push rods” - leading up to the two halves of a nine-inch long, one-and-a-half-inch diameter, “double-half”-dildo, shaped like a penis, with a ring-lip at the base of its head.

This dildo comprised two halves of one round dildo, split down its full length, so that the flat sides of the semi circle each half of the dildo then formed, were face to face with each other, and could be operated together or individually.

These two half-dildos combined to form as if they were a single one-and-a-half-inch diameter nine-inch long smooth black wooden penis-shaped dildo, running in its two halves, one each, from the wire rods attached to the “anklets” ringing my legs above the ankles in fact, at the lowest end of my superb calves. These rods curved from my leg-rings to take the individual halves of the dildo proper to where the two halves of its ringed tip could be rested in the outer lips of my sex.

The two halves were side-by-side on the tips of the stiff wire rods running up purposely bent from the anklets so that the tips of the double-half dildo were in the outer lips of my cunt. Movement of my bound legs would therefore, obviously, drive these rods and thus the two halves of the double-half-dildo in and out of me. The rods and dildo halves were cruel spurs.

The cries of my pain and distress were music to Jackie's ears as the wall bars on which I was multi-strapped were being swung back against the wall from where they had stood hinged open to facilitate my binding.

As this was happening Jackie was bringing in her all-girl guests who, as if to demonstrate, and not to lose face with one another, that they were all super-sophisticated girls-of-the-world, and consequently bored with and dismissive of even the most bizarre happenings, more or less ignored me.

Mina and Nina were waiting on their individual stepladders, one each side of me, for a signal from Jackie, my own platform stepladder having been removed when the wall bars had been swung back to the wall.

“We have a little entertainment for you tonight, ladies”, Jackie announced, simultaneously clapping her hands just the once to get the attention of fifty or sixty all-women guests.

This gave her guests the excuse that they were in truth looking for. To ignore my plight had been hitherto de rigueur among them, so as not to lose face and to seem more blasé and worldly wise, and “seen and done everything”, and “this is nothing compared with when I was in….”, and “oh that, I've seen that a hundred times before”, than their fellow guests.

“Many of you will recall the exquisitely sexy free-spirited wilful Katrina………”

Now that Jackie had drawn attention to my body curving up toward the two hooks at my shoulders on the wall bars, and therefore showing my anus to them obscenely, it would be bad manners not to pay the attention the host had called for. These secretly eager girls could now therefore excusably ogle the beautiful nude girl that was I, hanging so obviously painfully from the wall bars at top left of the dining table.

Jackie now signalled to Nina and Mina, who promptly cut the short leather straps between the hooks holding my legs up to the wall bars, and then removed the now useless hooks from the two dog-clips gartered to my thighs, and from the wall bars. Nina and Mina then finally threw these severed bonds to the ground.

Now my bound-double legs were free, having been released from the initial holding hooks, my thighs fell and thus drove the cruel nine-inch-long double-half-dildo at the end of the rods leading up from the “anklets” I wore, hard up into my unlubricated cunt. I howled with the pain from this brutal rape.

And, as Nina and Mina stepped down and took away their individual stepladders, the rest of my agony began for real.

The effect of taking away the temporarily securing hooks, was to allow the full weight of my gloriously beautiful securely tight-tied-folded legs, with the enormous poundage of my orgasmically powerful thighs, to fall.

As my stupendously huge thighs fell, so they pulled on all the straps in which my body had been bound.

All the rings at the end of the straps with which my body was bound, led to the dog leash clips, on my individual thigh garter straps, just above my knees. The consequence of this could only be, that my huge thighs pulled down on the rings and tightened the straps the rings were at the ends of.

The wonderful poundage of my gloriously beautiful thighs was therefore pulling the neck strap loops tightly around my neck and throttling me.

The wonderful poundage of my gloriously beautiful thighs was therefore also pulling the saw-tooth edged, one-way tit strap loops individually and together around my breasts very tightly, and therefore strangling my tits at their respective bases, from the effect of the action of the pulling of the wonderful poundage of my glorious thighs on the doubled-back “bra straps”.

I was being tortured by having to bear all my delicious girl pounds on my arms stretched over the top of the wall bar threatening to pull my shoulders out of joint, whilst being strangled at the neck and around both of my lovely breasts by the beautiful weight of my very own stupendously huge erotically powerful thighs.

On top of all this, as my torturers and Jackie's guests gathered around to witness, the action of the wonderful poundage of my stupendously beautiful thighs being allowed free to fall, had driven the nine-inch-long double-half-dildo, fitted to my anklets, deep into my cunt.

I was turning blue from being strangled by my own glorious thighs. The veins were protruding horrendously on my pretty face where my head had been excruciatingly pulled down toward my chest. My eyes were half closed and dazed and glazed. My mouth was open and my tongue, sticking out between my lovely lips, which were turning blue.

Of course I must fight and lift my sexy thighs if I was not to choke myself, and my instinct was, equally of course, to survive.

I therefore struggled to raise my thighs, pulling up with my thigh and buttock muscles, and with my neck, to release the wonderful weight of my thighs from strangling me and my poor titties, and found relief for my neck and gasped in the air that my previous throttling had denied my lungs.

The action of raising my thighs, as I struggled to do so, had caused the individual halves of the double-half-dildo to part-leave my cunt. As my individual legs lifted, as my thighs struggled to rise, it pulled one and then the other half of the dildo halves some way out of my cunt. And when my legs fell back down, or when I flexed one leg or the other individually, it rammed the individual dildo half or halves, hard back into my slit, either separately or together. I was therefore also being raped by the weight of my own glorious thighs.

Although I had raised my thighs and thereby relieved my neck from being strangled, the straps around my breasts seemed to know only one way to go, and my beautiful breasts were therefore still hard strangled around their individual bases, and stood rigidly hard straight out from me, swollen gigantically, with nipples like mountainous cones of pain. My nipples and breasts both, were turning puce from their brutal throttling.

All the while I must fight to hold my wonderful thighs aloft toward my breasts. But to hold my tight-tied folded legs thus was to hold them in a position for which nature had not provided my muscle structure. I was therefore fighting a fight against the weight of my stupendous thighs: a fight it was inevitable that their massive sexy beauty would cause me eventually to lose.

All this discovery of the horror of the bondage I was in, had happened in but the first minutes of my torture. How long there would be for me to suffer strangulation by my own thighs I did not know. Even had I dared to ask, I was incapable of emitting more than the choking coughing sounds of a girl whose windpipe had been and was still intermittently being effectively slowly strangled by her own thighs.

My physical torture was well underway as the entertainment for Jackie's guests and Jackie herself. They watched me fight the weight of my massive thighs, win for a while holding them aloft, and then, aching muscled, have to let them down and, in so doing, drive the dildo halves hard up into my slit, whilst strangling myself, as my thighs pulled hard on the straps around my neck.

There was nothing in the way I was bound that could conceivably be regarded as safe limiting. Were I to fall unconscious over the hours I just knew I was going to hang in this agony, I could not avoid my wonderful thighs strangling me. I would not be throttled to the extent inevitable had I been hung by my neck, but the weight of my bound legs lowered and uncontrolled by my muscles, would be sufficient to close my windpipe till I ceased to breath-in sufficient oxygen to long sustain my brain.

The fitness in which I prided myself would be and was being sorely tested by this bondage. The weight of my tight-tied folded legs was immensely difficult to endlessly hold up to my chest, as I must, but must, to avoid self-strangulation. The agony from my strangled breasts was just a sideshow.

I, of course, knew that Jackie found having my legs tied this way, overwhelmingly erotically appealing. I could see from the wide-open pupils of her eyes, that she was sexually aroused to see my powerfully beautiful lower limbs bound helplessly and sexually so that they were strategically controlling my fate.

My glorious body beamed out erotically magnetic compulsion. My thighs were orgasmic in their bound muscular massiveness. But I was not suffering pain pleasurably as I hung there for the sexual pleasure only of my tormentors.

The pull on my arms and shoulders and shoulder blades was burning excruciating fire in my sinew and muscles: fire that could only be relieved, and then only partially dampened, by my lowering my thighs, in contradiction with that I must fight to avoid doing, because of its threat to my neck and my very breath.

I cried out with helpless hopeless pain, begging to be released. With my tongue swollen in my pretty mouth, as my tongue now seemed constantly to be, even when I succeeded in keeping my heavy legs aloft for a while, I was mostly emitting an incoherent babble.

The astonishing erotic beauty of my cruelly and obscenely bound body, was only added to by the way my soft sweet girl's flesh shone in the spotlights trained upon me. My skin was sheened in the delightful dew of perspiration running down my perfect softness. The bedewed titanically sized thighs of my tight-tied-folded legs therefore shone all but like two super-orgasmic mirrors.

Hours passed with long interludes of my succeeding in my straining girlfully to hold my thighs up against my cruelly painfully swollen tits. Then, inevitably, the constant cramping pain of this necessity, strange to my buttock and leg muscles, was such that I could not constrain or contain any longer one or other or both legs, and they would irresistibly slowly lower, beyond answer to the weakening orders from my tiring horrified mind and my super-tired aching muscles, to rise again.

In my agony, I would moan as I fought to pull my leg or legs back up again. I gritted my lovely teeth as I strained to pull my heavy thighs once more aloft. I all but cursed myself to drive myself to the physical strength I needed to match the mental imperative I was overwhelmed by, but becoming overwhelmingly tired by, of keep my stupendously sexy legs up against my nipples.

Over time, it was guaranteed that my muscles would ache agonisingly, and my strength would be correspondingly sapped. One leg would fall and my tears would flow as I fought to pull it up and just could not, and it would pull on the strap around my neck, and the world would become blurry, and I would see stars before my half-closing yet wide staring eyes as I was being strangled, and I would bite my tongue as I tried to grit my teeth, and not even notice that I had drawn blood from my poor tongue, so fear-filled was I at the absolute imperative to raise that stupendously heavy, and getting-heavier-by-the-endless-hours, handsomely heavy, erotically heavy, sexily heavy, beautifully heavy, orgasmically heavy, no, heavenly heavy thigh again, or else have it slowly squeeze tight and breathless my oxygen of life providing neck.

Each time a leg fell, my cunt was shafted by the dildo atop the spurs attached to my lower legs above my ankles. This only added to my burning fiery pain: both mental and physical. It was as deeply physically painful to have my unlubricated split raped by the harsh thrust of one or other or both halves of that nine-inch long dildo, as it was humiliating and denigrating to my poor overwhelmingly distressed mind.

My breasts were already, after the hours I had hung there, strangled to the form of enormous blue-black pulsing throbbing burning agonising globes. They now seemed to be more than twice their naturally wonderful normal size, and on the verge, from the terrible pain I had from them, on the very verge of bursting open.

If anything my nipples felt as if they had been turned inside out, so swollen and purple-blue-black were they from the tourniquet tightness of the belts looped around the base of both my tits: belts now narrowed murderously tight, by the pulling of the wonderful weight of my thighs.

Minutes seemed like hours as I hung there in my agony, and the hours never-ending.

My eyes swam and my head lost and regained part of my consciousness as my thighs fought to murderously strangle me, and I fought to arrest and hold their gorgeous gigantic beauty aloft.

I drifted into half-unconsciousness and back into three-quarters-awareness. I caught snippets of conversation about me, none of which I can now recall. I gagged and coughed and wretched and the unmerciful pain from my irreversibly strangled breasts throbbed, and my dildo raped split seared excruciatingly.

And yet I was causing love. Norna, the pretty freckle-faced redhead maid, who had helped in finalising my bondage, just could not keep her eyes off my compelling beautiful full-grown-woman's body, as it hung in erotic torture before her.

I heard her being reprimanded about keeping her mind and her eyes on her work, and being told that what was going on was none of her business, and how she would be whipped if she was not more careful.

Time passed, and the pretty young Norna's fascination with my full-grown-woman's beautiful body continued, so that it was, though in fact I had no measure of time's elapse, three or four long lonely hours into my struggling agony, when I heard the sound of whip on bare flesh, and the innocent cries of pain turning to sexual wantonness, as this lovely young girl, no more than eighteen surely, was being flogged after patience with her had been at long last lost.

I was truly shocked that my beauty had captivated this freckle-faced oh so delicately pale skinned angel so much that she would suffer a whipping for me.

Although I could not see what was going on, to punish Norna, her sexual fulfilment was being ultimately purposely denied her, as they strap-whip-raped her, thrashing her horizontally across her bum and upper thighs and, consequently, her nude shaven virgin's sex, as she bent over, naked legs as closely closed together as long-since time-honoured mothers' advice to virgin girls, in front of the two torturesses, Nina and Mina, who beat the little virgin miss with heavy flat strop straps.

And what a strapping they were giving the poor pulchritudinous redhead Norna's pearl-pale near translucent skinned buttocks. I could see nothing, but I heard the countless times that lash lashed nubile nude, and nubile nude squeaked squeals, and then moaned moans, until her monumental moans became heavily-honeyed, and multi-musical, and her crying crisis cries, became smooth swooning sighs, as with seeping secret siren secretions from vulnerable virgo-intacta inside sex, her hell helloed heaven, with the onset of overwhelming oncoming oceanic orgasm. And the frequency and the harsh hardness of the lashes inexorably increased the nearer Norna, this sexy little virgin, approached her crisis, until the echoing “WHOP” “WHOP” “WHOP” “WHOP” “WHOP” of the two strap-whips, wielded to weal the over-bench-bent wench, were metonymic in their savage swotting slap scoring, on her sexy, sweaty, succulent saccharine-sweet-sex-juice-splash-splattering, schoolgirl's secret slit.

And my own sexual arousal increased with the sound of Norna's whipping, and with the cries of Norna's highly charged wholly abandoned sexual pleasure pain, and increased again with the return of this poor young maid to her duties.

Norna was now re-clothed in her micro-micro-mini-skirted maid's uniform, and the slow way she walked told of her continuing pleasure pain, as much as the look on her face told of her still not subsided, humbling and desperate lust for sexual relief.

All this following from Norna's newfound, completely unexpected, overwhelmingly shockingly powerful pleasure at being strap-whipped to arouse her virgin's lust, and leave her exactly intactly unfulfilled. Norna's lovely flushed face and her glazed eyes told how deeply frustrated she still remained, after experiencing the ultimate pre-intercourse arousal for the young virgin schoolgirl she clearly was.

But what caused my cunt to fill with my nectar, was the sight of the vast multitude of livid red welts across the backs of this poor innocent's handsome slim bare thighs, as Norna turned away from where I was hanging: and the way the profusion of her contusions increased as she bent in her duties to innocently flash more nude leg, leading ever up and closer, to her heavily criss-cross-whipped, nude shaven, intact virgin's heaven hole.

Norna had had her virgin slit cross-whipped for me. This innocent little virgin schoolgirl had had her slit slapped for enjoying me. Norna had been strap-whipped for enjoying my suffering. She had suffered for me, and was still suffering for me. And my perverse sexual arousal fully arrived from the recall of her sexy sexual moans, as the latter lashes had kissed her naked beauty, and how she must have been thinking of me as she was strapped with agonising fire, before it turned to the warm glow of aroused sexuality, and the imprinting of my overwhelming full-grown-woman's beauty on her young mind, with every succeeding strap lash.

And my cunt creamed as I thought of the sexy sensuous sensitivity of Norna's young charms, and her powerful cunt-centred pleasurability, fresh and new and still intactly virgin, and hitherto untested, other than by the totally inept fumblings of the equally young boys who had longed for her comparatively mature eighteen-year-old girl-woman's body, or by her own overwhelming curiosity-compelled delightful young fingers.

I let out a sexual gasp, which even out sexied the moans and gasps of the little colt Norna with the fresh striped flesh of the recently strap-whipped, as she had been thrashed just now before.

Suddenly looking up at me lasciviously were Jackie and an outstandingly beautiful blonde woman, with the greenest of green eyes, who looked to me like an angel. I thought that I must have been dreaming, this girl was so beautiful and her eyes so rivetingly compellingly bright shining green.

“That's truly wonderful meat up there Jackie”, the sexually devastating green-eyed blonde opined for Jackie's hearing.

“One-hundred percent prime-cut filly”, she continued.

“Not an ounce of wasted fat. Superb hams, fantastic udders, gorgeous rump, looks damned fit: the best filly-meat I've seen you handle, and you've had some triple-A filly pass through your hands, you lucky woman.”

“Has it ever dropped a foal?” she enquired, using that exact term.

“No Belinda”, said Jackie.

“Good. I thought not”, this girl concluded. “My mistress would have the final say of course, and would want to inspect the meat herself, but if you ever change your mind about transferring the debt, there's fine filly-meat hanging there right now, it'd need breaking and training, but fine meat, and absolutely no doubt.”

“My compliments to your mistress as ever Belinda,” said Jackie, “But I already told her straight to her face last weekend, that it's ‘no sale'!”

“She'd take the meat at above market price and offer a good package for the Chinese piece as well”, said the gorgeous green-eyed honey blonde.

“Belinda, I already said ‘no sale' ”, Jackie repeated, “And you know damned well Mi Li isn't Chinese she's Korean, and she's very special in herself, and to me too!”, Jackie laughed.

Even though I had been suffering girl hell, I had not been beyond noticing that, when the guests and Jackie had returned to the dining table after two hours or more of ogling me, as they drank cocktails and chatted away as if I did not exist, to leave me suffering coughing and choking still in their sight, there remained an empty chair and place-setting on Jackie's right-side, even when dining was concluded, at least another hour and more later.

And then another lovely girl made her entrance. This startling beauty swept along in full evening dress of neck to floor light-catching, eye-captivating, electric blue.

The top of her dress hugged her perfect figure, and especially displayed the contours of her pertly firm little breasts. From her superbly slim waist, the lower half of her dress cascaded in folds and swirls voluminously, till it ran onto and just, only just, touched the ground.

The skirt half of the dress seemed to move along with the grace of a swan on water, powered by the girl's hidden legs of course, but almost as if it were a separate creature into which the top of the girl merged, like the upper body of a female centaur. The dress was sleeveless, and all the way up her pretty dainty-doll arms, to just short of her armpits, this lovely vision wore electric blue silk gloves.

Her brown eyes flashed like diamonds in the bright lights. Every head, including mine not least, turned to admire this incredible delicate little doll. And she, without embarrassment, as if to be the sole centre of everyone's attention was entirely her due, smiled with an easy but stunningly lovely grace, as she swept toward the chair Jackie was holding in readiness for her to sit at the table, on Jackie's right, and between Jackie herself and the lovely green-eyed blonde.

This deliciously delightful dainty doll was to have the honour of sitting right next to Jackie: my love: my Jackie!

As soon as she reached Jackie her tiny gloved hands were gently on Jackie's proffered arm, and she leant lovingly against Jackie as they walked to the table together, and touched her head on Jackie's shoulder in the trusting tender surrender of a girl deeply in love, and in lieu of the kiss of greeting that is unnecessary when return of deep love is completely assured.

This vision of all that is gracious and beautiful in a young girl, was Mi Li.

Mi Li was to all appearances Jackie's love. Mi Li was to all appearances Jackie's lover. Mi Li was where only I should be! Mi Li had stolen my love! Mi Li had stolen my Jackie! Mi Li had stolen Jackie's love from me!!

My heart was broken…..

…… And yet, even more perversely, I became instantly super-sexually aroused at this further mental dagger through my poor heart.

And I began to work my bound thighs up and down and thereby rape myself with the two halves of the double-half-dildo. I was girl, so I instantly responded even more to this self raping with the unique way a girl is gifted with: I filled my slit with my natural lubricant, and the artificial cock I drove in and out of me as I worked my thighs now shone with my nectar.

As I worked my thighs I strangled my breasts harder and harder with the one-way tightening straps looped around their bases, and the pain of their swollen magnificence throbbed as if it were a drumbeat to drive me on, in the act of public masturbation I was performing.

As I worked my thighs I was also tightening and loosening the straps around my neck, and half choking myself each time, pulling my head hard down to my chest and pulling extremely painfully hard on my poor arms tied over the back of the wall bars. But I cared not. I would willingly torture and strangle myself for my Jackie, to show my Jackie that my love for her was worth more than my life to me, and far more than that bitch Mi Li.

And that was as much the background to my actions, as the deep pain of the stab to my tender heart was the forefront trigger for the perverted flooding-in of my love-juices, and my desire to torture myself to a cum.

My dew dripped from my body as I worked my thighs to masturbate myself, and I cried out with choking coughs as I throttled my neck with the enormous weight of my thighs.

The falling weight of my enormous bound legs, was pulling the garters around my thighs down, and thereby transferring the weight of my thighs, to the tourniquets around my now hugely swollen blue-black throttled breasts on the tips of which my nipples looked on the verge of bursting open, and to my neck which was rubbed red raw with the chafing of the choking straps at my hidden Adam's apple.

I worked and worked my thighs and was all too soon, being all girl, on the verge of an orgasm for Jackie. I now thrust my thighs so far down, so very far down, as far down as I could take them, as far down as if my legs were not strapped to my neck and my tits, and as if I was squatting freely on the ground on my toes, so far down that they were further down than they had ever been in my bondage, so far down that my thighs were all but in the horizontal plain, and so far down that my breasts were turning black with my throttling them from the pull I was exerting on the straps surrounding their bases, and so far down that the holes in my nipples were opened out like the very centre of beautiful twin black roses, and so far down with my heavy thighs, that I was completely strangling myself. And I choked and coughed and my tongue stood out like a stiff blue-black penis from my blue-blackening lips. And so far down did I thrust my thighs that the two halves of the double-half-dildo were right up as hard and as far as they could ever go into my slit, and I was orgasming. And my tits stood out like gigantic black bursting melons, and, because of my throttling myself, my clitoris was extremely swollen huge hard and hyper-pleasure painful. And I was strangling myself, I was choking myself and my eyes were wide open and staring and shot red with blood, and my cunt lubricant was dripping to the floor, and my dew was running in rivulets all down my beautiful body, and I fainted dead away after I had stupendously extremely strongly supremely come and come and come and come, and come for my love, for my Jackie…

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 10 – An Interlude at Katrina's Home

Seven weeks later, I sat in front of the dressing table in the bedroom of my London apartment, a lovely bare thigh exposed as I sat with one leg folded over the other: a lovely bare thigh displayed because of the falling aside of my red silk dressing gown under which I was completely naked.

I looked at my neck to confirm that the bruises caused by my bondage had indeed fully disappeared. I ran the pretty fingers of my right hand over my cheeks and felt the creamy softness of my complexion. Then I ran the pretty fingers of my right hand over my bare right thigh, and did not feel what was usually the same dreamy softness. I needed my supremely shapely legs depilating.

I looked again at the nails on the end of my pretty fingers. These at least I was very proud of. Despite everything I had gone through I had stuck to my desire to grow my fingernails as I had always longed to grow them since my early teens. I had so far managed to get them to a femininely impractical three-quarter-inch beyond my finger and thumb tips.

Always a bit of a tomboy as a child and early teen, I had never taken care of my hands, yet they had survived and nobody, but nobody would call the grownup me a tomboy: absolutely not, absolutely assuredly not. I had always wanted long nails. They prevent a girl using a pen on computer keyboard with ease, but they entice and excite and, in my case at least, excite the owner of them as much or even more than her admirers.

I loved my long fingernails for the helpless femininity of them. The way they forced me to move my fingers or use my hands compellingly femininely. The care with which I must pick objects up and handle them. The way, in which they enhanced the beauty of my hands with their long slim fingers, fingers I could bend back entirely naturally almost like, if not as far as, an oriental dancer. The sexy completely feminine way I had to hold even a drinking straw to my lips so very lightly and gently between long-nailed index finger and long-nailed thumb with my other lovely fingers, especially the little finger, lifted and crooked away in the very essence of charms.

Once I had grown up, I had become an irrevocably feminine girl. My experiences during my taming had only made me more feminine still. I wanted to be devastatingly girl even down to the ends of my long fingernails. I wanted to be one-hundred-percent absolutely undiluted girl.

That would be my answer. I had decided on my answer even as I had run my right palm over my bare thigh: this was war.

Mi Li had captivated and captured my Jackie, but she had me to reckon with. I was not going to yield to that little doll. I would book a beauty session. A long sauna, massage, leg waxing, manicure and pedicure were the minimum this girl wanted. She was going to war. She was going to re-arm and to fettle her sexy weaponry as a preliminary to battle in which the victor could be in no doubt.

That was my plan to win Jackie to me.

My plan went wrong even before it got off the ground, but in a wonderful way.

I was travelling back by train from a weeklong session at a health beauty and fitness farm. I was feeling wonderful. I was once more a high princess among girls. I was once more a plus perfect representative of the unsurpassable, the most beautiful thing in this and any other world: girls.

My mobile phone rang, and I scrabbled to find it in my handbag just as the train's conductor reached me. He tapped his foot impatiently and world wearily, as I had to divert my attention to find my train ticket leaving my phone to ring and ring.

Like all girls must, I had put my train ticket in the most secret recess of my money-purse and my money-purse somewhere safely hidden deep down at the bottom of my handbag.

But now the conductor smiled as he caught a glimpse of my lovely brown sparklingly bright eyes. My beauty had made his day; his week; even his year.

His foot tapping stopped as he delighted in the chance to savour the pleasure of my scented hair and my charms as I girlily apologised for my having hidden my ticket to keep it safe.

Suddenly I found the ticket; but my phone had by then stopped ringing.

The conductor gone, but turning his head to catch another glimpse of me, I scrabbled in my bag once more to find my mobile and interrogate its memory for missed calls.

There were several calls from the previous day. Even when first turning it on that day, I had not thought to look at my phone till now, after it had rung to further remind me of its existence. There were several missed calls, but only one from Jackie's number.

I fumbled excitedly to get to hear on voicemail what my love had to say to me. I was immediately disappointed. The message was from Jackie's number, but it was Mi Li's voice not Jackie's.

"Hi Katterinna" Mi Li never could quite pronounce my name. With her naturally husky voice, the way she said it though was, I confess, very, very sexy…..

"Hi Katterinna. It Mi Li. You ring please me at Jackie when home."

Then realising she had not quite got this clear, Mi Li wonderfully sexily giggled: "Sorreee! I mean you home not Jackie home!!! Bye-bye!!"

Anyone who caught my face at this point would have wondered why I was blushing. Anyone who caught my face at this point would have wondered why I was replaying this very brief message and furtively glancing side-to-side. Anyone who caught my face at this point would have wondered if my slit's lips were becoming moist at the sound of Mi Li's deeply divinely sexy voice.

I was in confusion.

I was in love with Jackie, but Mi Li's sexy husky voice and her incredible girly giggle had just turned me on.

I was girl: a girl is always right and does not have to have a reason.

I still loved Jackie. Jackie was love. Mi Li was just …….well……..sex. Jackie was lovely. Mi Li was just very, very, very sexy.

Jackie was a beautiful woman. Mi Li? Why, Mi Li was just an exquisitely pretty little Korean girl, with dark brown hair down to her buttocks, a lovely kissable mouth with upturned middle to her fulsome and bold upper lip, stunning brown eyes, the arms of a delicate porcelain doll, a devastatingly lovely smile, the shapeliest bottom, the firmest of pert little breasts, the slimmest of waists, the loveliest of legs, the daintiest of feet, the most adorably soft skin, and oh that, that, that beautifully exciting…… that……. that…….. "thing" between her gorgeous thighs.

I was purely a girl-girl……… but Mi Li! Oh, but Mi Li!!

I was a girl-girl, but the very thought of Mi Li was causing me to publicly dampen my micro-panties beneath my mini-skirt, as the train I was travelling on with my crimson blushing face and my juicy cunt, suddenly rape-penetrated the Freudian significance of a tight dark tunnel.

………After I got home, as soon as I could, and before I rang Jackie's number, I took a shower to wash myself of the soiled and grubby feeling travelling on public transport always left me with, and to take the chance to change my muskd panties.

I was girl: a girl is always right and does not have to have a reason, so, I cannot explain why after that I was phoning the number of my beloved, my life's love, my Jackie, and yet hoping against hope, with my poor heart pounding and my pulse racing, that it would be the sexy little Mi Li that answered.

It was indeed Mi Li who picked up the phone.

I stammered to say hello, and at her gorgeously sexy giggling brightly intoned innocently answering, "Hi Katterinna", I promptly abundantly oozed nectar into the gusset of my fresh panties and blushed like a rose.

I stammered and stuttered like a schoolgirl. I was in a whirl of confusion. Why was this girl turning me on so? Mi Li chattered away as if we were and had been forever the best of friends. I knew that she had once wanted me. Had she not kissed me passionately on our last photo session together for "SapphFire"?

The conversation between we two girls went on for fully an hour or more. I crossed and re-crossed my gorgeous legs as I listened to the musical sound of Mi Li's husky intonation and her attractive broken English.

An hour on the telephone is nothing for we girls. But, even after an hour on the phone together, as is the lovely way with girls, Mi Li had not even yet told me what it was she had wanted to talk to me about. She was about to put her end of the phone down, saying she was glad that she had called me, when I reminded her that it was I who had called her in answer to her voicemail message.

Mi Li then gave the sexiest girlishmost giggle yet, as she cried, "Oh yes!! I so silleee!!

The gist of Mi Li's message was that my manageress had phoned from Russia and I was wanted out there for a photo session for "SapphFire". Mi Li would accompany me and take the pictures.

In fact, if only my head had not been swimming with a sexual high at listening to Mi Li's voice rather than to what Mi Li was saying, I would have taken in that the session was to be an erotic fantasy. It was to be a story photo shoot with me as the model. The fantasy would be in the stills of me, taken by Mi Li, on my preparation at home, and the flight out there, etc.

It would not be a spread about a real me doing the modelling for which I was now highly sought after and even more highly paid, it would be a spread about a fantasy.

The fantasy was that I was Katrina, a Russian princess and heiress to the Russian thrown. The photo spread would show the beautiful princess preparing and then travelling from exile in England. She had to travel, this imaginary princess had to travel, back to her village of birth in Russia where she was assured of organised support for a popular uprising that would see her put in her rightful place as the crowned Tsarina of all the Russian peoples.

It was to be the first such photo spread "SapphFire" had done. I was to have the honour of being their first "SapphFantasy", in a deliberately and daringly erotic new section of the magazine.

"SapphFire", whose advertising declared it as being published: "for girls who love loving girls", was celebrating having just overtaken the sales of the former market leader, "Pink Girl", which it now made look very dull and fusty. And "SapphFire" having stolen me away from "Pink Girl" wanted to make the most of its catch, and at least maintain or, better still, boost its sales, by a risky revolution in its contents.

Mi Li said that somewhere along the way it might involve real fur coats and hats and boots and did I mind. I did mind. Mi Li assured me that the furs were from farmed animals. I still minded, but I knew I could not really object: I was, after all, a professional model who must take such work as she could find to finance her debts. With my debts, I could not afford to turn any job down.

There was a week till the appointed day and I found my heart a flutter at the thought of Mi Li coming to see me and bringing the clothes I was to wear for the start of the shoot in the England of my storybook exile.

You can call me an unfaithful bitch if you like. I suppose I was. But suddenly, even without my acknowledging it I was all Mi Li and goodness knows what had happened to Jackie's former paramount place in my heart and mind.

I was girl: a girl is always right and does not have to have a reason.

If you had asked me who the love of my life was right there and then, I would still have answered unhesitatingly and with certainty in an unwavering voice that it was Jackie. But, as so often with a girl, my heart and my mind were saying one thing, whilst my cunt was dictating something else entirely.

It was my cunt that threatened to soak my knickers as I sat talking face-to-face with Mi Li. She had come to my home to take me to Russia with her. With Mi Li were Mina and Nina, but as we sat chattering about all things girly, we were friends and girls together, with the past of what Mina and Nina had done to me pushed into the background for the moment, save to the extent that it made me feel even sexier to think of their mistressy over me.

It was also wonderful for me to be the centre of attention. I was not just a girl among girls, but the girl among the girls.

As I now learned, though Mi Li had told me already, in the telephone call I had not really listened to for love of hearing her sexy voice, I was to participate in an erotic fantasy.

Mina and Nina sat me, robed as I was only in my dressing gown, in front of a mirror in my lounge whilst Mi Li said that she would put out my clothes for the journey, on my bed.

The girls wanted my hair in two plaits and busied themselves, with Mi Li joining us at the last and smiling at me in the mirror.

My hair finished, they tied a brilliantly bright royal blue ribbon at the end of each of my plaits.

Ever the practical girl, and now the professional model, I then immediately got up and dropped my dressing gown to give them a flash of my wonderful bum as I went into my bedroom to find my clothes for the journey.

And there they were on the bed. But where were they? And what were these? And where was the rest of my outfit?

For, on the bed, once my eyes had focused from looking wider afield for underwear and dress or skirt and top of some kind, I could see only a pair of beautiful wine-red coloured sheer nylon self-supporting stockings.

I picked them up and turned around as the girls joined me in the bedroom and Mi Li's camera flashed to photograph me totally naked, holding the stockings at the end of a pretty index finger with a querulous laugh on my gorgeous features as my right hand had its thumb touching my pretty nose, with my long fingernailed fingers spread wide and bending backwards magically erotically. This happenchance picture would be a feature photograph in SapphFire, and won prizes for Mi Li in time to come.

The divinely sexy doll Mi Li giggled as she snapped photo after photo of me, picturing me time and time again, in the stages of rolling those wine red stockings up and up and ever up onto my superb legs, where the tops of these stockings left four inches of dreamy creamy soft bare thigh.

Why this choice of colour? Was a comparison being made between the incredible beauty of my legs and the finest of fine wine?

"Shoes" said Mi Li, still snapping away with her camera, and the two girls produced shoes for the journey.

Perhaps I had too readily imagined from the casual friendly girl-to-girl endless hours of chatter I had just indulged with Mi Li, Nina, and Mina, that I was now their equal in our relationship. Then again, perhaps the shoes they produced for me to wear were not indicative of my ultimate subservience after all, but merely part of the fantasy photo sequence I was modelling.

What they produced was a shoe version of the stilt-booties I had worn after my first capture and during the horrendous walk to my taming torture at Jackie's country home.

As with the punishment booties, there were no heels on these shoes. They had the same stainless steel en-pointe ballet-shoe foot-shaping soles but, in this case no "front heel" for the poor wearer to rest herself standing. Instead, the tiptoe-ends were mounted upon one-inch round flat metal circular discs in the horizontal plain that would be all I would be able to stand upon.

These shoes had their foot-containing bellows in crimson red leather, being strapped around my feet, and their ankle straps tied around my ankles, and I rose in them, I stood completely upright in them, I stood on the very tips of my big toes within them, on the one-inch round flat metal circular discs in the horizontal plain that the toe-end tips of these balletic shoes turned into.

Once more the stupendous beauty of my legs and thighs was being displayed by my being skyscraper-legged in constant tiptoed en-pointe. As I stood and as I would have to walk, I had but the one-inch circular discs to give my gorgeous body its essential contact with the ground.

I was once more steepled for the erotically compelling additional shapeliness it gave my already naturally wonderfully shapely legs, and to imprison me in instability and helpless femininity, as I was made by the steepling of my legs into a live warm vibrant doll girl, whose every step would now be super-girlised, tentative, fearful, painful with time stood always tiptoed, and unsurpassably sexy.

Mi Li photographed me standing in these shoes and my legs in their deep red-wine coloured stockings with their arched-back dimpled knees as a consequence of wearing the shoes, and my pretty face that struggled to hide that I was deeply turned on by this return to being unlimitedly unmercifully precariously en-pointed, hopelessly helplessly, fully femininely, long lush leggily, supremely sensuously sinuously sexily, tormentingly teetering, totteringly tiptoed virtually on the very pinnacle points of my big toes tips.

Next, as if in compensation for the return of my legs to en-pointe torture tiptoe, I was shown my coat. This was the way it was. I wore nothing but my no-heel steel-soled-ballet-shoes and the wine-red stockings, and they were showing me a coat.

I knew why of course. It was just so beautiful that they could not hold back any longer from showing it to me. My reaction was instantaneous. As Nina held it up for me to try it on, I wiggle tippy-top-of-tiptoe-tottered in my heelless balletic-shoes emitting girly cries of joy at its stunning colour. It was a perfect glowing shade of the royal blue that was the theme started by the ribbons holding the two plaits in my hair. It was in fox-fur dyed blue, except that the collar and turned-back cuffs were dyed light grey.

I rushed to slip my slender arms into its sleeves, to wrap it around me and to look at it with my body enhancing it in the full-length mirror on the front of my wardrobe. I twirled en-pointed on my lovely legs as I hugged the beautiful coat to my bare body and kissed Mina's cheek in my sexy excitement at being given such a lovely garment to model.

I fastened it up eagerly to see how it would look when I wore it for real. It must have been tailored to my exact divine girlshape.

There were three fastenings. The grey fox-fur collar turning to lapels left a v-neck to reveal my chest and my cleavage. Save that half-down my cleavage was a gold clasp I fastened to hold the coat closed against revealing other than the wondrously firm but soft free floating flow of the insides of my gorgeous naturally large 36 inch D-cup breasts down to my nipples, now hidden by my clasping the coat closed.

Around my slender waist was a five-inch wide belt of the same royal blue colour and material as the coat, and with a huge gold buckle I was pulling the belt through, so that the massive gold buckle would be at and below my navel.

Below the belt and just below my crutch was a four-inch diameter gold button, which was the final fastening. From there, the rear hem of the royal-blue fox-fur coat flowed to halfway down my calves.

I stood in this coat and twirled in front of my mirror. As I did by balletic twirl, the open front of the coat caught the breeze of my movement and the whole length of my wonderful en-pointed legs in their dark red-wine stockings was revealed up to and including my stocking tops. This was so sexy, that I whirled round to make the skirt of the coat flare out almost horizontal and reveal even my exquisite side-dimpled bottom.

Even in the English autumn I was hot in this garb, and I blew my sweet breath upwards to cool my pretty face as I moved to undo the lovely coat, in order to dress for our journey.

Mi Li signalled that she wanted more photos, so I left the coat fastened.

Whilst I posed in my magnificent royal blue coat as she directed, I asked Mi Li distractedly, "Should I not dress for the journey now?"

"You are Katterinna!" Mi Li's sexy husky voice drawled.

I gasped my astonishment.

"You go Russia only coat and all sexy naked under", Mi Li giggled.

If it is the first iron law of nature that all creatures answer to gravity, it must be the second iron law of nature that a girl with lovely legs longs to display them at their best. That being so, the third iron law of nature is that lovely legs displayed openly are rivetingly stunning, and the fourth that lovely legs flashed full length into vision only momentarily are not only rivetingly stunning but also irresistibly eye-commandingly devastatingly fascinating.

This beautiful coat I wore covered my legs and knees to half-down my calves. But it had no buttons or other fixings to hold it closed beyond the lowest button that was just below my crutch.

The intentional delightful consequence of this was that I constantly risked flashing my stockinged legs and thighs because, as I walked. Unless I drew it around me somehow, and there was no means for me to do so that I could find, the coat would fly open unbid on a breeze and, unless I drew the bottom of the coat over me again I would show miles of stockinged leg, even to the extent of revealing the dreamily soft bare flesh above my stocking tops.

I must, I obviously must keep this coat closed, or else lose my modesty to a full and unencumbered leg display for the entire world to see.

The sexiness of the imprisoning eroticism of this threatened to wet the lips of my split, as I put my impractically girl length fingernailed hands into the coat pockets to feel if that provided any means to control my coat's inevitable tendency to flow open at the merest zephyr.

Mi Li took photograph after photograph of me standing in this wonderful sexy fox-fur coat, so wrapped and warm and snug secreted and hidden: secreted and hidden that is, other than for the lowest part of my wonderful long strong beautiful legs in my heelless en-pointe stance shoes.

They showed my face flushed as I blushed like an English Rose on heat with her charms as indeed I was…….

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 09:49 AM
Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 11 – Katrina's Leading Role

As I wiggled super-sexily and obediently behind Mi Li, who would turn once in a while to snap another picture of me, and with Nina and Mina behind, I was now on my journey to play the long lost great-great-whatever-granddaughter of the last Tsar of Russia, or so I thought.

I girlily ballet-legged kicky tiptoe-stepped along praying in fear of falling first and by far foremost and, secondarily, of my coat flying open and revealing the majestic wonder of my legs to the outside world we were now out and about in, and yet at the same time wanting it to happen, as I deliciously helplessly wiggled on my one-inch flat-circle-ended balletic-tiptoe-shoes toward a waiting chauffeuse girled limousine, ready to take me, I assumed, to the airport and a flight to somewhere in Russia.

I was wrong.

The car in fact took us all on a familiar journey. As we rolled out of London in entirely the wrong direction for the airport, Mina explained to me what was going on. Mina said that we were to spend at least a day or maybe two at Jackie's country home, where I would be introduced to "things Russian", as she put it, so that when I was in Russia itself on the modelling assignment, I would be familiar with what I would face in the fantasy photo shoot, and not look foolish.

I was to be an actress in the erotic event that would be photographed and filmed in Russia. All actresses need rehearsal. Rehearsal would bring its own reward in the improvement of my acting in the "real" event. Nina and Mina would video the rehearsal and show me the video afterwards, so I could see for myself where I might improve.

I can confess now, that throughout that journey, my mind was distracted by my desire to enrapture the delicious Mi Li.

It was not for nothing that I paid Mi Li unwavering attention to the neglect of Mina and Nina in conversation. It was not for nothing that I "innocently" let my coat fall open and pretended I had not noticed the complete expanse of my fine red-wine coloured stockinged legs were on open display to Mi Li when she turned from the front passenger seat to talk to me.

As she addressed me, I accidentally on purpose put a long nailed flexingly arched back forefinger on my pouting lips as if I were distracted, but in fact to hint that I longed to be kissed by this Korean angel.

Mi Li showed no reaction that I noticed.

It was getting too late now for me to achieve my end immediately. The car was at the front door of Jackie's country mansion and I was being bid to exit the limousine and enter the house, whilst Mi Li went off to attend to some business or other, around the back of the place: something to do with a delivery.

I soon realised that Jackie was away, from the fact she had left a written message for Mi Li Nina and Mina. Read out loud by Mina, it said something about Mi Li and the other girls treating the place as if it were their own, and how the servants were aware of our coming and would provide for Nina, Mina, and Mi Li's bed and board.

It did not go without notice with me, that my name got no mention in this note, even though the other girl's names were specifically listed more than once. It was perhaps as a further reminder of my place, that I was sent to the servants quarters for my lunch, whilst Mi Li, Mina and Nina, were waited upon at Jackie's table.

The way I was still dressed on arrival, naked beneath my coat, caused no surprise to the all-female servants at Jackie's mansion. It was nothing they had not seen the like of before, even when I was ordered to strip so that I was dressed only in my stockings, en-pointe shoes, and oh yes, the bows on my plaits. Indeed I was sent to the servants' quarters in this humiliating state of nakedness, with strict orders not to sit, so that, whilst I eat the fresh raw fruit I was allowed for my midday meal, I did not mark my body for the ongoing photographic and film sessions.

Yet, when the meal was over for us all, I seemed to be once more one of the girls, albeit that I was the only one near naked under the wonderful royal-blue coat I had been allowed to put back on to keep me warm on a cool English autumn afternoon, as we went outside.

I was getting used to being used in this way now. I knew I was being used as a demonstration to the world of girls of what the nearest possible to perfection in a girl looked like. I knew I was beautiful and sexy and orgasmically erotic in my tiptoed skyscraper-legged shoes, with the beautiful turn of my elongated girlmuscular calves, and my supremely strong yet proportionate thighs, and with my concaved buttock hemispheres from my tiptoed stance, and the arch of my back, and my slim graceful arms, and the lovely firm wild-raspberry-colour nipple tipped 36D-cup breasts that were free floating under my coat as I moved, and my long-nailed extremely femininely flexible fingered pretty hands.

I adored my charms just as I knew that my charms were devastatingly overwhelmingly beautiful to those who fully appreciate the most beautiful thing in the whole universe of universes: girl.

For some little while after my arrival at Jackie's home I had been aware of the barking of dogs. I had not been aware that Jackie kept dogs. Indeed, I knew that she had an allergy that prevented her keeping even the cats she adored. The barking was in the background all through the meal we had just enjoyed and, as I judged, came from the rear of the house.

Myself I love dogs now as much if not more than I loved dogs then. I only wish I could have kept a dog of my own then. A model flying around the world from one assignment to the next cannot keep a pet. My London base was empty for more of the year than it had me present there. Therefore there was no way I could keep a dog.

The mystery of what all the yapping yelping and barking was about was soon solved, as Mi Li led me around to the back of the house, where I immediately espied temporary wire-grilled kennel cages, with absolutely adorable huskies running to and fro and rising, front paws on the cage grill, tongues lolling, to greet us with all their innocent tail thrashing unrestrained doggy joy.

I squealed with girly delight at the sight of them, and tiptoe totty wiggle trotted on my super-feminised skyscapered legs to get up to their cages, to have one of them lick my face as best he could through the bars as I knelt to kiss and stroke him.

As I knelt at the bars of his cage, all the length of my beautiful stockinged legs were revealed because my coat inevitably fell away. And, were I not distracted by a girl's natural desire for innocently petting these adorable animals, I might have noticed that the erecting cocks of more than one of those dogs were openly demonstrating their desire for me. They clearly lusted for my bitchness and sensed my subservience. I should have been warned when the dog I was kissing showed a more than coincidental interest in trying to lick my cleavage.

"Leave alone" snapped Mi Li, "No Katterinna touch. They work dog. No loving. They pull sledge."

I was shocked with surprise at the strength of Mi Li's outburst, as much as at what she said. I so longed to please Mi Li though, that I immediately stood and came away from the cage to stand beside the little Korean butterfly.

Her tone softened.

"No Katterinna touch. They work dog. They pull sledge. Mina show us. They go run exorcise."

I smiled and giggled, "You mean exercise"

Mi Li laughed wonderfully huskily sexily.

Mi Li took me around the cages where the eager huskies continued to frolic, following us around as I wiggled supremely sexily around their cage. It was then that I noticed there was one other husky alone in a separate cage.

As if she could read my mind, Mi Li commented matter-of-factly: "Girl dog not kept with boy dogs"

"Girl dog go front in harness sledge. Boy dog behind chase girl dog. Boy dog pull faster, harder run to try catch girl dog."

Even as we admired the much quieter bitch, Nina and Mina were harnessing some of the dog huskies to a land sledge. It was a sledge with wheels. This was England in the cool late autumn, there was no snow for a real sledge to run on the gliders it would normally slide upon of course.

The harnessing of the dogs, clearly impatient for the exercise they knew was shortly to come their way, intrigued me.

Pretty Mina was dressed like a Cossack. The Russian fantasy was being continued in this strange mix of equipment and location and garb from different places and eras.

Mina looked adorable in a long crimson red jacket coat with her blonde hair in a ponytail, her baggy pantaloons, her knee high black leather boots, a black fur hat on her head at a jaunty angle, and with a frightening coiled black long leather strap-whip she carried.

I nearly giggled at the sight of her, but stopped myself in time. It was not that she looked funny, it was because she looked stunningly attractive and my cunt: my cunt that had longed for Jackie, my cunt that was lusting for Mi Li: my cunt was wetting now at the sight of the pretty-in-red blonde very feminine little Mina. I was and am girl, and a girl's cunt knows no law of logic or faithfulness.

My stifled giggle was from the shock of a shot of my nectar splashing the inner walls of my slit. As I gasped at the sexiness of little Mina the palm of my lovely long bent back fingered long-fingernailed right hand was sexily on my lovely mouth to stop my utterance.

A girl's cunt is as amoral as a boy's cock; it is just that we girls are usually better at stopping our faces showing what our cunts are thinking. And at the sight of little Mina in her Cossack outfit, my cunt was thinking "wow!"

The dogs were harnessed side-by-side to the sledge in pairs.

I learned from overhearing their names and Mi Li telling me more, that the front two dogs side-by-side were "King" and "Rajah", father and son respectively, and clearly disputants over the headship of the dog pack. The lone bitch, "Sadie", was now being harnessed solo in front and all the dogs sat waiting impatiently for the order they longed for.

Mina took her place holding tight to a handrail at the back of the six-foot-long sledge and uncurling her strap-whip. Then she raised the whip and cracked it over Sadie's head. The bitch's ears flickered at the sharp sound but nothing moved, save that the bitch and the dogs led by King and Rajah now stood, any slack in their reins pulled out, ready for the off.

"Mush!!" Mina shouted as she cracked the whip over Sadie's head once more, and bitch and dogs immediately pulled her away in a flurry of hurried excited and happy yapping and whelping.

A track had already been made in the grass of Jackie's huge rear lawn from, I assumed rightly, previous practice circuits by this team. I watched amazed and excited and calling out girlily to encourage the efforts of the dogs and the bitch they followed so enthusiastically around the huge circle. I could have jumped up and down with my enjoyment of the spectacle, but tiptoed in my en-pointe shoes I dare not. Though I would undoubtedly have done so if I could have as I flexed my gorgeous legs waved my lovely hands and shouted to King, Rajah, and Sadie compellingly sexily innocently girlily.

I was completely distracted in joining in the fun with my fellow girls, but not so distracted as not to keep my peripheral vision on the gorgeous micro-miniskirted Mi Li, and still look for an opportunity to attract her attention to me.

I was completely distracted by joining in the fun with my fellow girls, and once more it was to the extent of my forgetting my lower status.

I was not in fact "a fellow girl". I had the position of something less than a servant among her superiors. I was, though I had forgotten for the moment once again, the lowest class of human, if that. I was useful for my erotic beauty, but of no other worth or consequence, and I had to be kept severely constrained and disciplined against the all-too-likely return to my natural wild untamed state.

"Your turn next", Nina told me quietly.

I had momentarily come back from my reverie and excitement high, and yet I did not register what she said.

The dogs led by King and Rajah and the bitch Sadie, had completed the circuit pulling the wheeled sledge some five times round at increasing speed, but the sledge was now halted before me. Sadie in front and all the six dogs behind sat panting and giving off "steam" in the cool air, their tongues lolling out the side of their open mouths as they heaved for breath, but still clearly eager and fresh for more work.

"Your turn now" Nina said again.

I heard her this time and held out my lovely right hand with its three-quarter-inch-long manicured impractical but femininely sexy fingernails, and its incredibly flexible orientally bendy-back fingers, to take the coiled black long leather strap-whip I assumed Mina, who had joined us, was proffering me.

I was all in readiness to stand, as I longed to, on the rear platform of the sledge, and be whisked away through the bracing afternoon air by the eager huskies with my beautiful royal blue coat flying open to reveal all of my lovely long legs as we speeded along, when I took my turn to drive the sledge.

But Mina immediately snatched the whip away.

I looked at her and smiled.

"Sorry Mina" I said, "I thought Nina said it was my turn"

"She did", Mina answered, perhaps a little harshly.

Then I understood. There was obviously room for two on the rear platform of the sledge where Mina had ridden just now. It had therefore been presumptuous of me to assume it was my turn to drive, as opposed to riding as passenger.

"Sorry Mina. I was being silly. I thought it meant it was my turn to drive the sledge. Of course I don't know how, and I'd just love to be a passenger with you please", I gently pleaded, all charms and femininity, and finding it hard to contain my excitement.

"You can see that the bitch husky needs a rest", Mina countered.

Sadie, the bitch husky, looked no less fresh than the dogs did to my untutored eyes. But I did not question Mina further other than to look at her with my prettiest smile, longing to have a turn on that sledge as driver or passenger, whenever she would allow it.

"Oh, I thought Nina meant it was my turn right now." I smiled again. "Of course I'll wait till Sadie is fresh. It looks terribly exciting to be wooshing along like that. I'd never realised how fast the dogs can go even with a heavy load and human driver, I bet it is terrific in the snow, real snow I mean without the wheels that you have to use because…………" My conversational gambit petered out because of the look on Mina's face.

"Don't be so naïf and stupid!" snapped Nina now, "Sadie is tired, she needs to go back to the kennel and we still need to get the dogs in practice."

"Yes", I said, out of not being able to say anything else, because I just did not understand what Nina and Mina were talking about. If Sadie was tired and the sledge run needed to continue for practice for the dogs, then surely they would have to wait till Sadie was fresh.

Then it dawned on me: at long last the penny dropped.

"Ah, so you don't always run the sledge with the bitch at the front. The dogs are stronger and so sometimes they pull without a bitch to lead the way, so the bitch can rest up …….". Again Mina was giving me a look that caused me to conclude I was talking nonsense.

"You can see that the bitch husky needs a rest", Mina repeated.

"Yes, of course" I said once more, but now completely dumfounded as my heavenly pretty face showed from my lowered brown eyes and lightly knitted brow, eyes then rising to trustingly look Mina in her delectably pretty face.

We had surely been through all this already. Sadie needed her rest, but the sledge needed pulling by the dogs for more practice. So, surely, the dogs were to do that job alone. I was completely and utterly puzzled.

"It is your turn", Nina repeated.

I continued my totally puzzled silence, and just looked at Nina and Mina, with a face that said that I was sorry for being a fool, but they would just have to explain again.

Mina clearly read the non-verbal message my gorgeous face and body were conveying, and spoke slowly to me as if I was completely stupid …..

"You can see that the bitch husky needs a rest", she all but spelt out letter by letter …..

I nodded whilst still standing wearing a look of confused and truthfully very apologetic confirmation of my not really understanding …...

"It is your turn", she again repeated, this time at less than snail's pace.

I still conveyed my dumfounded state by my gorgeous vacant brown-eyed honey-innocent sweet smiled look, which combined my puzzled message with, I hoped, some element of apology for my obviously not understanding, or having completely overlooked something I had already been told.

Mina sighed heavily and then almost shouted at me, to drive understanding home within me:

"You can see that the bitch husky needs a rest. It is your turn now. You are going to take her place".

"………….. Oh my god no! ………..", I choked out in my utter astonishment: "Oh please, please no ……."

"Don't you dare 'no' me you little slag!" Mina snapped. "You're here to work and work you damned well will!" And, have no doubt about it, you will, you absolutely will, do exactly as you are told!!"

I should of course: of course, yes I should have known that I had no right of protest. But I had slightly deceived myself once more, no, completely deluded myself that I had equality with the other girls at this all-girl gathering.

As I looked around me for support in my confusion, I could see, as if I needed the verification, that I was the only girl there that afternoon who thought my status was higher than that of the animal it had been decided, without any consideration of me, let alone any discussion with or any seeking of my consent, that I was going to have to replace to pull the sledge.

I was already having my coat unfastened, my shoes undone, and my stockings rolled off my legs. I tried to utter protest but it was hopeless, and I dare not.

I had no precise idea what they were going to do to me, all I knew was the terrible isolation I felt at being singled out as less than human, and to be used and abused as it pleased my superiors, with no rights of my own, no rights even to protest that I, a human girl, be used in place of and in the exact same role as Sadie, a mere dog.

Meanwhile, Mi Li was photographing my humiliation.

Thick black leather mittens with padded palms were being fitted over my pretty hands and buckled to my wrists. Black leather pads were strapped to my knees and their holding straps buckled behind my knees. I was ordered to kneel with my toes and knees on the ground, and individual leather straps were buckled around my folded legs tying each of my ankles to their respective individual stupendous thighs, to hold my legs tight tied immovably folded double.

Mi Li moved in for a close-up of my pained and near tearful face, as Nina passed a studded dog collar around my neck and buckled it in place.

I had been deeply and cruelly humiliated before this day, but this was the most dehumanising debasement I had ever yet experienced; and it was only just beginning.

The bitch Sadie: the other bitch, had been untethered and was being led on a leash back to her cage, where fresh water awaited her, and she could relax and sleep after her hard work. I watched Sadie being taken away as I knelt naked obediently before my superior girls. Mi Li could hardly hold Sadie's leash as the bitch strained to get back to her kennel cage.

Work for that bitch was over. Work for the leash that had been on the collar of that bitch was not yet over though. Mi Li walked over to me with it and, as if it were the most natural thing to do, as indeed it is for humans to leash a tame dog by its collar, Mi Li attached that same leash to the collar around my neck, and ordered the new bitch, me, up.

What choice had I? I rose on my mittened hands and my padded knees. I was now a bitch. I was a harness bitch: I was a sledge bitch: a human husky dog. I obeyed the tug on my leash and rose to the knees of my wonderfully strong tight tied folded "rear" legs, and I crawled obediently on the tip of my padded knees and with my mittened hands as my forepaws, where Mi Li through the leash was directing I must obediently go.

If I had thought the humiliation heaped upon me hitherto had reached its maximum depth before, I was wrong. Whatever had been done to me before was nothing to being treated like an animal as I was being now.

Mina, in her Cossack style clothes took the leash over from Mi Li, and I was wiggling along on all fours obediently one-hundred-percent human girl bitch doggy. My lovely 36-inch D-cup breasts, hanging down divinely with gravity's pull, swung side to side and back and forth as freely as their naked nude natural state allowed, with beautiful free joggling and jiggling swinging and swaying erotically captivating motion.

I was a human doggy, and my free-swinging titties, and my dangling blue-ribboned plaits told the world that this human doggy, wiggling girlily along at the end of its controlling leash, was undoubtedly a bitch.

I was being taken on my leash toward the dog huskies, which still sat patiently, but had turned their heads as if to talk out of the side of their mouths about the gorgeous bitch doggy that was being led toward them. They began to stand and sniff the air as I got closer.

"You will let them scent your rear", Mina ordered, as she led me close up to the dogs and they began to strain forward and take full doggy-style notice of me with their twitching noses.

I was as good as my order and, as Mi Li snapped away with her camera, I offered my bottom to the dogs, who sniffed my anus and particularly my sex with obvious appreciative enthusiasm, whilst I just let the tears from my dark-brown eyes course down my face, as I sobbed with the disgrace of this totally horrible abuse of my charms, mixing my desperate sobs with gasps and reflex jerks forward, when damp cold dog noses touched my silken soft bare leg flesh.

Nina now brought my doggy bitch harness.

She was completely unceremonious about fitting it to me. A strap was passed around my waist, just above my hips, and buckled tightly. From this, another strap was taken from my belly, where that particular strap momentarily dangled, up over my sex and between the cheeks of my bottom, to be buckled in turn to the back of the strap around my waist and above my hips.

Matter-of-fact or routine it may have been to fit this latter strap where Nina was concerned, but for me it included yet a further step in depravity.

Despite my usually being sexually aroused by the perverse law that a girl's cunt decides what is sexy, and not her head mind, I was unlubricated as Nina had pushed hard up and unrelentingly into my slit, a cold steel nine-inch long human penis fashioned dildo, and I had literally howled with the horrible pain of it rip-raping my soft girl insides.

My tears had dried from my shock and the pain of this brutal treatment, and I was now strapped around my waist and with the tight strap that ran from my belly between my gorgeous folded legs holding this horribly cold steel penis up its full length within my most sensitive part.

And yet, even then, my nectar began to taste this brutal intruder, and to oil its unyielding hardness, as my cunt took fully over from my head-mind once more, and I began to become super-sexual, and super-sexy, from my horrible abuse and humiliatingly depraved degradation.

This brutal rigid unrelenting constantly cold and unfeeling, rapingly erect invader of my tenderest girlhood, felt horrible and pleasurable, and pleasurably horrible at one and the same time.

As I swayed obediently along at the end of my leash, being taken by Mina to my position as the lead bitch in the sledge dog team, my cunt inner "chewed" on the brutal nine-inch steel raper dildoing me, as my charms made me wiggle on my tethered and tight tied "rear" legs, crawling along enforcedly on all fours.

I was now entirely the sexiest of sexy doggy girl bitches, my big beautiful breasts swinging and swaying to assert my charms beyond any shadow of a doubt, as if the rest of my beautiful blatantly feminine body could possibly have caused the question to be raised in any case.

The strap that held the nine-inch steel penis-fashioned dildo in my slit, ran through a hoop that was welded to the bottom of that savage raper. To that same hoop, Nina now fastened a chain, and took that chain through the dogs standing in pairs side-by-side, to fasten it, immovably, to a ready strong hook at the front of the sledge.

I was now harnessed directly to the sledge. I was now fully the lead bitch in the dog team that must, on order, pull this sledge obediently for their mistresses.

The aroma of my cunt was the inducement for the male dogs, King and Rajah at front not least, to pull the harder. They would pull the harder and run the quicker out of desire, sexual desire, for the bitch tethered alone and lonely at the front of the dog team. They would pull the harder and run the quicker out of desire, sexual desire, for me, the human girl doggy, tight tied and torturously tethered, alone and lonely at the front of the dog team.

I was a bitch now. I was just another dog. I was subhuman. I was an animal. I was a subservient member of a sledge dog team. I was just another dog among the dogs of that team. I was the front dog, but I was the rear dog. I was the only bitch in the team. I was lower in status than even the dogs in that team. My front position was not out of command over the team. I was at the front of the team of dogs because I was the only bitch. I was at the front of the team only because I was an enticement. I was just an inducement for the dogs, which would chase my body out of desire for it. For their longing to mount and shag her they would chase the divine scent of the bitch's cunt. For their longing to mount and shag me they would chase the divine scent of my cunt.

And yet, even as my dildo was being chained to the sledge, I felt sexual arousal and my nipples began to throb and my slit to ooze my nectar the more.

This was so savagely cruel. This was so horribly humiliating. To be treated as an animal. To be handled as a sub-human species. To be made a bitch doggy. To be forced to work like a bitch doggy, was, perversely, arousing me sexually, and the thought that the musk of the juice torrenting from my slit was arousing the team of dogs that was about to chase me, made my slit lubricate still more.

Then it came. The moment I feared most at that very second, came. The strap-whip was cracked over my head and Mina shouted, "Mush" and I obeyed her order. I strained to pull the sledge and, as I did so, the hard steel dildo, by which I was tethered directly to the sledge with the chain running from its ringed base, was pulled slightly out of my slit, only for the tight strap that ran around from my belly to my back to hold it hard into me, to ram that dildo straight back into my cunt.

My pulling on the sledge with all the might of my stupendously erotically orgasmic tight tied huge thighed body, was raping me. As I progressed in my girl wiggle doggy girl bitch tied humiliating running four "legged" crawl, I was causing the dildo deep in my nectar-pot to be slid in and out, in and out, in and out of me, as I took up the slack in the chain running from my cunt and, together with the dogs, jerked the sledge forward on its wheels only for it to roll forward, to all but stop, and need yet another pull from the chained dildo in my cunt to get it going again.

I was experiencing, no hopelessly enduring, no helplessly ensuring, sexual intercourse as I wiggled along. As I wiggled along crawling as fast as I could on all fours, struggling to pull that six-foot-long huge sledge on wheels, with Mina commandingly on its rear end, I was being fucked by the cold steel nine-inch penis dildo being inexorably pulled in and out, in and out, in and out, of my slit.

I was being brutally fucked and I loved it. My body loved the fucking I was being given. My cunt loved the fucking it was being given. My body needed the firestorm ferocious friction of a forceful fucking. My body demanded the flaming friction of a firestorm ferocious fiercely forceful fucking. My body deserved the fantastic firestorm ferocious fearsome friction of a forceful fucking. My body was made for the fantastic friction of a ferocious firestorm forceful fucking. I deserved to be fucked. I needed to be fucked. I was a slag a whore a cunt a doggy girl bitch, and doggy girl bitches get fucked and fucked fucking hard. No questions asked and no right to protest I was getting fantastically ferocious firestorm flaming friction foremost in the fearsomely forcefully fucked fanny, and it was only and always what a beautiful sexy twenty-six-year-old girl like me fulsomely fully fucking-well deserved.

As a doggy I was, of course useless. Try as I might, and the sweet sweat that glistened in diamond clear droplets on my back told of the effort I was making, it was the male dogs led by King and Rajah who were really pulling that sledge, and I was merely trying to keep ahead of their pace, whilst obediently contributing what I could to the pulling.

We were progressing only at the wholly unsatisfactory pace that I could make, crawling on my padded knees and gloved hands with my huge gorgeous breasts swinging and swaying as I ran crawling on all fours, performing my duty as the doggy girl bitch I was tied as. And the pace was wholly unsatisfactory to Mina: so she began, as was her right as the sledge driver, to whip me, her lead dog.

We were half round the course for the second time, and Mina began to slap my bare back with the whip.

Throughout all my previous torture at the hands of Jackie and her girls I had never before been whipped. And now Mina was slapping my bare back and cursing me to drive the doggy girl bitch I was tied as at the front of her sledge tethered team, faster than that doggy girl bitch was able to go without the strap to remind her of her place and her duty and to force her to obey.

Mina was whipping me as hard and as often as she could, and yet the lashes I had imagined would be unbearably painful, the lashes that were leaving brutal raised livid red weals on my back and my sides, as Mina cruelly aimed for my swinging breasts, were just incredibly erotic kisses arousing me sexually even more.

But though kisses, the black long leather strap-whip was causing my body to involuntarily jerk and leap up as if I were in a lightening quick fit with every lurid lash, and my mouth to go agape as I yelped like a whelp when the whip slapped on my oh so soft naked girl's skin, and left behind the long red line that would rise instantly to a brutal red crease in my flesh, that stung murderously pleasure painfully at the stroke itself, and in continuing searing agonising fiery echo afterwards.

And where kissed by the whip a second time welt-over-welt, agony was double and triple and then quadruple guaranteed, as the lesson I needed to learn was savagely brutally thrashed into my naked body.

This was no pretend whipping; I was being strapped and strapped brutally on my totally undefended nude girlbody, to drive this little doggy girl bitch along to make her work to make her obey to make her pull that sledge as hard, nay harder than she could.

I was being flogged and flogged without let or hindrance or any thought of mercy. I was, after all only a doggy girl bitch who must learn to pull a sledge with all her girly might, and who needed the constant reminder of her lower than animal status, that could only be driven into her by causing her to suffer the utmost pain in her body, so that her mind would understand that she was indeed and with no fiction or pretence whatsoever, now or ever, only a doggy girl bitch, who must pull and pull harder, and obey and obey unquestioningly, the might of her superiors, who had the right to use and drive and flog lazy doggy girl bitches this way.

I was being whipped and whipped without let or hindrance or any thought of mercy to drive home to me beyond the shadow of a doubt in my mind, that I was only a doggy girl bitch, and to forcefully drive this doggy bitch beyond mere human effort, to use the full femininely muscular beauty of her doggy tied girlbody, to pull that huge sledge with her slit, as the strap-whip repeatedly rebounded up off her naked back, after delivering yet another searingly painful reminder of her sub-human sub-animal duty and place in the world: the world of doggy girl bitches.

I wiggled provocatively along, tied on all fours on my gloved front paws with my padded knees serving as my back paws, and as I crawled along at the fastest pace I could muster in my fear and pain, I pulled, and pulled, and pulled, that huge sledge through means of the chain attached to the cold steel dildo up my cunt. And the cold steel dildo up my cunt was pulled some way out of my slit as a particularly painful strap lash drove me a yelping leap forward, only to be thrust immediately hard back into my most sensitive hole, as the strap through the hoop at the dildo's base shot the dildo back into me.

I was being flogged without mercy and I was being fucked without mercy, as all doggy girl bitches should be.

And I wanted this subservient dehumanised debasing humiliating doggy girl bitch tied enslaved depraved perverted savagely whipped cruelly crawling obediently sledge pulling male dog enticing cunt scent dog arousing girl scented helpless mindless surrendered sub-animal enslavement and self fucking of my beautiful girlbody to go on forever.

I wanted to be cursed and abused and worked and used and fucked and whipped hopelessly and helplessly. I was in near orgasmic girl heaven as Mina strap-whipped me, her hopeless helpless lonely up-front doggy girl bitch slave.

I was being taught my true place in the wonderful world of girls. I was a subservient-girl. I was of below-girl status. I was a girl to serve girls. I was animal girl. I was just a fuck toy: a cunt. In the eyes of my fellow girls as of that moment I consisted entirely of my cunt. I was my cunt and my cunt was me.

And I was in heaven, this cunt was in heaven as she crawled along doggy girl bitch tied, fucked constantly by the in and out repetitive thrusting of the dildo, as she took up and released the immense weight of the jerking hugely heavy forward motion of the sledge at the end of the chain by which she was helplessly fastened to it. Her lovely breasts swinging and swaying wildly from side to side dangling down as dictated by gravity as she that was me crawled humiliatingly along to complete the circle for the fourth time: and the sledge was stopped.

I so wanted my torture to continue, but the chain was taken off the ring in the end of the dildo up my slit, my leash attached, and I was led to one side. Then the strap between my legs was undone and taken right off me, as was the strap around my waist.

Now the dildo had already slid half out of my slit because it was so supremely wet with my nectar. It was whisked out of my aroused hole unceremoniously. Even as I squealed with girly pleasure at the feeling of this action within my most sensitive hole, the cruel steel dildo, super wet with my musk was thrown among the untethered dogs, who immediately began to fight and growl and jostle to be the first and best only one to lick my fresh charms off that cold steel raper.

"Put this bitch in the cage with the other one", Nina ordered, as Mina dragged me along on a short lead in her sharp bad temper with me in my all-fours bondage.

The strap-whipping I had been given was beginning to really hurt now, and so it should to judge from the plethora of brutal livid red raised weals on my back and sides.

The cage where the other bitch had recovered her energy was opened. I was unleashed and made to crawl in.

And, if I had thought my humiliation was over by this time, I was so very wrong.

We girls, the other bitch, Sadie, and I, looked at each other: Sadie naturally on her four legs, I bound unnaturally on mine.

Then, without my resisting and even with my foreseeing and my wanting it to happen, Sadie came over to me, and she began to nuzzle my delightful hanging down left breast, and to lick it, to lick the sweaty salt resultant from my superhuman efforts pulling the sledge, and I loved it.

She licked my left breast, and then, having walked round me, the sweet sweat salting my body on my right breast, and then to quite definitely chafe my right nipple gently but insistently with her front teeth, and to lap at it with her tongue. And I just let it happen because I loved it, and I wanted it to happen, I wanted Sadie to lick my breasts and to try and make my milk come.

If only I had had milk to give her, I would have loved it the more as the nudged and tugged at my nipple with their front teeth to try and force milk from my right breast.

"Oh please!" I begged out loud and audibly, "Please fuck me!"………"Oh, please, please, fuck me!!"……

……and my words were smothered as lady began to lick my mouth as if she were kissing me….

…..The nipple of my right breast stood out at centre like a spike with my arousal now, as Sadie licked the salty lips of my mouth and put her tongue in my mouth as I surrendered to her…………

"Oh god…….please, please, oh god please fuck me!!"………"Oh, please, please, fuck me!!!", I moaned, in my highest of high state of girl arousal. Just what was the command I needed to get Sadie, my fellow bitch, to deliver me the orgasm I so desperately longed for?

"Oh please, please, please, please fuck me!!!!!"………"Oh, please, please, fuck meeee!!!!!!!"

And heaven and Sadie heard my plea, and she went around behind me, and I parted my legs so she could scent my full charms, and I gasped and moaned with pleasure as her cold damp nose nuzzled the smooth soft inner flesh of my right thigh, and I jerked forward in involuntary spasm at its sudden cold dampness on my naked flesh, and I prayed for Sadie's tongue to taste my charms, to lick my slit, to nuzzle my inner lips, to lick the cream from my éclair …..

I was wholly wanton in my behaviour as I wide parted my bound legs to offer this dog my super-aroused hole. I parted my stupendous thighs to open my slit's lips a little so this dog could smell my overwhelming charms. I gave human voice to my animal desire, as I moaned and begged for Sadie to lick my slit and take me to a cum.

……..And then she began to lick inside my slit. Sadie began to lick the insides of my slit. She began to lick-fuck me, and I squeal-squeak-moaned eyes tight closed, transported with girl heavenly delight as I began to orgasm on the bitch dog's eager tongue in my éclair, as she licked my inner lips as she tongue-fucked me. And this doggy girl bitch was having her desperately wanton cunt tongue-fucked by her fellow animal. And this sub-human sub-animal doggy girl bitch had her cunt licked to girl heavenly orgasm by her fellow bitch dog, by her fellow girl……….

……..And it was not over for me yet……….

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 12 – A King Has His Day

It was not over for me yet. I was still being lick fucked by the dog bitch Sadie, and my experience tied in bondage as a doggy girl bitch at Jackie's country home was by no manner of means over yet.

As my eyes opened and closed in the ecstasy of my orgasm I became aware of two blurred visions. The first photographed by the flashing of my ecstatically flickering eyelids amidst my violent orgasm, was that King and Rajah had entered the cage I was in with Sadie, the bitch dog, even as I was being lick fucked by Sadie.

My second vision, the vision that caused me to scream in abandoned delight in concluding my overwhelmingly powerful cum, was that of Mi Li, the lovely Korean hermaphrodite angel, squatting in her micro-miniskirt, sexy slim legs fully displayed, with a massive erection having escaped her panties as she watched, sexually adoring, sexually transported with the highest of high delight from wide eyed astounded ogling of me orgasming from being lick raped by Sadie the dog licking the last cream out of my éclair.

King was master of the dog team. His son Rajah had ambitions for King's place. Though father and son, King and Rajah fought frequently with snarling intensity, followed on once rare but now more frequent occasions, with snapping jaw fights in which, so far, the fully adult but still smaller and slimmer Rajah, had experienced only a poor second best.

Just such a tooth baring fight had broken out between these two dogs over the "bone", the dildo that had been thrown to the unharnessed pack after it had been wrenched from my cunt, still saturated with a thick coating of my musk. As ever before, King had won this battle and licked the dildo clean of me, with slow full measured pleasure at tasting my bitch cream, whilst he occasionally growled to keep all the other dogs at bay.

Apart from King and Rajah, no other dog dared to come near the tossed over dildo. Nonetheless they waited around, their supersensitive noses twitching at the scent of my sweaty cunt, hoping King and Rajah had left some bitch taste on the dildo when they, at long last, were able to get to it in their own very much third and very much final places in the dog pack order.

Having licked his "bone" clean of me, King, with Rajah in close behind attendance, had entered the purposely left open door of the bitches' cage in which I was still in girl heaven as I was having my éclair licked out by Sadie.

King, the hugely strong grey-muzzled brute that had savagely fought off all five other dogs to be the one and only to lick clean the dildo that had been thrown, fresh wet from my cunt, to the pack, had a true appreciation of the beauty of naked human girl. His huge raw red rough cock was already erecting in adoration of my body, as he stalked arrogantly around and sniffed my helplessly bound sweaty nudeness.

King was a connoisseur of human girl. His cock showed his love of human girl, his lust for human girl, his desire to use human girl as human girl should be used. I was his bitch. Here was I a beautiful human bitch, driven at the front of the pack till she was in surrendered exhaustion, her back whipped to livid red stripes, on high heat, tied helplessly as a doggy girl bitch for him to shag at his leisure for his sexual pleasure.

And he was going to shag me; of that there was no doubt whatsoever; he was going to shag his bitch. It was his unquestionable right to fuck me, as much as it was my unquestioning duty to let him fuck me. That is the way with dogs and their bitches. He was the dog and I his totally subservient and totally obedient and totally unquestioning human girl bitch.

And even in the receding high of my orgasm from Sadie's tongue, I wanted King to shag me. I wanted to be shagged and used by that brute of a dog so strong so smelly with dog sweat so dirty so uninhibited so literally truly animal in his blatantly displayed desire to use my human body, to cock me, to shag me, to fill me with his doggy prick so that it hurt me.

In an instant King had but growled at Sadie and she had yelped, though only threatened and with no attempt by King to even move at her, and slinked with her tail between her legs, cowering low to the ground, to the corner of the cage. Sadie also knew her place.

If there had been any doubt before this, which bitch King wanted to fuck, Sadie or Katrina, there was no doubt whatsoever now. Sadie was in second place in King's harem. King was going to fuck this new bitch, Katrina, the bitch with the delicious cunt liquid he had delighted to lick from that dildo "bone".

Fear filled every tiny nerve in the whole of my bitch doggy bondaged body, as King walked around me, his prize, the bitch he was going to enjoy, the human girl bitch he was going to shag for his pleasure her pain and his consequent sexual relief.

I stood frozen rigid helplessly tied in my bondage on all fours in my fear and in my wanting. I was driven not to react as one might expect a human girl to react because of my sexual desire. My sexual desire was still unsated by the lick fucking I had orgasmed to from Sadie. It was also provoked the more by my being able to see the delicious Mi Li stroking her painfully stiff and thrustingly upright nine-inch erection, with a practiced gentle forefinger up and down its full length slowly and absent-mindedly, as she anticipated my all too impending dog fucking.

And then he was behind me: King was behind me. And then King's front paws were on my savagely thrashed throbbing red striped brutally strap-whipped bare back. And I stood on all fours as I was literally bound to make me do, and I waited in fear and wanton wanting, as King's semi-erect dog cock was rubbing on the sweet smooth soft flesh my bare bum: King was rubbing his doggy's cock on my wonderful bare bum to excite himself for the penetration of my bondaged helplessly held human girl's body.

I could feel King's hot sticky raw red rough doggy cock on my bare bummy as he rubbed himself on me, and his front paw claws scratched my sore back as he eased himself forward on his hind legs, risen as he was on his hind legs to find his target within his bitch, within me.

And I stood still obedient doggy girl bitch to the core, as my eyes closed in surrender to the knowledge that I was, with or without my consent, about to be thoroughly fucked by this dog. I was going to have my body penetrated by this dirty animal. I was going to be used, defiled, debased, and deflowered by this dog, the first non-human animal ever to take me. I was going to get the shagging I deserved. I was going to get the shagging every doggy girl bitch deserves.

King's cock rubbed on my firm soft bummy between my feet, bound up ankles to thighs as I was. As he felt with his doggy cock to find his target blindly, but now fully and very hugely very stiffly erect with his excitement at my supreme charms, I felt his brutal cock searching around my rear, and there was nothing but nothing I could do to prevent his having me, or to stop his cock finding its home within the wonderful purpose-made orifices of my erotically beautiful girlbody.

And King soon found his home within my body, he soon found his home, he soon found his hole, the hole for his cock, the hole for his whole cock. With practiced blind searching feeling with the tip of his massively erect cock, he soon found the home he sought in his bitch for his cock, and to my absolute horror and sudden savage shock, his huge raw red rough sticky smelly doggy cock began to penetrate me.

I moaned and gasped the girlily helpless sighy open lipped gasps of a girl gone to sex, a girl who was hopelessly abandonedly abandoned to sex: sex the very epicentre of her being, sex her all, her beginning, her end, and her absolutely everything in-between. Sex: a sexy sex wanton sex slaved slut, slit slavering for sex, toed for sex, footed for sex, legged for sex, thighed for sex, buttocked for sex, super-slim-waisted for sex, hipped for sex, soft firm flat bellied for sex, rib-caged for sex, chested for sex, breasted for sex, nippled for sex, armed for sex, fingered for sex, fingernailed for sex, eyed for sex, haired for sex, beautiful faced for sex, even pretty nosed for sex, mouthed for sex, anused for sex, and above all cunted for sex, I was sex as I moaned girlily sexily surrendered in absolute totality to sex………

I wanted sex. I wanted to be had. I wanted to be shagged. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted to be used. I wanted to be abused. I wanted to be deflowered. I wanted to be reamed. I wanted to be hurt. I wanted to be raped. I wanted to be denied. I wanted to be granted. I wanted to be depraved. I wanted to be humiliated. I wanted to be girl.

King was a connoisseur of human girl. King knew all he needed to know about human girl. King knew that human girl has three wonderful orifices for cock. King therefore knew all a dog needed to know about human girl. He was slowly and, for me, extremely painfully, pushing his erect cock into my anus, and I squealed with the horrible pleasure pain as he reamed me.

Although I would have adored to watch the deliciously delightful hermaphrodite Mi Li masturbating herself vigorously as she watched the beginning of my doggy shagging, I was in too much pain to see anything but the red mist in front of my eyes as I squealed as I was beginning to be bum fucked by King.

King continued to force himself into me, as I began to walk forward on my bound "rear" legs so as to try and escape the pain of his cock going slowly and seemingly inexorably seeringly into my anus.

But there was no escape, and King followed me running on his hind legs with his forelegs on my back till he tired of my moving and lowered his head, growling his threat to bite my neck if I did not hold still.

And King slowly pushed his huge doggy cock into my bum, till it hurt me unbearably, and I squealed and screamed with the pain as the knot in his prick finally gripped inside my sphincter, and his barbed prick tore inside my sensitive bummy hole as he shagged and shagged and shagged me for his sole pleasure.

And then I became really bitch, and I wanted him to shag me and hurt me. I was his obedient bitch and I wanted King to shag his bitch and hurt his bitch and fill his bitch with his hot puppy making seed. I wanted King to shag my bum and hurt my bum and fill my bum with his scolding hot puppy making spunk.

And King's cock was locked into my bummy and would remain locked in my bummy until King could cum. And my girly movements now were King's delight as he did to human girl what his kind longed to do to human girl, as he fucked this human girl as dogs know only too well human girls should be fucked.

And King, atop my back with his front paws, shagged me and shagged me, with his tongue lolling at his delight at having his cock hard and fully deep down to its root in my bum, at the pleasure of his cock got from being entirely up my bum, as he shagged and shagged my bum, and as I crawled along slowly girlily wiggling my feminine beauty, followed by King locked into my bum as he was, on his hind legs, his delight his ecstasy, as he shagged human girl and hurt her for his pleasure, the pleasure clearly showing in his doggy eyes as much as the pain pleasure he was causing me was evident in mine.

I continued to girly-gasp with the pain and pleasure of King's cock deep in my bum, as I was doggy shagged and doggy shagged and doggy shagged unmercifully rippingly painfully in my poor sore anus.

And King was as good a lover as most men are not. King had staying power any man would envy. He had his cock hard up my beautiful bottom and was fucking my anus as hard and as enthusiastically as a first time virgin boy with his first girl. But there was no quick inept thrust and squirt with King. King's cock was hard up my poor bum for half-an-hour and more already, and still he was shagging me as I crawled around in a forlorn attempt to ease my plus perfect pleasure pain.

And my humiliation and degradation? How could I be humiliated or degraded more than I was being there and then that day?


Rajah had sat aside and was still sat aside as he watched his father, King, fucking this beautiful sexy human bitch with her superbly shapely legs, wonderfully huge natural breasts, gorgeously slim arms, and divinely pretty face. And the extent to which Rajah was enjoying seeing a beautiful human girl like me being fucked, showed in Rajah's young prick, which was fully erect and wanting my body whenever his turn might come.

Indeed, if either King or Rajah had any inhibitions about fucking a human girl, it was only Rajah who had them all. He, compared with King, had been timid of taking human girl. Even though I was so blatantly clearly available, and so wonderfully erotically gorgeous, when King had moved in to fuck me, Rajah had held back because of his inhibitions as much as from fear of his father.

As ever, as yet, Rajah had had to give way to his father and let King be the first to shag me. But Rajah was going to have his turn with this incredibly sexy beauty, of that Rajah was absolutely sure. The gorgeously sexy huge shapely thighed human bitch Rajah's father was still fucking with his cock in her after half-an-hour and more, was just too absolutely beautiful not to shag.

And Rajah had heard my human name. And, strange though it be to relate, Rajah found my name, "Katrina", sexy and exciting. Rajah somehow knew that "Katrina" was a human name not a doggy name. He heard the girls, looking on as I was still being dog fucked in my anus, calling out "Katrina", and abusing me, and saying that I was getting what I deserved, and how they hoped it hurt, and how I was a slut and a whore, and how only a dog would ever want to fuck a slag such as I was.

And in his doggy mind, set on sex as it was, Rajah connected all the abusive words he now knew from their use at me there and then, and before as I had fronted the sledge team and as my back had been flogged to drive me along: with me, and with the word "Katrina", that he knew now to be the name of this delicious doggy girl bitch girlily yelping as his father shagged her unmercifully in her lovely bum.

And Rajah's penis visibly twitched back up or even more stiffly erect every time he heard the word "Katrina" or one of my girly pained squeaks. And this had not gone unnoticed by Mi Li, whose own penis was even more stiffly engorged than Rajah's, as she watched my continued and seemingly endless dog fucking by King.

"Go on Rajah, fuck Katrina!" This was Mina's voice shouting out, rather than Mi Li's.

"Go on Rajah, go on boy, fuck Katrina, fuck Katrina boy!"

Rajah's head turned from the lovely human girl voice of Mina, to the lovely human girlbody he knew to be "Katrina".

I howled as King's cock was thrust harder up into my bum than ever before, as if King was determined to finish shagging me, the quicker to be able to release himself from his full deep penetration of my anus, to deal once more with his uppity son, Rajah, who was now circulating the coupled copulating King and me.

King continued to shag me up my bum, tongue lollingly, endlessly enjoying his reaming of my bum, and his son was drawing closer.

"Go on Rajah, go on boy, fuck Katrina, fuck Katrina boy!" Mina called.

And suddenly, there was a loud cheer from the onlooking girls, as I now had two sets of front paws on my poor sore strap-whipped back. And, to the surprise of those onlooking girls, father and son, King and Rajah, were side-by-side peacefully, with King's front paws between my cruelly strap shoulder blades, and Rajah's front paws in the small of my back.

And Rajah's raw red super erect rough smelly dirty dog's cock?

Rajah's raw red super erect rough smelly dirty dog's cock, was thrust hard into the peach soft beauty of my face.

Like father like son. Just as King was a connoisseur of human girl, so too had his son Rajah lusted after those beautiful creatures with their gorgeous bodies, their huge udders, their scented head fur, their softness, their gentle loving ways, and the three wonderful orifices they had no shame in showing their pets, such as when he had been in his one-time mistresses bedroom whilst she had showered.

When he had been in his one-time mistresses bedroom whilst she had showered, his naked wet mistress fresh from the shower had giggled and mocked the erection Rajah had got from his admiration of the stunning beauty of her body. Rajah had been hurt by this. His male dog pride told him that he should be the master and she the bitch who should have surrendered her body to him. He had determined even then that he was going to shag human girl if ever he had the chance. What was the attraction of a mere dog bitch compared to the astounding beauty of human girl?

Rajah's raw red super erect rough smelly dirty dog's cock was thrust hard into the peach soft beauty of my face, and it knew what it was searching for just as much as in my extreme pleasure pain and humiliation I too knew what Rajah's penis was looking for.

Rajah's disgustingly smelly penis was rubbing on my left face cheek as he excited himself on the soft skin of my human girl's body. The smell of him was overwhelmingly disgusting to my twitching nostrils. He was hugely erect, and I just must close my eye as his penis threshed against my face.

The obvious way for me to escape Rajah's intention was to lower my head. But then, a surprising thing happened. King, who had hitherto shown only contempt for his son, was suddenly growling and threatening to bite my neck once more.

This might have been because it gave King pleasure to threaten his submissive bitch as he continued to brutally shag me in my bum. However, he repeated it when I once more tried to move my face away from Rajah's penis, and it was clear that, this once at least, father and son had found something over which they agreed: the need to fuck this stunningly sexy human girl bitch fully deeply and thoroughly.

I had no choice. I was just a doggy girl bitch. Doggy girl bitches do not have a choice about being shagged, or about the way in which they are shagged. Rajah was going to fuck my mouth: whether I liked it or not was of no consequence and no concern whatsoever: Rajah was going to fuck my mouth.

King was actually lightly but threateningly biting my neck to hold me so that Rajah could thrust his penis into my mouth, and I had no choice but to let Rajah's huge smelly rough red raw prick into my mouth and gut retchingly onto my tongue and gaggingly down my poor throat.

It was stupendously horrendously horrible. I was never the kind of girl who would give head to a man, and yet here I was forced to take this totally disgusting throbbing and pulsing dog cock into my mouth, and enforcedly suck it, as it was thrust harder and harder into my mouth and down my throat by the eager shagging young Rajah.

Rajah had none of the staying power of his father, and found my hot soft pertly pouting pretty lipped mouth just too exciting for his cock. And deep into my lovely mouth his boiling hot puppy making seed was very soon squirting disgustingly chokingly: into my throat, and coming out of my nostrils as I fought not to swallow it all. This was just as his daddy's seed was shooting super red hotly into my red raw sore bummy, the red raw sore bummy King had shagged unmercifully for forty-five minutes and more.

And I had been finally thoroughly totally and deservedly deeply doggy shagged. These two dogs had fucked me for their pleasure: these two dogs had fucked my human girl's body. I had been hurt and defiled and deflowered in my bum and in my mouth by these two dogs. I had been used as a doggy girl bitch should be used. I had been thoroughly, no, totally thoroughly shagged, fucked and filled with scolding hot puppy making dog cum, as a doggy girl bitch should be.

And I had not cum. I had no right to a cum. A doggy girl bitch has no right to a cum. There had been no cum for me, just as there should not be. I was a doggy girl bitch. I was there to be used and abused. I had no rights whatsoever, and the right to a cum in a dog shag was completely and utterly irrelevant to a doggy girl bitches place in the world: to my place in the world.

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 09:51 AM
Chapter 13 – Katrina’s Shop Therapy

Talk and touch are vital to a girl. Talk shows a girl’s acceptance among her fellow girls. Touch confirms the particularly close friend. Touch can also confirm the lover’s access to her right with a girl. A girl that is lusted after cannot be touched. A girl that is lusted after is longed for to touch. To forever desire, to talk to, to touch, and to feel a girl who is lusted after, is the ultimate torture of divine heaven.

If I had hitherto thought that my taming had been completed with my foetal girl-cage torture, it was now becoming entirely clear that that thought had been totally wrong. I was still in the process of being tamed. I was clearly still regarded as wild and wilful girl who must, but must, be taught her place, no matter what it took to teach her the harsh necessary lessons of the reality she must learn about her true place in the world of girls.

I had been horribly used and debased in my doggy girl bitch bondage, and the subsequent dog shagging I had endured. I had thought when this was at oh so long last over, that this must be the end for me of any further communication with the other girls: my superiors.

How could the other girls have done what they had done to me, and let happen what they had let happen to me, without my losing my humanity entirely in their eyes: without my being in their total contempt?

And yet they were so very gentle with me as they had unbound me and carried me back to Jackie’s mansion to bathe me of the dog cum, which was seeping from two of my three sexual orifices, and my nostrils.
In my dazed confusion I heard one of them say that there must be no treatment given my whip lashes, as I had deserved them and must consequently suffer their pain and discomfort for as long as nature dictated.

Even so, they had douched my mouth and hosed the dog spunk out of my anus, and laid me gently on my front in a warm bed to sleep off my torture and my exhaustion.

And it had been as if a dream that one of them had stayed behind after my gentle bathing and douching, and I had smelled the scent she wore, the scent that had been in my room at Jackie’s London home, the new and never before known to be worn by Jackie scent, that had been left in the air of that room when I had lusted after Jackie, and was sure she had slept in my bed with me.

And whoever really owned that delightful scent, perhaps indeed it was Jackie herself as I half dreamed, had drawn back my sheets as I dozed between wakefulness and full deep sleeping, and gently and loving kissed the brutal welts that striped the soft girl’s flesh of my back, to give those harsh painful throbbing weals the only medicine they were going to get.

I awoke after twenty-four hours totally exhausted all but continuous sleep; nursed by the other girls in turn, till safe to be left alone. Thereafter, I stayed abed sleeping fitfully, showering and eating, for days, exhausted. On the fourth morning I awoke to drag my still sleep-filled stiff backed way to the shower.

My back hurt terribly from my whipping. My anus was also still horrible sore. This was to be the first day I got up and out of my room. I made my way to breakfast rigidly stiff backed and timidly shyly, and hoping none of the other girls would treat me too unkindly that day.

I need not have worried. I wore only a towelling dressing gown and slippers as I sat myself in a far corner of the warm kitchen. And, as I sat myself in that far off corner of the kitchen to hide myself away, Mi Li had come over to me, taken my hands with her sweet touch, and gently led me over to sit once more as a girl amongst girls, kissing my cheek in morning greeting as she sat me down among my fellow girls.

And, as Mi Li kissed me with her fulsome sweet lips, I smelt her lovely scent. It was Mi Li who wore that scent, the scent that had been in my room at Jackie’s London home, the new and never before known to be worn by Jackie scent, that had been left in the air of that room. I was astounded, astonished, and oh so girlily pleased that it was Mi Li who wore that scent. Was it therefore Mi Li who had shared my bed at Jackie’s London apartment?

I was also astounded, astonished, and oh so girlily pleased, to be treated as just one of the girls once more. Yet I wondered if it was also part of my taming to build me up and make me a peer, only to dash me down again. Was this “up and down” approach part of my taming?

Talk and touch are vital to a girl. Add admiration to these. I knew that every girl there admired my beauty. That was my strength, my assurance, my *********, and my security. I was by far the outstanding girl among the four lovely girls: I had the stunningly prettiest face, had the loveliest hair, had the most delectable dark brown eyes, the finest firm bosom, the prettiest hands and fingers, the shapeliest figure, the sexiest round firm bottom, I was also by far the leggiest amongst them and, ultimately, I was by very far, the most unfathomably femininely attractive of them. I encapsulated all that is girl far more than my three competitors, and yet they were supreme competition.

“The trip to Russia is off for now”, Mina told me.

I was, once more, not really listening. I was in a reverie over the delight of discovering that it was the lovely Korean “princess” Mi Li who wore that scent, and who must therefore have slept alongside me at Jackie’s London place.

Mina continued: “Yesterday, we reported to Jackie on your progress. I’m afraid she is not very happy with you. In particular, she says that you do not surrender to sex enough, and that your orgasms are inadequate”, Mina told me. “As punishment for that, your back has been left whipped, as it is, untreated.”

Why did I feel a new wetness in my cunt as I was told this? Why did my body melt with secret sexiness at the thought of my surrender to this?

I chatted away nineteen-to-the-half-dozen girlily to Mina Nina and Mi Li, my confidence restored, wary though I was. I chatted still as Mina brushed out my hair and drew it up into a ponytail, as the girls prepared me for the rest of the day.

“Mi Li and you are off, all the way down to London, shopping!!” Mina told me. “It is coming up to Christmas in a couple of months. Some of the stores are holding all-girl shopping days”.

“Whatever else you get, make sure you pick up some nail varnish. Your fingernails are stunningly pretty now they are so long!” Mina instructed.

I blushed as I thanked Mina for this compliment: praise that made all the weeks I had fussed over and cared for my fingernails fully worth all I had invested in them. I also blushed at the thought of spending my day alone with Mi Li.

As my dressing gown was removed, Mina was gently moved to kiss the still brutally blue-black bruised slowly healing whip welts on my back.

“Did I hurt you so terribly?” she asked distractedly.

I so wanted to take her hand, kiss her, and tell her that I forgave her. But all I could do in the wisdom of my inferior position to hers, was to show the tears her gentleness brought to my lovely dark brown eyes. She cupped my chin in her pretty hands and kissed me on my forehead.

Then, as if to recover her composure, Mina, still clearly moved by my beauty, said: “Remember Norna, the pretty redhead who worked as a maid in Jackie’s London home when you were suspended in straps for your punishment there?”

This Mina reminded me of, as if it were an everyday occurrence for a girl to be cruelly bound in straps and suspended so that she choked herself, as I had been.

Of course I remembered Norna, she of the pretty freckles and the quite evident virginal innocence. She who had had herself strap-whipped because she just could not take her eyes off me.

“She’s not left school yet, but she has a first job weekends and holidays at M*******’s Department Store, the M******* Department Store!!” Mina said, “She was only ever temping when she was a maid. She’s just serving at store counter at the moment, but Belinda says she’s a bright kid and when she’s done her examinations and left school, and had experience of the shop floor, there’s a chance for her to work in the bank ….”

As regards the M******* bank, I did not know what Mina was talking about, but my mind soon latched on to the name Belinda”.

“Belinda?” I queried.

“Gorgeous isn’t she”, Mina sighed dreamily. “That long blonde hair and those stunning green eyes! Did you know she once did advertising; well sort of. She did warning notices about wearing factory safety goggles: sort of ‘goggle calendars’ you might say? Bet the factory girls goggled at them all day long anyway! I know I would. Wonderful eyes….”, Mina sighed once more. “Those calendars fetch a premium now, like the “P***** calendars…”

“She’s stunning, Belinda is!” I dared to opine, “I wish I were as beautiful as her!”

“You are” said Mina matter of factly, and then, as if she had not even realised the highest of compliments she had just paid me, she went on to say that Belinda managed the banking and loans sector of M*******, and as well as having overall control of the London branch of the store.

I had always dreamed of shopping at M*******. I had gone there many times of course. It was a Mecca for young girls. “Everything beautiful for the beautiful” its advertising boasted. I had seen movie stars like Leticia ****** and Minda ***** and Denisia***** shopping there.

And I’d caught sight of the absolutely gorgeous Joannetta ***** just after she had made that lovely weepie “Warrior Girl”…. I had emptied a box of tissues with my tears at watching that movie. What an ending! You’ll remember: you know, where Joannetta, playing the warrior girl, had at oh so long last taken the lovely young princess, Minda ***** in her first ever part, in her arms, swept her back off her feet, and kissed her ……. Oh wow!! I was fifteen when I saw it. For weeks afterwards I had dreamt of being the princess in place of Minda. Joannetta ***** is just as beautiful now…… The boy I was with, fell out with me afterwards…..

Famous and gorgeous girls like these had always shopped at M*******: but it had hitherto been beyond my affording to buy much more than a book of matches with their crest on it.

Since I had become a sought after model, I had had the money to shop at M*******, but never the time to get to an outlet, though I got close when I was in Tokyo…….

This was going to be the type of day every girl looks forward to. “Shop till you drop” they say. I could hardly wait, and to be with the dark-haired brown-eyed pretty Korean dainty doll Mi Li, all day too: oh joy!

“Let’s get your boots on” said Mina, beckoning to Nina to lend a hand.

And it was beginning all over again. I accepted it now. I was constantly under subjection to tame me, or at least to sustain the level of tameness that I had arrived at. I had chatted away with my fellow girls, but I was no longer deluding myself as to my true relationship with them. I was well aware that I was singled out for subjection.

I knew now that Jackie had always realised my submissiveness even before I had any knowledge of it myself. What she was putting me through was, I still hoped and believed, a form of prolonged foreplay, by the final reel of which, I would be swept off my feet by Jackie, who would kiss me passionately and carry me to her bed to make love to me forever.

But this was not “Warrior Girl” the movie, even if my romantic notions at now nearly twenty-seven, were still those I had held when I was just fifteen. Yet I wanted what was happening to happen. Not openly so: never openly so, but I did not resist.

I feared, and how I feared, what would be done to me next, but I am girl and girl needs orgasm. I had had such wonderful wonderful orgasms in my tortures, and my body, mind, and soul craved more.

I suppose I was wanton girl: I wanted orgasm. I had never in all my life known such sexual pleasure as I was now experiencing. I could not admit this openly. My fear included that the magic wonder of my body’s reaction to extreme duress might never ever happen again, especially if I spoke of it out loud.

I had always been an adventurous girl, and this was a fear-making terrible tormenting adventure. I could only escape to uncertainty and debt: huge monetary debt, and the disgrace that would go with it as I was sued through the courts. And I still wanted to escape. I did! I did!! I did, didn’t I?

After that first seeing of the movie “Warrior Girl” was over, I had fallen out with Tommy *****, who clearly only wanted to get his hands up my miniskirt: stormed home to my bedroom, turned the rock music station up full loud, as I always did anyway, imagined myself the princess being kissed by Joannetta ***** the movie’s star, slipped down my panties and masturbated myself, as I slapped my own bare bottom for being so naughty, biting my pillow to stop me crying out in overwhelming joy when I came but twenty seconds later.

I must have suppressed that memory before, but my cunt was wetting now as I recalled it. I had only slapped my pretty bum twice, and I had come, I was so sexy and sexed up then.

And I was “so sexy and sexed up” now, as I looked at the boots I was to wear on my shopping trip with Mi Li. The firebrand that was me at fifteen burned still brightly, but more slowly and constantly and consistently, now that I was a full-grown beautiful woman.

I blushed as I looked at these boots. They were full-leg-length in black leather, tight-fitting leg-hugging black leather. By leg-length, I mean just that. They would cover all my legs like stockings.

These boots also had six-inch stiletto heels, but they were no challenge for me to wear these days. What fascinated both me and the girls that were running them up my gorgeous legs as I sat letting them do just that, was what was atop these boots: the very special protrusions from the inside middle to front tops of these boots.

Despite my being used to having to stand and walk quite literally on the very tip top of my big toes, I confess I staggered momentarily when I was helped to stand in these six-inch stiletto heeled thigh-high boots for the first time.

As I stood, the tops of the boots were less than half up my thighs. Mina and Nina were putting a strong black leather waspie corset around my waist and strapping it in place at my back.

With my delectable delicious natural figure, I needed no assistance whatsoever from this waspie, but it had another purpose: the suspenders for the thigh boots were hanging down from its lower edge.

These suspenders, two at front and two at my hips, were in fact leather straps that would fit into and be held by answering metal buckles on shorter straps at the leather rim of the individual boot tops.

And I was blushing the deepest of deep crimson as Mina and Nina finalised the fixing of these boots to the suspenders. And my blushes were not just from having two very pretty girls handle me, but from the discovery they made of how wet my cunt was as they introduced into it the very special rods atop each boot top.

When I stood fully clad in these thigh high boots that were now firmly held up by the suspenders from my waspie, I still wore, as well as my ponytailed hair my deep crimson blush. I blushed still, because I knew what these thigh-high boots were meant to do, what they were undoubtedly going to do, and what they were already doing to me mentally. For, as I stood, I had the rods from the tops of these boots, six inches deep inside my seeping cunt.

From the inside middle top front of these boots, between my gorgeous thighs, came individual strong quarter-inch diameter stiff wire rods, that swept up from the horizontal and held within my wet cunt, the two halves of a six-inch long one-inch diameter scissor-dildo.

This dildo was jointed at its top inside my sex, by an axle through its penis-shaped tip, so that the two halves of its thrusting length, could move independently. And the two halves of the thrusting length of this six-inch scissor-dildo, forced up within my cunt, would thus move independently in precise measure with my every step, as I walked in my thigh boots.

At my every step as I walked, the two halves of the scissor-dildo would swing to and fro, opening and closing like a pair of scissor shears, about the axis axle in the top of the penis dildo thrust high up into my sex.

As I walked I was going to masturbate myself! I was going to masturbate myself as I walked!! This penis dildo was going to continuously masturbate the inner and outer lips of my split, at every sexy wiggling six-inch stiletto heeled divinely girlily erotically charged step I took.

I gasped with even deeper sexual arousal, as the thought of suffering this turned me powerfully on.

Over my head, Mina and Nina now introduced my imprisoning dress. It was as divinely lovely as the coat I had worn in the drive to Jackie’s country home before my sledge pulling experience. It was of velvet in the same shimmering royal blue, a colour that suited by darkish complexion to a tee.

This dress fitted me like the proverbial glove, from neck to heels: in fact from neck to top of my six-inch boot heels. It had a round Chinese style collar and long sleeves, and it close-clung to my every divinely girly contour. My shape showed through it completely. My shape was superbly girl. I looked superbly girl in this figure hugging all over dress, because I was superbly girl.

It showed the shape of my arms, the slimness of my waist even without the waspie, which squeezed me not at all, the abundant firm beauty of my bottom hemispheres, with a hint of the divine cleavage between them, my superb booted thighs and my wonderful curvy curved calves. And it showed the contours of my divine 36-inch D-cup breasts, their separateness and their togetherness. From the way my beautiful bosom pushed out the clinging material of the dress it was clear that I was, as indeed I was, superbly endowed. But what also caught the eye were my sexually erect nipples. My pointy nipples were so stiff and stalked from the deep sexual arousal I was experiencing, that they pushed out that clinging dress eye-capturingly erotically sexily.

And to achieve all this what did I, a mere girl, suffer?

I suffered from the, as yet never ending, throbbing pain of my whipped back, still welted and wealed and now blue-black bruised with the brutal thrashing it had been given by Mina, as I had tried so very hard, but not hard enough, to pull the doggy sledge.

And I suffered now from the knowledge of the six-inch scissor-dildo up my cunt, one half each from the individual tops of my walking boots, and what it was going to do to me all day long.

And I also suffered now from the purposely imprisoning tightness of the hem of this dress, the zip fastening of which ran all the way down my back from my neck to the dress’ hem, and the hem itself which ran so tightly around my six-inch stiletto heeled thigh-boots, that I could only mince-stutter forward with the tiniest of tiny steps.

This was the ultimate in erotic planning. The tiny trotting mincing little “imprisoned” steps I would have to take in this tight hemmed dress, even to keep up with the slowest walking pace of a little girl like Mi Li, as she accompanied me on our shopping spree, would neatly serve to increase the intimate masturbation of my split by the six-inch scissor-dildo operated by my merely walking in my thigh boots.

I blushed more deeply and gave a little girly fart of sexual enjoyment as I contemplated the hell and heaven that I was to experience, want it or not, that day, all that day….

I felt as incredibly breathlessly breathtakingly sexy as I looked in that dress. On my six-inch heels with my nipples showing my sexual arousal by poking out the material as they were, I was damp inside my sweaty cunt with the pleasure of being girl: of being supremely, extremely, divinely, decadently, goldenly, gorgeously, gloriously, glowingly, girl.

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 14 – Katrina Is A Naughty Girl

What man’s head would not be turned by the sight of two lovely girls, one brown-eyed bold-kissable-upper-lipped little Korean mini-skirted dark-brown-haired angel, and a taller English rose, in tight royal blue full-length velvet, who wiggled so sexily, with her naturally large and very firm obviously braless breasts, swaying and swinging within the tight material of her dress, and with such a wonderful swaying round hemisphered smackable bum as she mince-stepped head down as if in shame at her incredible attractiveness.

It seemed silly to many a man in the street who turned to look at us as we passed them by on our walk from Jackie’s London apartment (to which we had just returned) to the M******* Department Store, but it appeared almost as if the lovely English girl was blushing from being so sexy. Indeed, she seemed to be blushing as if she had just had sex and her cunt was still filled with a cock that it was continuing to slowly savour.

We, I especially, turned the head of many a pretty London girl too. My cunt was so wet. I had never ever known my cunt to be as wet as it was as we wiggled the sidewalk pavement to the M******* store. I had now been pleasured for two continuous hours by the scissor dildo atop my boots. In my cunt, at every step I took, I worked one or the other half of the scissor back or forth within me, so that now my nectar was running in rivulets down the insides of my thighs and into my leg-long black leather boots, I was so turned on to my charms, and being so divinely masturbated merely by the perfectly natural act of walking.

And my sexual arousal had filled-out my wonderful nipples as my breasts flowed in their natural full fully-free stupendous beauty, thereby betraying my arousal by poking out the front of my velvet dress with pleasure spikes, that were rubbed and chafed by the velvet of the tight figure-hugging ankle-length garment, to arouse me the more, and to charge my breasts like two stupendously beautiful batteries with a massive build-up of stored-up static-electricity that pleasure pained my aroused nipples all the more.

I was sex again. I was sex and I was girl. I was girl and I was sex. I was going to orgasm in the street if I had to walk much further. Being masturbated as I wiggled along was so divine. I was sex on legs. I was girl on legs. I was very nearly orgasm on legs.

Girls now giggled as they saw my nipples because they knew what my nipples were saying about the ecstatically high state of sexual arousal I was in. And at their musically lovely unintentionally mocking giggles I became even more aroused.

“Dirty cow!” came the call as I passed two lovely black-haired Asian-Indian Londoners, and I gasped at knowing these dusky stunningly wonderful maidens knew that my cunt must be dripping if my nipples could push out my dress front so pronouncedly, as indeed my cunt was dribbling between my pantiless thighs.

I shook my lovely head to avoid emitting the moans of high pleasure I was feeling from my ongoing masturbation as the scissor dildo went back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth in my cunt, as I girlilly wiggle-walked along.

My masturbation was secret and yet open. Few men seemed to realise the sexual state I was in; most girls did. My driven mind was on cunts and penises and my wetness, and I unavoidably gasped as I day-dreamed for a split-second of Mi Li’s lovely cock and how easily this girl-boy could have slid her prick into my supreme wetness, so her superb nine-inches could have taken both her and me to high heaven.

Mi Li giggled at my gasp. “Oh Katterinna!” she scolded jokingly, and I blushed deep crimson at this reminder that the delectable Mi Li also of course knew that I was at the gates of girl heaven, as I obediently tight-dress-hemmed-little-steppy-wiggled along behind my mistress of the day, being endlessly masturbated by the scissor-dildo atop the rods running up from the tops of my individual leg-long walking boots.

At last we reached the entrance of the M******* Department Store. I tried to walk around to the steady slope of the wheelchair users’ ramp, but was made by a tug on my arm from Mi Li, to take the steps with her. With the unyielding tightness of my dress’ hem, it was all I could do to avoid taking a tumble as Mi Li knew. Her unspoken order that I must use the steps was therefore confirmation of her mistressy over me. I must obey: obey I did.

To prove we both had the required invitations to the all-girl discount shopping day, Mi Li handed over tickets at the door. She then turned to me and reminded me not to forget that I must not leave the store without nail varnish.

I lifted my dreamy-eyed rosy-cheeked divinely flushing beautiful face to Mi Li. “May I have money?” I innocently asked her.

“No”, came Mi Li’s direct and simple answer.

“Will you pay for the nail varnish for me then please?” I asked.

“No” said Mi Li.

“I promise I will pay you back” I countered.

“You must not leave this store without nail varnish”, Mi Li repeated.

“Please will you pay for it till I pay you back, I have no money with me!” I begged.

“No” said Mi Li.

Then with the dawn of realisation of what was happening: “Please!” I begged again, “Please don’t do this to me.”

“You will not leave this store without nail varnish”, Mi Li repeated.

I hung my head in the deepest of deep shame at what I had been manoeuvred into.

“Please, please, I beg you, no”, I whispered to Mi Li desperately.

“Katterinna, you will not leave this store without nail varnish”, Mi Li repeated yet again, looking straight at the top of my head as I bowed before her, helplessly begging not to be made a thief.

“Come with me!”, Mi Li ordered.

I obediently wiggled along, my sexual fire slightly doused by the knowledge of what I was going to be made to do. But my spirits lifted a little as I saw we were headed among the throng of lovely girls bargain-hunting that day, to the scent-counter, where the delightfully pretty red-haired eighteen-year-old Norna instantly recognised me.

I smiled nervously at Norna as we approached. I did not need to. This pretty freckle-faced eighteen-year-old schoolgirl was besotted with me. As soon as she spotted me walking along behind Mi Li, her face had flushed crimson and her eyes wildly flicked from side-to-side in quick motion, as if she dare not look at my beauty, or as if she just could not take all of my stupendous sexiness in, or as if she could not believe what her eyes were telling her.

I tried to catch the pretty schoolgirls eyes. With my gentle look and my body language I tried so hard to tell her that she could look at me, and that I was pleased that she so evidently found me beautiful, and that she need feel no shame.

“Nail varnish please Norna,” said Mi Li

Norna led us to a stupendous and confusing range of brands and colours and bottles and brushes galore.

“It not for me. It for Katterinna”, said Mi Li teasing the young girl.

“Show Norna how long you make nails finger grow Katterinna”, said Mi Li.

I displayed my pretty bendy-back long-fingered right hand to Norna, who blushed and dare not even look at it.

“We buy that one,” said Mi Li pointing to a very cheap mass-produced sub-teenage girl’s brand, which the M****** Store of my younger years would have been ashamed to be associated with.

Norna handed the little bottle to me and dared to look at my face. I lowered my eyes so that she would not feel overpowered.

“You have lovely nails miss”, Norna mumbled, head down and blushing deep beetroot red.

“Thank you Norna,” I said quietly. “It’s very nice of you to say so. Please call me ‘Katrina’.”

Delighted by my power over this very pretty young girl, and imagining what my sexy beauty must be doing to the state of her panties, to judge from her blushes, but truly not wanting to abuse my hold over her, I gave her a quick glance and reassuring smile to tell her that it was really okay for her to desire and lust for me in her schoolgirl’s crush.

And yet I had to abuse that power. I had the cheap bottle of nail varnish unopened in my hand. My wonderfully long fingernails prevented me from closing my hand around it, so as to conceal it fully, but I had my orders and, as ever, I would obey, for fear of what might be ordered done to me if I failed.

“You’re a very pretty girl Norna,” I said, speaking truthfully but purposely deceptively.

As I had calculated, Norna hung her head in the deepest of deep crimson blushes, and I straight away began to wiggle-walk my sexy tight-dress-hemmed tiny-six-inch-heeled girly way to the shop door alone, without Mi Li, but with the prized nail varnish in my lovely hand, wishing to heaven I could walk more quickly, still having my sweaty wet cunt masturbated by the scissor dildo as I wiggled along alone, and fearing the almost inevitable.

I was not wrong to fear the almost inevitable; for the almost inevitable became actuality once I had both my six-inch heels over the store door threshold.

For, once I had both my six-inch-heeled leg-long boots beyond the entrance doorway of the store, one of two strong young women store detectives, tapped me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me miss. I think we have a little problem. Will you come to the manageress’ office with us please?”

It was not a question allowing a negative answer, and in my state of dress and yet undress I was in no position to escape as they patiently let me wiggle-step to the lift that would whisk me, under their escort, up to the top floor and the manageress’ office, where Mi Li was already waiting, with the incredibly beautiful Belinda, the store’s boss.

“Shoplifter for you ma’am”, said my two guards as they turned away from depositing me in the manageress’ room, to leave and continue their duties.

There was no point in my trying to hide my crime. After I had entered the room I, unbid, put the bottle of nail varnish on a table and awaited my fate.

The wonderful tall slim green-eyed blonde, Belinda, now came deliberately slowly over to where I stood, my pretty head nervously lowered and, for the first time, as I dared eventually to look up, I saw her absolutely astonishingly beautiful pale face and those mesmerising green eyes at close quarters. And for the first time too, I saw from whence her beauty came. Belinda’s beauty was undoubtedly the beauty of cruelty. One look from Belinda’s wonderful flashing green eyes told of a razor sharp mind that obviously sneered at the puny efforts of Jackie to tame me, and an overwhelming desire to really teach me a lesson.

Mi Li intervened: “Katterinna Jackie’s girl” she said, to remind Belinda who my ultimate mistress still was, and that Belinda had no rights of mistressy over me.

“Yes!” snapped Belinda, “I know!”

“Have you a receipt for that nail varnish?” Belinda demanded.

“No ma’am” I answered tremulously.

“Then we have been a naughty little girl haven’t we?” Belinda snapped.

Belinda glided her stupendously wonderful model-girl’s figure over to her desk, and pressed an intercom button. “Get Norna sent up to my office right away, and put me through to Girl-Control: tell them we have a shoplifter.”

“No!! I gasped, a pretty bendy-back fingered hand to my right face cheek, “Oh please, please no!!”

“By those very words, you clearly admit the theft, so to call Girl-Control is entirely appropriate it seems to me”, Belinda sneered.

There was a prolonged silence as we waited for Norna to arrive. A silence pregnant with tension for me, as I imagined the local Girl-Control car being diverted from whatever it was presently attending, to take the familiar journey to the M******* Department Store to deal with yet another silly little girl shoplifter.

Indeed, that was just what was happening. A Girl-Control car was making its slow way through the heavy London traffic, stopping and starting. For the two pink-uniformed Girl-Wardens aboard, it was the end of a wearisome shift and they longed to get home to the loving arms of a wife and a girlfriend, respectively. Overtime pay had been stopped because of money shortages, and these young women were in overtime. Neither was in the best of moods even before they had got that last-second call to attend to me before they went off shift.

“Silly little bitches, shoplifters”, one opined for her companion to hear for the umpteenth time in their patrolling together over the past year.

“Bet she’s up to her fucking eyeballs in plastic card debt, and still she wants what she cannot really afford”, the same girl moaned on, worldly careworn weariness in her droning tone.

“All the fucking paperwork it causes us too! Then you take them before the judge, and what do they get? An hour on just the top bit of the spike, that’s all they get: and sometimes not even as long as that!”

“Naughty girls can be whipped now,” her companion reminded her, as if her totally cynical companion had forgotten the recently enacted law.

“Yea” sneered the first girl, “Yea. Whipped. Yea. Yea; yea; yea; and which fucking judge has ever ordered a real whipping, eh?! It’s been a fucking year since the law was changed for jeese sake!”

“You or me should shoot them dead then?” said the girl driving the bright-pink Girl-Control car, and having to listen to the droning cynic all of her working hours.

“Yea!” said the cynic in a comic tone, and both weary young women laughed at a joke one or the other of them had made what seemed at least a thousand times before.

“Still, never mind, she might be very pretty!” said the listening girl.

“Yea” said the cynic cheering up a little, “There is at least that.”

Back at the M******* Department Store, the lovely little schoolgirl Norna entered Belinda’s office.

“Norna!” Belinda demanded, “This bitch stole a bottle of nail varnish, am I right?”

Norna, who had hardly entered the room before Belinda had challenged her, mumbled something none of us could hear.

“Speak up girl!”, Belinda commanded.

“No miss,” said Norna, her heart almost visibly thumping in her chest, and her nostrils flaring as she heaved for breath in her fear.

“What do you mean ‘no’ ?“, Belinda scoffed: don’t forget we have closed-circuit cameras.”

“The lady didn’t steal anything”, Norna stumbled out, for her love of me.

I lowered my head in relief and in deep shame at what I had done to trick this lovely little girl who was, despite what I had done to deceive her, defending me because of her love for me.

“Damn you Norna!” Belinda snapped.

Belinda then slinked over to her desk: “Call off Girl-Control,” she snarled into the intercom….. No………. Scrub that……..Don’t cancel Girl-Control……….”

Even Belinda’s quick mind had not entirely decided what to do with me now Norna had lied.

“You’re not going to get away with this”, Belinda whispered ice-coldly, thinking out loud.

“There are other ways to deal with naughty girls who steal from shops. You, my lovely leggy lady, are going to get a damned good spanking. And Norna? Yeaaa. If Norna wants to keep her job, my pretty little Norna is going to have to spank you!” Belinda announced in her cold clear voice with no attempt to hide her pleasure.

And so I was bent over Belinda’s desk, with the full-length zip at the back of my dress having been drawn up so as to reveal all my booted legs, and my wonderful bare firm side-dimpled bottom half-moons. And I was bracing myself for a spanking from the delectable Norna. And I was contemplating the humiliation of a grown woman of near twenty-seven, having to submit to being spanked on her bare bottom by a virgin schoolgirl nearly ten-years her junior, and my cunt, still filled with the scissor dildo, was moistening even more at the prospect of this further extreme of degradation………

……And then, two Girl-Wardens came into the room, half followed by Belinda’s secretary, who merely showed them in, before returning to her own side of the door, which she closed quietly behind her.

“Girl-Control ma’am”, announced one of the young Girl-Wardens to the obviously in-charge Belinda, getting out her pen and notebook the while. “You have a suspected shoplifter, is it this one here?” she continued, half-looking at, and then nodding towards Norna, as she licked her thumb and then used it to flick through her notebook to find the always elusive next blank page.

“No” said Belinda, “It’s the older girl”

I had risen from my bent-over position, but the Girl-Wardens had already noted how I had been posed before I had turned to look at them.

As I turned my face toward them, the two Girl-Wardens looked at each other, and the one with the notebook, the recent in-car cynic and passenger, raised a single eyebrow to her companion, whose face signalled agreement. They clearly appreciated girl and were signalling that this girl was absolutely stunningly attractive.

“And name?”

“She’s Katrina *****” said Belinda, answering for me as if I were unable to speak for myself.

“Why was you bent over the desk just then luv?” the girl without notebook, the Girl-Control car driver, asked me, aware of the sensitivity of the law toward the rights of individuals. Even girls still had some rights.

“Have you been assaulted? You can press charges.”

“If there is a witness to a theft, there is a now a legal right to spank a girl, as long as it’s only a hand spanking…..but…..”, the patrol car passenger began before being interrupted…..

“……But it can only be done by another girl with a gloved hand or with a bare hand through at least one item of clothing worn by the naughty girl, with no contact with the naughty girl’s sexual parts”, recited the Girl-Warden with the notebook, who was studying for her sergeants examination.

I instantly thought of the lovely Norna. I did not want to get her involved. I had already abused her love for me, and I was not going to do that again.

“No charges”, I said, “Nobody has touched me”. “I did steal: there are no witnesses, but I did steal. I stole some nail varnish. It’s on that table”, I confessed.

The girl with the notebook made another unspoken signal to her companion, who then came over to me and re-zipped my dress down to its hem, before gently taking my wrists and, with a series of well-ordered mechanically-metallic clicks from the girlacles she had taken from her belt, handcuffed my wrists together behind me.

“Not too tight are they luv?” she whispered.

“No…..Thank you”, I answered, flattered by her caring gentle attentiveness to me, when she must be arresting naughty girls all day long every day.

“We need you as witnesses to the Katrina girl’s confession”, said the notebook Girl-Warden, who then finished off her entries by taking the names, addresses and employment positions of Belinda and Norna.

“If I were you luv, I’d take the spanking”, whispered the girl who had handcuffed me. “If you go to court, even if they don’t punish you too hard for a first offence, you’ll still have a criminal record”.

“No” I answered, “I did it, and I don’t want the young girl involved”

“Have it your own way then luv”, said the kindly Girl-Warden, sighing resignedly.

Notebook and pen back in pocket the first Girl-Warden, touched me on my shoulder to make it absolutely clear whom she was addressing, as she wearily and all but incoherently gabbled out: “Katrina ***** you are under arrest for theft. Under sub-section 2 of the Societal Behaviour - Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls Act 2020, as amended by the Societal Behaviour - Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls (Whipping) Act 2023, theft defines you as a very naughty girl. You are therefore to be taken before an all-girl judge’s court and subjected to the punishment of their deciding. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say, including anything you may already have said before witnesses, will be used in evidence against you. Under the Societal Behaviour - Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls Act 2020, as amended by the Societal Behaviour - Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls (Whipping) Act 2023, you do not, repeat, you do not, have the right to a defence attorney, and you are unquestionably guilty of being a very naughty girl, unless you can prove yourself innocent, for which latter purpose you require a minimum of five adult witnesses. Do you wish to say anything?”

“No thank you”, I whispered, with the tears welling in my eyes.

The two young Girl-Wardens were gentleness itself as they took me on my wiggle six-inch-heels-atop, scissor dildo cunt masturbating, and tight-hemmed-dressed tiny-steppy, handcuffed walk to the lift, a back entrance to the store, and then to their waiting Girl-Control car. Once behind their bright pink car, they opened the boot (the trunk) and helped me in, before slamming it shut to leave me, foetally curled-up in the total darkness: their prisoner.

For an hour the car struggled through traffic to the local Girl-Control headquarters that was, in fact, only a mile or so from where I had been arrested, albeit that there was no direct route because of the one-way-roads systems.

Why was I jammed into their car’s boot?

It now seemed as if Mary ******** ruled England. This right-wing shock-jock had only to sound-off about some pet hate, and the law seemed to be changed within the very same week.

The increasing prevalence of naughty girls was one of her abiding themes. It seemed less than a month since her tirade about shoplifters and how, even after they had been arrested, they would, according to her, get a luxury ride, snug and cosy on the rear seat of the cop car, being chauffeuse driven to where they could make a phone call, paid for by the state, to an attorney, also paid for by the state, who would then get them off, before suing Girl-Control for wrongful arrest.

Radio was not the only outlet for her and her kind. The “Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls” laws had effectively been their legislation. The government had enacted it after the women-voters-only referenda of course, but it was if the government were merely doing as the right-wing zealots told them.

Naughty girls were ruining society, or so the radio broadcasts and the TV chat shows, and the column inches in the tabloid newspapers would have us all believe. Whipping had even been made to sound like an act of kindness.

If not ruled directly by the shock-jocks, the government was certainly ruled by the opinion polls. And I was going to taste the correctional procedures that had been introduced piecemeal over the previous four-years, before being swept up into the two major Acts of the Assembly that had just been quoted to me, as was required, at my arrest.

Putting me in the car boot, rather than on the rear seat of the car was not strictly in the legal requirements; not yet at least. But it just showed how much government cowered and complied when these dreadful women spoke their and, allegedly, the great British public’s mind over the airwaves.

Last week, the Ministeress of Interior Affairs had issued an instruction to Girl-Control about naughty girls under arrest not being allowed to sit in police cars, and so I was bundled into the boot of the Girl-Control car that was taking me to the local precinct stationhouse: that was by how much the shock-jocks all but ruled our country now.

These were admittedly strange thoughts to be having, as I lay curled in the dark of a Girl-Control car being slowly driven to the local Girl-Control headquarters, but I so wanted to understand why all this was happening to me, and there was some consolation in knowing that we women had, after all, voted for the changes slowly being made to the old hitherto familiar society. At least the great majority of us had, even if I myself had voted against.
“Your too late for the tonight’s court session”, said the desk sergeant as the two young Girl-Wardens took me before her desk at the precinct station, “It’s full up and we’ve only got the one cell to keep this one till same time tomorrow night….”

“Name?” she demanded, and I answered her on that, my address, my occupation, place of birth, etc, and a series of totally shaming questions, including my sexual orientation, whether I was an intact virgin, and when my menstrual period was next due.

Even as I was being registered, my two escorts, who were long since due off duty, had removed my cuffs, and were helping me undress, until I finally stood totally naked before all the Girl-Wardens and all the members of the public who wandered in around and out of the station.

One of my original captors then held up and read a number off, what looked to me like a folded potato sack.

“Er, yeh, it’s ’three; six; er….D for Delta; two; four; three, seven; hyphen; double-nought; one’ sarge”, she said.

“Prisoner number 36D2437-001”, the sergeant noted in her register, before turning the register on the counter and proffering the still naked me, her pen.

“You must sign if you can write, or else you can mark the register with a fingerprint. She said in a bored matter-of-fact tone.

As I signed with her pen, she gave me the required standard resume for very naughty girls guilty of theft.

“Tomorrow night in court, you’ll be asked to plead either ‘guilty’ or ‘very-guilty’. If you just plead ‘guilty’, the court will decide if you have made the right plea. If they consider you have made the wrong plea, they are entitled to order that you be persuaded to change your mind”, the sergeant told me, looking me straight in the eyes with obvious sadistic enjoyment.

“So”, she went on, “as you might guess, it’d probably be wisest to plead ‘very-guilty’ even though ‘very-guilty’ means extreme punishment. Or then again, you can plead just ‘guilty’ and hope that you can withstand the persuasion they might use on you, if they decide that ‘guilty' was the wrong answer.”

“If you are found very-guilty, your name, a photograph of your face and of your cunt, together with your prints will go on national record forever, and you will have the status of ‘girl-second-class’, meaning that you can never again have paid employment, have no right to vote, may not own property, may not have a passport or a driver’s licence, and must hand to the state all the savings investments and property you presently own, including any pension scheme, so that they can be transferred to a more worthy girl.”

“The only exception to this is debt, for the repayment of which, as a girl-second-class, it is permissible for those you are in debt to, to apply to the courts to have you legally made a slave, i.e. for them to own you, in which case you become a ‘girl-third-class’ and lose your right to any residue of citizenship, including the right to a name,” she went on. She was all too familiar with that which she had told many a very naughty girl by now.

“For a second criminal offence, whether you are found very-guilty or merely guilty, you will become ‘girl-fourth-class’ and therefore a slave owned by the state, which can then use you entirely as it pleases, or sell you, or even export you, subject of course, to judges’ approval,” she concluded.

“English girls are fetching a very high price in the export market right now”, she added as a bye-the-bye.

Tears welled in my eyes at this confirmation of what I had already known, in outline at least, to be the inevitable consequence of my being arrested for theft. The calls in the popular press for a clampdown on the growing misbehaviour of girls had been heeded, and the resulting legislation was truly draconian. I was of course subject to the law, even though I had been among the few who had voted against it in the referenda.

An A3 sized sheet of white paper was now pinned at each of its four corners, on a flat board, thereafter rested, for the moment, on the Girl-Control station’s counter. On the paper at present, there were just two printed words: “left” and “right”.

Then suddenly, completely without emotion, the kinder of my two junior Girl-Warden captors had donned a stained right-hand glove, dabbed a sponge in some black substance and, to my truly absolute amazement, had begun carefully daubing my bare nipples with what could surely only be ink: black ink.

It was just my nipples she was covering with ink. She cupped each of my breasts in turn, gently in her warm and soft ungloved left hand, as she applied what absolutely surely must be ink, with the sponge in her gloved right hand, with her tongue held gently between her teeth, as if in aid of concentration and carefulness in what she was doing.

“You alright with that Lynda?” asked the sergeant.

“Yea,” came the distracted answer from the gentle girl, “I need the practice. I’ve got this one right though. Made a right mess of the last one last night. Still, she did need her arms holding back while I did it. Put up quite a fight; not like this one. Julie does this in a trice. Never quite got the knack myself”.

They talked to each other almost as if I, a fellow human being, was not even there. My nipples were being painted black without any consideration of me whatsoever.

I had yet to make one-and-one make two over what was being done to me here. What was going on? It seemed totally crazy to be putting black ink on my nipples.

Then the girl slipped with the ink-impregnated sponge and put a daub of black on my left breast

“Sorry luv”, she said to me, “I’ll have to wipe that bit off” she told me. With a quick flash of a reassuring smile, and another look of focused concentration and care, on and about what she was doing rather than at or for me as such, she took a cloth with some spirits on it and wiped the splatter of ink where she had slipped with the sponge, off my exquisitely lovely soft firm left breast.

The girl painting my nipples was clearly being very careful to put ink only on my nipples themselves. She had spoken to me as if I must know what was going on: as if I must have realised it was to happen: as if I must know why it was being done: almost as if I had wanted it to happen which, in an odd way I did, because I was so curious about what was going on and why.

At last, as if seeing my total puzzlement, the sergeant showed a touch of what could almost pass for humanity by her standards: “We have to take your nipple-prints. Same as a fingerprint but unique to each girl of course. Sorts the girls from the boys, eh!?”.

She then chuckled at her own joke. She must have been telling the same joke to all the girls arrested for being very naughty over the last four years and more.

“They are as unique as fingerprints” she went on. “But everybody is fingerprinted at age fourteen now. They’ll be connected with your fingerprints already on file of course, but it’s quicker to double-check if there’s an existing criminal record on an arrested girl, by simply making her rest her nipples on the special computer scanner. Gets results in milliseconds. Great idea. Girl who thought of it is a millionairess now they say……..”

“Could have checked you on the computer of course, but the damned system’s down again at the minute, and you look like a first timer. Your nipple-prints will be crosschecked anyway of course,” she concluded.

Strangely, I listened with total fascination at this completely novel idea. It was perverted science. Strangely erotically sexy, and yet at the same time such a brilliantly practical idea that I almost found myself forgetting why it was being used on me, forgetting that I was a prisoner having a criminal file compiled on her, and wishing I had thought of the idea of nipple-prints myself.

“You will bend over the table, hands behind your back, and press both your tits hard onto the paper, before standing up again” the sergeant instructed. “You’re a very firm girl, so your tits won’t need any holding”, she mused.

Moments later I was having the ink wiped off my breasts and two perfect black circular imprints were on that A3 sheet: the ink prints of my lovely nipples, left and right.

Is it too strange to relate that, after my nipple-prints had been taken, an intelligent girl like me was straining to see the outcome of this procedure, completely novel to me as it was at the time? I did just that. It gave me ease from my dreadful fear at undergoing the due processes of arrest. I was completely alone. To take an interest in, and think about nipple-printing, gave my mind just one precious moment of distraction from my fear.

I was soon brought back into the horrible reality.

I now had the shame of getting on my back on a table, whilst a digital camera was used to photograph my face and both my head profiles, before I must lift and part my raised legs at a 60-degree angle, and hold them thus as my cunt was also photographed for my criminal file.

Then strands of my pubic hair were cut and adhesive-taped to the A3 sheet, along with a cut snippet of my head hair, both being thereafter labelled respectively. Finally, my face and cunt photographs were being printed. The digital camera had already labelled them with my name and: “36D2437-001”. My face and cunt pictures were then mounted in turn on the A3 sheet.

“DNA too” said the sergeant, suddenly for no reason, “It don’t matter none if you dye your hair. And all cunts are different too. That’s why we took the photo. Cunt pictures are used as a double-check when nipple-prints match. DNA’s expensive and slow to get an answer on see!”

The sergeant, my two captors and finally, I signed the sheet.

I now had a criminal record. A digital photograph of the assembled sheet was taken, and the sergeant said that she would feed it into the national databank when it was up and running again, before sending the original sheet for DNA to be taken from my hair and fed into the record also.

This record would become permanent if I admitted to the court that I was ‘very-guilty’ or if, despite my only wishing to plead ‘guilty’, the court persuaded me to plead ‘very-guilty’.

If I could get the court to accept that I was only ‘guilty’, the record would be deleted after only one year on file.

If I were found ‘very-guilty’, the photographs of my face and my cunt, and my nipple prints, would also be filed on another computer, which was accessible to girls who get turned on by looking at police records on naughty girls, and whose payment for access was used to help defray the costs of computer upkeep.

For extra payment, these same girls would also be able to watch a video stream of my trial and punishment. I had heard that it would have become the most visited website in the world, had it not been that the government had lately decided to allow punishments to be shown on free-to-view national television.

My ponytail making ribbon was removed from my hair and I was passed my prisoners uniform.

It was a sack. It was the sack the Girl-Warden had read the numbers from. It was nothing other than, or more or less than, a potato sack. It was made of jute, rough hairy tickling scratching and itch-causing jute. It was a sack. A recycled potato sack, but it was still only a sack.

My fellow girls were clearly enjoying the look on my face as I puzzled over what they had handed me. Then I noticed that the bottom of the sack, or what had been the bottom of the sack, had had its corners cut off and a hole cut in its centre.

I felt the horrible roughness as I eased my slender pretty arms through the holes at the corners of what had been the base of this sack when it had been a sack, and pushed my head through the middle hole, before using my slender lovely long-nailed naturally bendy-back fingers to ease out my hair.

This was prison dress. This was my prison dress. My prison dress was nothing other than, or more or less than a very old very recycled potato sack: jute, a horrible rough hairy scratching itch-making jute potato sack.

It was prison dress, cheap and simple. It only just covered my bare bottom as I stood wearing it and nothing else. And, even as I just breathed naturally, I could already feel its horrible roughness chafing my bare nipples.

I could also smell it. It was filthy. It smelt of stale sweat and dried urine. I had heard that money was saved by never laundering the prison clothing in the prisons, and now knew at first-hand that this was true.

I looked down at my chest, divinely poking out this crude cruel prison dress, and read upside down from my chest to my belly emblazoned in horizontal, red, six or eight-inch high lettering, attached by metal staples, the bent-over ends of which also scratched my soft girl’s skin:

“Very Naughty Girl


“Lovely bum!” the sergeant shouted shamingly after me, as she watched my femininely undulating rear, as I was being walked bare foot to the cells.

“May I use the bathroom please?” I asked the kinder of my two Girl-Control captors.

“You can go in your cell”, she told me with a hint of upset in her voice as her companion snickered.

“Yea”, mocked her very tired patrol mate, “She can go in her cell”.

The shock-jocks had sneered that the cells for naughty girls were like homes-from home: the lap of luxury. The prisons for naughty girls were like summer holiday camps. There was too much liberal softness. Prison needed to be taught a lesson a naughty girl would never forget.

We had walked to the rear of the Girl-Control precinct to a row of some twenty to twenty-five steel doors with a keyhole in each individual door and with a thick cover over each individual keyhole. Obviously, these were the cells, and I noticed that the solid steel doors had no window or sliding trap or spy-hole in them, such as you see in TV programmes and movies.

I was walked barefoot in the stinking ex-potato sack that was my prison dress, labelled with my prison number front and back, to cell five.

The kindly Girl-Warden pulled the cover off the keyhole, swung the cover up so that it stood vertically above the keyhole, put in the key, turned it, and began to swing back my cell door. And my heart sank to the deepest of deep depths that I had come to this. I was a criminal: a convicted criminal about, for the first time in my life, to be incarcerated in a police cell to await my trial: a trial that would only decide the level of my guilt, the fact that I was guilty having already been decided by the way the law now worked.

My nose was instantly repelled by the stench of stale human sweat, urine and faeces that hit me as the door of the cell I was to be put in was opened. I tried to pull back, but my arms were grabbed.

“It’s alright luv, it’s alright”, said the kindly Girl-Warden.

“Once your in there you won’t smell it no more!!”, mocked her companion.

“Don’t be so cruel. It’s the poor kid’s first time damn it!” rejoined my gentle escort.

Her friend was duly silenced, though radiating sulky anger.

“I’m sorry luv, but it’s the law….” said my gentle escort.

She opened the cell door fully. The screech of my horror could be heard back at the sergeant’s desk!

As its door was opened, I stood immovably frozen and simply gawped open-mouthed as I looked into that cell.

It was six-feet high with a three-feet square floor and ceiling, all sides being of cold bare concrete.

There was no bed, no seat, no toilet, no washbasin, no warmth, no food, no water, and no window. It was the standard “hell-hole” for naughty girls laid down by the Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls Act 2020, an Act of the Assembly.

There was a lip to step over in order to enter. The floor sloped gently from the back of the cell toward that lip. And in the floor, at the front near the lip, was a two-inch diameter hole – a drain hole, and on the edge of the drain hole, and half hanging into it was, what was, quite clearly, human faeces.

In the roof was a pipe with holes. “The shower goes automatically at three in the morning and three in the afternoon”, said the gentle girl. It runs for exactly two minutes.”

I felt almost sorry for the Girl-Warden who was telling me these things.

“I’m afraid prisoners only get cold showers”, she told me kindly once more.

“And…. and…. look…….. I’m sorry luv, but the shower….. well: it’s er,….. it’s,…. well,…… they don’t waste fresh water on naughty girls see. Again it’s the law. It’s an economy to store up all the pee and recycle it……….”, she tailed off in her genuine upset at this.

“Look luv, if you can hold yourself, you know, I mean try not to go to the bathroom for the other thing. You know, the other bit, the bit that you’d want the shower to wash away. You know what I mean, sorry to be crude. I mean a shit. I mean…. I mean, you know…….. try to hold your shit till the shower is on see……so it washes it away……. you know……..”.

I was not entirely listening because I was just so horrified, not at what she was telling me and I was half hearing, though that was horrendously cruel, but at what I was just simply staring and staring at: that which had caused my scream, the shocked raising of a pretty bendy-back long-slim-fingered long fingernailed hand to lovely agape mouth, and my trying to pull back when she had opened the cell door.

For the floor, all three walls, the door that formed the fourth wall, and even the ceiling of this hell hole were lined with six-inch long, half-inch-diameter-base-tapering-up-to-point-ended, steel spikes, rusty steel spikes, arranged in alternating rows, so that there was no more than one-inch between the bases of any given pair of spikes.

The whole cell was lined with spikes walls floor ceiling and even the door!

“You must go in luv. Stand in the middle and I’ll give you time to turn toward the door before we shut it. None of the spikes will touch you if you stand exactly in the middle and keep standing very still on tiptoe luv. Of course, you can’t sit down and you have to stand on tiptoe all the time because of the spikes in the floor. It’s to keep you always stood to attention see, and to stop you ever sleeping I’m afraid. That’s what the law lays down see. Naughty girls have to be made to stand always to rigid attention so as to show respect for the law. But look luv: if you get stood in there as comfy as you can, and you make sure you can hold some of the spikes on the side walls so as to keep yourself standing till we come to take you to the court this time tomorrow night, I won’t say anything, and neither will my mate, and that’s a promise luv, okay?”

“You must go in now luv,” she coaxingly repeated, “It’s the law see….”

I gingerly tiptoed my sexy-legged way over the doorway lip, and between the spikes coming up from the floor, and turned very slowly and very carefully, to face the door, enforcedly having to stand on the very tips of my big toes, because there was no space between the spikes to put my feet flat to the ground.

Indeed as I stood tiptoed rigidly to absolute upright soldierly attention, I could only do so, with spikes coming up between each of my big and second toes.

As advised by the kind Girl-Warden, I gripped a spike in each of the sidewalls with my pretty hands, and I sobbed in abject misery, tears coursing down my lovely soft cheeks.

“Stand back from the door luv”, said the kind girl.

I did, and it was slammed shut, the vicious spikes with which it too was totally covered thrusting toward me in the instant total pitch darkness, and leaving me surrounded with spikes millimetres from every single part of my body, meaning I could not move without being scratched or, ultimately, cut or stabbed.

I was left in absolute total and utter darkness as the key was turned and the cover put back over the keyhole; darkness to which my eyes could never adjust to compensate, because it was total darkness: absolute and total darkness.

I sobbed as I smelt more of the faeces of the girl who had been in this cell before me, faeces I now realised that I was standing in.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god please!” I wailed helplessly, totally alone and totally unheard beyond the savage embrace of the spikes millimetres from me all around above and below, forcing me to forever stand to attention, enforcedly permanently unsleepingly never-endingly at constant rigidly upright tiptoed attention, to show my respect for the law in my completely soundproofed naughty girl’s cell…

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 10:11 AM
Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 15 – Katrina On Trial

The endless pitiless darkness in which I sobbed and howled in the deepest of deep misery in the soundproofed pitch-black naughty girl’s cell, alternated with the endless pitiless darkness in which I determined that I must only plead ‘guilty’ at my trial.

The horror of losing my citizenship rights and even becoming a slave if the court found me ‘very-guilty’ was constantly preying on my mind. I still owed huge debt to Jackie. If the court found me very-guilty, I would have no right to paid employment. Jackie would then surely apply to the court to have me made her slave, so that she could use me to repay what I owed her. She was a friend, but friendship has its limits and there is nothing like money to end friendships, no matter how strong they seem, or how long they have hitherto endured. Jackie had not made all the money she had now accumulated, by squandering any significant amount on friends.

I continued, as I enforcedly must, in the endless pitiless darkness of the hell cell, to stand on very-tip-top-tiptoe. But even a fit girl such as I, could not do so forever, and I was in agony after four hours of succeeding in keeping sexily leggilly tiptoed, from having to lower my heels and thus impale them on the tips of spikes, one in each heel.

Even after that, I had tried to move to ease the agony of being constantly stood at rigid attention. As a consequence my lovely bare arms were scratched and bleeding.

Then I had been overcome by overwhelming tiredness, let myself fall back, been viciously stabbed in my gorgeous buttocks and the back of my magnificent thighs by the cruel totally unyielding spikes on the rear wall of the cell, only for my reflexes to shoot me forward so that my glorious bare thighs were then stabbed in the front.

I had screamed with the agony, and then compounded and completed my misery my letting go my bladder so that my golden steaming hot urine had run in long rivulets down the insides of my gloriously shapely legs, this heat to be immediately followed by the 3.00 a.m. firing of the overhead shower, dousing me in freezing cold pee for two whole wholly and totally miserable humiliatingly cruel minutes.

I was beyond even sobbing after all this. All I had was my determination to stay alive. This cell was punishment for being a convicted thief. It was also to break my spirit so that I would be so tired and tortured and submissive, that I would plead very-guilty in the court. I was not going to be broken; I was not going to plead very-guilty.

And yet later, as I suffered the excruciating agony of repeated cramps in my superb long calves, I found myself calling out to be released. I begged for mercy. I shouted that I would plead very-guilty if only they would let me out of this hellhole.

I did not mean it of course. I could not help it. I was a girl in hell and agony: absolute hell: absolute agony.

My hell could not be more complete; or could it?

I had lost all track of time. Was it an hour or four or two since the shower had gone off? I did not know. I could not recall. But what I did know was that I desperately needed to defecate.

What choice did I have as I stood rigidly unsleepingly tiptoed to enforced soldierly attention surrounded on all sides by the vile spikes that were to keep me standing to attention in my cell, forever standing to attention to show a naughty girl’s respect for the law.

I could not even lower my pretty head in the deep deep shame that filled me as more of my hot dark-yellow girl pee running down the insides of my gloriously shapely legs was close followed by my vile stinking fart of long pent up bowel wind, followed by the echoing “slop” of my faeces as I defecated from my enforced constant standing position, and my fresh stinking shit slopped on my cell floor, on my thighs and on my strong shapely calves, to which it clung.

I still had some tears left in me, and they ran down my pretty face as I stood in my own shit and piss, my own stinking filthy shit and piss filling my nostrils with its stench.


Endless, endless, endless hours passed like endless, endless, endless days, as I continued, as I must continue, to stand sexy leggy tiptoed in that cell. I had almost cried with relief when the second firing of the cold girl pee shower had at least washed most of my shit off my legs. And I had had to drink some of the girl pee.

Then there was a scratching on my cell door and a laser-white burning bright shaft of light as the keyhole cover was lifted.

My heart lifted too, and I cried out for joy. But then I heard a girl’s voice say: “No not that one, it’s number seven”, and the light disappeared as the cover went over my lock to fully re-soundproof my cell once more, and to be followed by more seemingly endless hours of pitch-dark heartbreaking misery for me.


Despite that experience, I somehow knew it was me they were letting out when the keyhole cover was opened once more.

My cell door was opened and I heard a familiar voice say: “Hello luv”, and I broke down and cried once more.

When my eyes were able to stand the light again, the two Girl-Wardens that had arrested me stood ready to take me to the court.

“My, you are in a mess”, said the kindly girl. “You’re to go before the court, so we’ll hose you down first, they don’t like them smelly”, she continued.

Then she whispered that I should try and catch a drink as I was hosed: “Lift your prison dress and we’ll hose your bum clean for you as well luv”.

Her companion was readying the hose, and I was being escorted to a corridor corner where there was a drain, as my gentle Girl-Warden said, out of the hearing of her colleague, “Don’t ask for food luv, we’re only allowed to feed the prisoners on their own shit.”

The water from the hose was bitterly cold but so, so, very, very welcome as it washed my body of my pee and faeces and I caught as much as I could to drink, the kindly girl making her colleague point the hose at my lower face for some time so that I could do so.

I was still dripping with the water that gave my incredibly wonderful legs a compelling glowing shine, as my wrists were handcuffed behind me, and both Girl-Wardens walked me along the corridor to the waiting court.

Suddenly even the kind Girl-Warden seemed harsher. I could sense why. It was fear.

“Don’t let us down bitch. Plead very-guilty and we’ll get a bonus see”, sneered the not so kind Girl-Warden.

“When you get to the dock, you must put your feet in the stirrups” advised the gentler girl. “You’ll see what I mean. And you must address the judges as ‘my most revered and highly honoured ladies’ and refer to yourself only as, ‘this very naughty girl’. You plead as you think it right to do as well luv…… Be brave luv!”

I became all too aware of the constant buzz of conversation as I was walked closer and closer to some very high elaborately carved wooden doors, one of which stood open. This was the courtroom coming ever closer, and that hum of assembled women was the noise of the judges their clerks and the public come to watch them administer justice in the next case: ‘The State versus Katrina ******’ ”

As we three got closer to these doors, I wanted to turn back and had to be grasped.

“You must go in alone, right to the front and into the prisoner’s dock”, I was instructed.

Still wearing only my shaming recycled sack as prison dress, but otherwise totally naked and leaving spots of my blood behind where one of the wounds from the spikes that had dug into my heels as I had stood in my cell for those endless hours, had not scabbed over, I femininely swayed into the court. My lovely bum hemispheres were undulating naturally, and my gorgeous titties flowing and swaying to and fro, rubbing my nipples on the rough sacking I wore, as I wiggle-walked into the court.

A hushed silence fell over the place, followed by a gasp and then a sob, at the obvious post-torture state I was in, from what I instinctively knew, even though I walked with my head down in fear, to be poor young Norna.

As instructed, I made my way to a raised platform, which was just a few feet from the bench of judges. I could feel their eyes enjoying my body as with my strong shapely sexy legs I took each of three two-foot high steps, flashing my naughty naked bum as I did so, to stand on the prisoner’s dock.

Once on the platform, I saw what must be the stirrups. They comprised four short planks of wood arranged into two upright “V” shapes. I lifted my gorgeous right leg, and put my pretty right foot into the V forming the right stirrup. My foot sank down and I lifted my glorious left leg, and put my dainty left foot, still bleeding as it was, into the left V, and I was now standing with all the feminine magnificence of my orgasmically stupendous legs tiptoed en-pointe, for the court to enjoy the most erotic sight in all the world: a girl with wonderful legs.

There was a sudden buzz of a motor, and I swayed a little, having been taken off-guard as, unexpectedly for me at least, the stand on which I was on top-tip-of-tiptoe super-leggy-display, began to slowly rotate so that the whole of the court and all the judges could see all of the body of the very naughty girl who was before them.

“Which one is this?” demanded the head of the three judges, as I continued to slowly rotate on humiliating display to the court and to the public gallery.

“Very Naughty Girl 36D2437-001: a convicted thief: a shoplifter m’lady”, answered the Girl-Warden who had taken notes at my arrest.

“Ah yes,” mused the judge, “Katrina ******. Stole scent.”

“With all very due respect m’lady, it was nail varnish”, the Girl-Warden interjected in a nervous and very apologetic tone.

“Whatever”, the judge rejoined. “Old enough to know better. She’s a grown woman, and a very, very, delightful one too,” she mused.

“Witnesses for the prosecution?”

“Two very respectable members of the public, officials at the store where the theft took place and who heard 36D2437-001 confess m’lady, as did my Girl-Control colleague and I just before the arrest itself m’lady”

“Defence witnesses?”

“None m’lady”

“First offence?”

“Yes m’lady”

“I see from the computer screen, that she’s intelligent and well educated, as well as being extremely beautiful. Is she an intact virgin and is she presently menstruating?”

“No m’lady. Neither of them m’lady”

“So, she’s a candidate for the spike then”, the judge mused out loud once more.

“36D2437-001 how do you plead, guilty or very-guilty?” the judge asked me, in a surprisingly gentle way.

I remembered how I was obliged to couch my response: “My most revered and highly honoured ladies. This very naughty girl humbly begs to plead guilty,” I whispered, with my chin on my chest, as I continued to be slowly rotated on public display.

The three judges chatted very briefly.

“36D2437-001, ‘guilty’ is an inadequate plea. Do you change your mind and plead very-guilty?”

I was silent momentarily from shock at this response, and from it’s being given me in so short a time.

“My most revered and highly honoured ladies. This very naughty girl humbly begs to only plead guilty” I whispered once more, this time my voice betraying the full trembling depth of my fear, now that I knew I was expected by this court to have pleaded very-guilty.

“36D2437-001, you can either change your mind now, or we will give you an hour in which to change your mind from ‘guilty’ to ‘very-guilty’, and that hour will be very distressing for you. Do you wish to change your plea to very-guilty, here and now?”

I recollected that I would lose nearly all my citizen’s rights and could even be made a slave were I to be found very-guilty, and gave the only response that I could: “My most revered and highly honoured ladies. This very naughty girl humbly begs to only plead guilty” I repeated with tears trickling down my exquisite face.

The judges turned to one another and chatted among themselves, as my lovely body, wrists still handcuffed behind my back, continued to rotate on display for the pleasure of the all girl court and all-female public audience. Then one of the judges wrote something down and passed it to a clerk, who hurried away with the slip of paper.

“36D2437-001, we have decided you need persuading to change your plea. Unless you change your plea to ‘very-guilty’ here and now, you will suffer an hour-long whipping. Do you wish to change your plea?”

I was choking with my tears as I responded: “My most revered and highly honoured ladies. This very naughty girl humbly begs to only plead guilty”.

“Bring her back when she has been taught a lesson”, the chief judge ordered in a bored and resigned monotone.


My two Girl-Control escorts took me down from the dock and a general hubbub broke out in the court among which I heard, “I love you Katrina, I love you!” from the melodic girly voice of the lovely schoolgirl Norna.

I was taken into an anteroom in which I immediately saw there were a number of posts and a startling number and variety of whips hanging on the walls. The walls of this room were white-tiled as was the floor. Four very strong looking older women, mid-thirties to early forties, were there, and had obviously been waiting around for me to be brought in.

“This 36D2437-001?” the woman in charge of them asked my escorts.

“Yea” said my crueller escort.

“Do us a favour darlin’ and take ‘er dress off of ‘er for us will yer?” asked the chief torturette.

I had never ever felt as lonely as I felt now. Lonely and very tired after the endless completely sleepless hours in that horrible cell: hours that had been meant to tire me and to break my spirit. Soon now it would be forty-eight hours since I had slept, and the dark black rings under my lovely dark-brown but bloodshot eyes told that this was so.

The Girl-Wardens took off my handcuffs and lifted my filthy prison old-coarse-sack uniform dress over my head, as the chief among my torturers re-read the note the judges had sent her.

She then looked up and caught first sight of me fully nude. “Wow! Wow! Wowwee!! Well lookee here. You are a beauty and no mistake. What lovely titties! You ought to be a model darlin’. See someone whipped your back already, not so long ago….. Bit of a naughty girl were yer darlin’?”

She then looked in obvious admiration at my pretty rosebud-pink nipples, with their one-inch diameter areole. “We’ll ‘ardly be able to miss hitting them gorgeous nipples will we darlin? Bet they really turn the other girls on don’t they, eh?”

The chief torturer’s companions took over from the two Girl-Wardens who had left me alone with the four older women, and I was tied by straps with by back to a wooden whipping post that ran from floor to ceiling. Straps held my ankles to the post, more straps just above the knees tied my legs to it, a single broad strap tied me around my belly to the post, another strap under my armpits across the top of my chest, and a final one around my neck, finished my tight close, immovably tight close, binding to the post.

The women binding me, then went behind the post and tied my wrists to the back of the post at the height of the small of my back.

The chief torturette inspected my bonds. “Get the cushion up behind her back and tighten that belly strap, I want the chest and her tits thrust right out, yer get me?”

She gazed at my chest: “Ain’t they beauties. She must be a good D or double-D bra cup with big ‘uns like that. And so firm! Lucky bitch! Lovely big nipples too!!”

The operation of pushing a cushion up behind me, to thrust out my chest the more, being completed, I stared out horizontally, having no choice because of the way my neck was strapped to the post. I stared out horizontally as did my totally naked breasts. I stared out horizontally only too aware of the completely nude vulnerability of my wonderful soft nude mammaries, and of their delightfully pretty one-inch diameter areole rosebud-pink nipples.

“Now then darlin’, we’re going to see just how high these lovely titties of yours will bounce ain’t we, eh?”

“We knocks ‘em down and up they bounce, so we knocks ‘em down and up they bounce again, and it fuckin’ hurts darlin’, cos it’s your fuckin’ nipples getting hit wiv a tawse, a very special tawse just for pretty nipples like the beauties you’ve got, eh?”

“Look at it darlin’” she waved one of the two tawses they were going to use on me, in front of my eyes. It was a one-foot-long, quarter-inch-thick, black leather strap, with three tongues at its business end.

“Nipple whip darlin’” she went on. “The two outside tongues kiss your nipple-surroundings, and they’ve got flat steel studs in ‘em so that ‘urts, and the middle one gets you right on the point of yer nipple itself. It’s a steel ball that one darlin’, and that one hits you just a bit later following through behind as it does, and that one really fuckin’ ‘urts”

“Me and my girls, we’re spot on at hitting nipples. Yer titties will bounce like they’ve never ever bounced before, like yer didn’t know they could possible ever bounce; but we’ll still hit you dead on your nipples, time and time and time again darlin’, cos we’re good at it, that’s what we are. Dead on the nipple, time and time again, we’re that fuckin’ good!”

“Do you want to plead very-guilty now before we starts on yer darlin’?”

I was horrified at the prospect of what was going to be done to me, but how could I plead very-guilty knowing it could well result in my being made a slave?

“No!” I said, in a louder voice than I meant the word to come out with.

“Look darlin’ you got an hour to change yer mind. We don’t want to hit yer lovely titties. Believe me. But when we gets goin’ it’ll feel like you’re your titties are goin’ to be whipped right off.”.

“I am only guilty: I am only guilty”, I sobbed.

“Look darlin’. Believe me. When we get goin’ you’ll wish you’d never had titties.”

I am only guilty!” I cried out once more.

“Have it your own way then darlin’”

“Set the clock goin’ Tracy”.

My sixty minutes began to tick away and the whipping of my lovely perky nipples began on the dot of the clock. The chief woman and one assistant, Tracy, hit one each of my breasts whilst the other two girls waited with thin highly flexible headmistresses’ canes in their hands, with which to whip my poor nipples when their turn came.

My first two torturers built up their rhythm and my breasts bounced like wild independent creatures, as if they were trying to leap free from the rest of my body, or to hide themselves from the next vicious whip kiss.

They worked totally methodically, taking one breast each as their targets and careful aim at the tip of the breast for every stroke. They would wait for the reverberations of previous strokes through my full firm breasts to settle before they struck, and took account of the heaving of my breathing and my struggles to turn myself away from their terrible torment.

They also took due time to line up their aim and ensure they had the full swing they needed to ensure the hardest strike and thus the worst pain. These were professionals who took pride in their work. They knew how to make the torture worst for the victim and therefore the more likely to bring the surrender to the “very-guilty” verdict the court sought from the naughty girl at the receiving end. They knew how and when to swing their tawses to get the maximum delivery at the point of impact - the point of impact being the points of my breasts: my poor beautiful nipples.

The tawses were being used to prepare my nipples for the real interrogation of my will: the savage questioning from the canes to come.

And the accuracy of my torturers was phenomenal. No matter that my breasts were bouncing and threshing up and down and side-to-side as they were hit with all the force of the full savagery that these strong women could bring to bear. And no matter how much I howled with the terrible pain as each stroke stabbed my nerve endings like red hot pokers, not least the cruel balls on the middle tongue of the tawses that hit the centre peaks of my nipples, so that I screamed with the pain, they hit me time and time and time and time and time again, nine-times-out-of-ten, exactly on my beautiful nipples, and it was excruciating hell.

It was pain, it was agony, it was brutality, it was horribly frightening, as I feared I must lose my poor nipples so hard and so often were they being hit, and so hard and so far down were my breasts being thrashed, before they bounced up to almost hit my upper chest and then levelled throbbing and still shuddering from their thrashing down, only for their nipples to be hit hard once again, and for the breast hit to dive and stretch and bounce up hard and high, and then level and throb and twitch from the reverberations of the impact of the tawse on its nipple, only, once steadied, to be brutally hit on its nipple once more, and once more dive down stretched by the savage impact, and dive up in springing reaction, to level and throb and judder, as its companion breast was now whipped and it dived and bounced and levelled, and the original breast was now whipped again, and bounced down and down and stretched and flew wildly up to level and have its companion breast hit once more, so that its companion breast dropped and thrust down and flew up, and on, and on, and excruciatingly on, and on, they thrashed my nipples, as I cried out in total total agony.

And to my torturers this was everyday work, and they chatted about inconsequentials or deeply personal matters as they thrashed my nipples time after time…

“You ain’t really goin’ to fuckin’ Scotland are you, that’s not a holiday. I told my Sarah it was Italy or nowhere for us, else I’d divorce ‘er….”

My brutal thrashing continued even as this base discussion was going on……

“Got a lot of bounce ain’t she?”

“Give her another twenty on each one and we’ll let Mandy and Amy use the canes on them”

“……Like I say, you’re only goin’ to fuckin’ Scotland for that tart. She’s only sixteen and still at school, you dirty cow. Still she is a cracker though. They’re so fuckin’ randy at that age they just can’t keep their panties on, you fuckin’ lucky bitch!”

“Wouldn’t mind shagging this one either. She’s a real cracker, eh? See one wiggle of that bum of ‘ers, and you’d be a deeply weird bitch if you weren’t turned on, eh? Bet she loves to fuck! Bet if you got a finger on ‘er clit she’d be all over you like a fuckin’ rocket-rattlesnake, eh?”

Such was the skill and practice of these women that there was no let up in my brutal thrashing, despite this chit chat.

“Bet she’s got a fuckin’ juicy cunt too. Ain’t she like that photo model? You know, that Katrina whatshername? Totally knockout stunnin’ she is: that Katrina whatshername. Wouldn’t mind getting my hand in ‘er knickers, I can tell you, eh?”

“So. Do you wanna plead very-guilty now then darlin’?

My preparatory whipping had been stopped.

“No” I sobbed.

My preparation and the possibility of my surrendering to the initial whipping with the tawses having been gone through, my torturers turned to the even worse evil for me: the canes.

“Go on then Mandy, and you Amy. Use the canes on her nipples and make ‘em fuckin’ bleed. Then she’ll give up, the dumb fuck”.

I tensed as the two reserve girls took up their individual stances one each side of my tight tied body. Mandy went first. She tapped lightly on my left nipple with her cane, lifted her cane high above her shoulder, arm out straight, straight up in the air, and then backward of straight, and then brought it down through a 180 degree arc directly on my left nipple with greater accuracy than a laser guide bullet, whipping right through with her cane, and I screamed and screamed with the terrible terrible pain when her cane’s tip thrashed my left nipple, thrusting my stretched breast down with such rapidity and force that it bounced back up even harder and higher than either of my breasts had hitherto bounced with the hardest strokes from the terrible tawses.

And I tensed again as Amy now tapped on my right nipple to align herself for the stroke, and then whipped her cane tip down on my totally naked right nipple with even harder force, and I again screamed with the terrible pain.

“Mercy! Mercy!” I begged.

“You wanna plead very-guilty now then darlin’?”

I made no answer but the cane came down on my left nipple with a whistle and a “THWICK” and this time my cry was sexual, undeniably sexual: deeply, divinely, girlilly sexual.

I was in the ecstasy of agony that positively proves the saying that a truly beautiful girl should only ever have love made to her in one of two ways: by another truly beautiful girl, or with a whip.

Amy, lined up her cane to whip my right nipple again and I wanted to feel the absolutely horrible pain. I wanted to have my tit’s very tip thrashed brutally and unmercifully. Thrashed to feel its helpless superb beauty dance to the tune of the cane. Thrashed to have its dream that it was free to move and flow and float, as is the desire of every girl’s bare breast in the world when its encumbering and controlling brassiere is peeled from her to let her breasts roam wild and free on her chest as nature intended, and be taught by the cane that it’s movements must be controlled and harshly disciplined, and that it would be given pain to teach it its place in the world, to show it that it was just a breast and had no right to roam and no right to be free, and that if it claimed such rights it would have its arrogance thrashed from it, as the cane would beat it down, and though it might bounce up again in its strong willed arrogant beauty, it would be thrashed down even harder again, to teach it that it ultimately had only one direction of movement, the humbling painful downward direction in which it was being thrashed, and that it would be thrashed harder and harder and again and again, until it learned that it had no right to freedom and roaming and must learn to be humble and be controlled and contained, and that its wildness would be thrashed out of it even if it had to be made to bleed to understand that though it may be very beautiful, beauty has its price, and that price is to choose containment and constraint over freedom and roaming on a girl’s lovely chest, or to try for the freedom and wild roaming, and risk meeting its mistress in the cane, that would whip it until it surrendered to tameness, to pain it, to bruise it, to cut it, to make it bleed, if need be to make it bleed, so as to humble it, to teach it its lowly place, and that freedom and roaming on a lovely girl’s chest to entice and excite, have their potential price in extreme pain.

The cane’s tip came whistling down for a third time on my left nipple and I moaned with sexual abandonment as my lovely breast bounced wickedly hard but did not learn its lesson and stay down where the cane put it, but bounced arrogantly up once more to challenge the cane to discipline it again as if to say I will not be beaten down, my beauty will not surrender to your pain. And Amy whistled her cane harder still down on my right nipple and again my sexual moans echoed around the tiled torture chamber in which I was being so brutally whipped for being a very naughty girl.

The cane then swooshed down for a fourth time on my left nipple, and I girly gasped with the horrible pain from my lashing lover, the wicked wanton witch switch that kissed this girl so searingly savagely sexually on her tortured tit tip, to bounce the bountiful beauty of her gloriously gentle mothering mammary, to teach it subservience to power through pain and make it bow before its brutal mistress, only for its perky independent imperiousness to stand it up back from whence it had been thrashed, and to therefore beg to be thrashed once more, to be taught a lesson that it just would not learn, that a beautiful breast is for the capture and control of a brassiere and not for nature’s natural free floating and roaming on a beautiful girl’s chest, and that for all breasts found outside their rightful and proper containment and control of brassieres it is always open season for their wanton wildness to be thoroughly thrashed from them.

My right breast jiggled and joggled with the thrashing down of my left. Amy waited with practiced patience for my lovely flesh to settle and for the vibrations of the bounce that my left breast had just been brutally smashed into, to run their delicious course through my superb bosom, so that she could be sure of a wholly accurate and precisely hard hit on my right nipple with the tip of her cane, with which she now lightly tapped my right breast to line up her aim. And I wanted my nipple to be whipped again. I wanted my nipples to be whipped again and again and again. And the sound of my sexual sexy girly moans was changing in tune from the pleasure of the pain from my recently whipped left nipple to the still echoing pain of the previous lash on my right one, and to the anticipation of yet another of the never ending lashes on my naked nipples. And this time Amy waited longer so as to make me wonder if my whipping was over, and to give me the psychological torture of thinking that it was all done, and I had survived, so that she could break me by the sudden new lash on my tit tip. And she this time began to jiggle my breast by using her cane to tap the underside of its beautiful pert firmness so that she set up vibrations through my soft girl’s flesh and so that my right breast was still jiggling lightly as she again brought her cane down on my right nipple with a resounding THWICK and a murderous holler of pain and wanton wicked sexual pleasure from me and my wholly sexually absorbed and obsessed mind, as my cunt was rolling me through a slow burning orgasm from the whipping and whipping and whipping of my nude nipples

No sooner had my right tit resettled in its arrogant perky pert pose, than Mandy whipped my left nipple again. So accurate was her aim and so co-ordinated, to my misfortune, was her timing, and the timing of my tit in levelling itself to sit up and defy the thrashing, this was the hardest hit yet. I moaned with sexual abandonment as my lovely left breast bounced wickedly hard but did not learn its lesson and stay down where the cane put it, but bounced challengingly up once more to defy the cane to discipline it again, as if to say I will not be beaten down, my beauty will not surrender to your pain. And Amy whistled her cane even harder still down on my right nipple and again my sexual gasps groans and moans echoed around the tiled torture chamber, the cries of a very naughty girl being whipped.

The cane came whistling down for a sixth time on my left nipple and I began to beg to be whipped. I began to call out for my tit tips to be whipped with the cane tips, for them to whip my nipples and whip them hard and harder.

And my completely brutalised left nipple was at long last split by this cane stroke, and my blood spattered on my face as my tit bounced up, and still I let out the deepest of deep animal sexual moans, my nectar already dribbling from my cunt.

And my right nipple was whipped with Amy’s vicious whistling cane a sixth time and blood spurted from it too, to splash on the floor and onto Amy as my breasts continued to be taught their place by the canes that thrashed them down to humble them and beat the arrogant thrusting beauty from them. And my blood was spattering my torturers as my tits would just not learn their lessons and must continue to be continuously whipped and whipped even as my split nipples splashed my blood on me and my horrendous pain pleasured my cunt and I was coming with the biggest rolling thunderstorm of orgasm.

And Mandy whipped by left nipple with its seventh and the very hardest stroke of the cane yet. And even yet my insolent breast would not stay down when the cane whipped its nipple so extremely hard down, so extremely far down, that in its upward spring the blood spurted from its nipple onto the white-tiled ceiling of the room. Amy now waited patiently for my arrogant breast to settle itself, as Mandy signalled to Amy that this next stroke was going to be Mandy’s once more, and that she was going to discipline this haughty tit that so wilfully disobeyed its mistress by returning every time to the place from which she had whipped it. And Mandy whipped my left nipple yet once more and I screeched with pain as she hit my left nipple even harder still. And still my disobedient left tit would not surrender its right to protrude in all its soft feminine firm bountiful bouncy beauty from my lovely chest.

The girls with the canes rested, and they were back to using the tawses on my nipples to soften up my will, to keep pain in their targets for the next round with the canes, and to let the girls with the canes be refreshed sufficiently to once more use maximum force on me.

But now at each THWICK of the tawses, I was begging for them to whip me harder and harder and harder and harder as my cum was rolling on slowly with my horrible agony. And the thrashing of my tits was spraying blood from my split nipples all around where I was so tightly tied.

And my breasts would not be tamed, no matter how hard or how often they hit my nipples, even though my body was running with drying rivulets of my nipple blood as they whipped and whipped and whipped my nipples with the tawses.

“Whip me! Whip me! Whip me! I audibly moaned, my gorgeous brown eyes betraying my rolling orgasm as they whipped and whipped and whipped my poor bleeding nipples.

“Give ‘er some straight on ones Mandy, you’re the best at those”, ordered the girl in charge to one of my caners.

My breasts settled after their constant thrashing with the tawses. And I still moaned begging them to whip me, as the crimson blood from my split nipples flowed beneath the wonderful under-curvature of both my breasts and then trickled down my belly.

Then Mandy’s cane whistled in a bent-back-with-the-force-at-which-it-was-flying-horizontally-arc, and I howled and hollered with agony as she whipped both of my nipples hard-on, straight-on, slapping both of my breasts so hard into my chest that my breath was beaten from me………….and I fainted…….


I awoke under the cold-water hose that was washing the blood off me, and off the tiled walls ceiling and floor. I was being washed of my blood and, coincidentally my nectar, so that I could be taken back into the court.

I had survived my hour of “persuasion”. The court would surely now have to accept my plea of only ‘guilty’. I could surely not now be found ‘very-guilty’, even under the new laws for the treatment of naughty girls: or could I?

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer

Chapter 16 – The Verdict

My two Girl-Warden escorts had been sent for and now came into the torture chamber to take me from there back into the court.

The kinder of the two took one look at my breasts and gasped out: “Oh you poor luv, what have they done to you?”

Nonetheless she helped in the putting over my head and lovely slim arms, of my prison dress, so that I must endure the pain of having my terribly whipped nipples rub on its coarse crude rough sackcloth. And it was she who returned the girlacles to cuff my wrists behind me once more.

The senior torturerette, gave this Girl-Warden's cynical colleague, a signed paper for the judges, and I was once more wiggle-walking barefoot, with my natural leggy undulating-bum-hemisphere gait, so delightful and delicious to the eye of all who appreciate girl, back to the court.

Once more I must enter the court on my own, and once more I wiggle-walked down the centre aisle, to long-lovely-leggily, bountiful-bum-flashingly, climb the steps to the prisoner’s dock and slot my feet in the stirrups, so as to once again be forced permanently onto the very tip of the tiptoes of my incredibly beautiful legs.

The dock began rotating again, as I stood with my girlacled hands resting on my gorgeous bum, my head held hard down humbly, wearing only my rough and dirty prison dress, emblazoned front and back with the big bold label: “Very Naughty Girl 36D2437-001”.

The chief of the three judges gave a signal, and the senior of the two Girl-Wardens came up to the stand, and walked around it crabwise, following the motion of its slow rotation, as she unlocked the girlacles, and took one half of them off my wrists.

“36D2437-001 will lift her prison dress clear of her upper body so that the court and the public can see that justice has been fully carried out”, ordered the same judge.

I was aware from the warm trickle on my right under-breast, and my belly, that the rubbing of my prison dress had caused my right nipple to start bleeding once more. I was not aware of the incredible extent of the violent bruising that had come out all over my lovely breasts, and it was this wickedly livid bruising, as much as my bleeding nipples, for both bled again now as I caught my left one with the coarse dress, that caused the public to gasp, as I dutifully lifted my dress hem up over my head, and held it there, thus hiding my head within the inside-out garment, to show my brutalised breasts, as I slowly rotated on display.

A despairing cry of: “Oh Katrina!” came clearly from poor young Norna in the public gallery.

I was ordered to pull my dress back down, and it was instructed that my girlacles be clipped around both of my wrists behind me again. And so I stood tiptoed tortured and trembling terribly for the verdict of the judges, who had been given the report of my tormentors, and were talking among themselves.

The lead judge cleared her voice.

The court fell silent.

I held back my tears of trembling fear.

“36D2437-001, it is the decision of this court to accept your plea of ‘guilty’. Even so, it remains an established fact that, according to the law, you have been a very naughty girl, and should have been found ‘very-guilty’. However, you have bravely withstood your testing persuasion, and we also acknowledge that yours is a first time offence.” The judge pronounced, slowly, and clearly, to the totally hushed assembly.

“However once more”, the judge continued, “The increasing prevalence of naughty girls in today’s society is something we judges would be totally failing in our duty were we not to clamp down upon severely. You may only have stolen a small bottle of scent, or nail paint, or whatever, but that very act has already cost the totally innocent young shop-girl you tricked into an unguarded moment, her job. Indeed the job and career prospects she has been dismissed from were the job and career she was hoping to take up fully when she finally leaves school in the summer.”

“36D2437-001, you are approaching twenty-seven years of age. You are a fully grown and very beautiful girl. Highly intelligent and extremely well educated as you are, you are certainly old enough, intelligent enough, and educated enough, to know better than to be naughty. So, even though we accept that you can, this time, get away with a mere ‘guilty’ plea, this court must set the example that you as an older girl should have set, and this court must save you from a second offence.”

“36D2437-001, it is my unpleasant but necessary duty to sentence you to one-hour on the spike, with the additional and exceptional, but wholly necessary adjunct, that you be whipped to oblige you to take, and until you take, the spike fully within you, and therefrom taste the full fruit of your having been a very naughty girl.”

“36D2437-001, have you anything to say?”

I stutter-stage-whispered in my fear and horror: “…..My:…. My most revered…… My most revered and highly honoured ladies, I humbly trust I ….I …that I ….that I, ….that I may….. ….that I may: that I may, t’take my punishment: t’take….t’take my punishment like a g’….like a girl.”


The second act of legislation under which I had been found guilty, the Societal Behaviour - Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls (Whipping) Act 2023, laid down that naughty girls would be whipped in public, so that justice could be seen to be done and to act as a warning to other girls about their behaviour.

I therefore knew, as I still rotated on display in the prisoner’s dock, that I would very shortly be stripped totally naked and forced to go out onto the raised platform where, in this particular part of London, the naughty girls where whipped, and the very naughty girls spiked.

Furthermore, I knew that my public whipping would be either live on national television and / or at least filmed for the weekly Saturday night entertainment on the main state station. This TV station had bought the sole rights to these events, and now had a Saturday night show that had taken almost all the audience for its main rival’s, Girls’-Soccer highlights programme.

Whippings had been rare despite the Societal Behaviour - Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls (Whipping) Act 2023 allowing them once again. So this channel felt obliged to show the same poor girls being flogged, and even to hold contests to decide, from some slow motion whip strokes and their facial reactions, which of five or so stokes went with which pained facial expression, and which combination of lash and face was the “stroke of the month”.

My rotating stand was stopped and the two Girl-Wardens took me down, and walked me out of the court, back to the torture chamber, where I had already been whipped so unmercifully. The platform on which I would very shortly be publicly displayed was beyond doors at one end of the torture chamber.

Because of the use to which it was put, the torture chamber was, of course, soundproofed, so that the screams of the naughty girls undergoing persuasion, only echoed back off the walls. I could not therefore hear the all-female, advance ticket-only crowd, which had gathered at the word that there was going to be a whipping.

Nor, therefore, was I aware that bets were being taken on how long I would survive before fainting under the pain of the whip. Nor either, could I hear the voice of Jemima ******, who was the acknowledged expert on the punishment of naughty girls, knowing the punishments handed out over the years, and all the complex of statistics, so that she had become the commentator of choice during the live action before the gathered public, and the subsequent cut down TV film and highlights.

Jemima was performing even now, outside, where the crowd were waiting for me. She was the mistress of the inane comment. The comediennes, who could imitate her soprano upper-crust voice so easily, regularly used a phrase she had never in fact uttered, but which seemed to sum up her bland inconsequential contribution to the events, suggesting that during a whipping she would say to the onlooking audience, who could all very well see for themselves on the surrounding magnifying projection screens, the like of: “Ouch! She really felt that one didn’t she?”

Jemima ******* held the mike up to the pretty lips of her very well made-up face, and began to make the introductory comments that would go out now on the public address system, and also be recorded for editing when the highlights of my torture were broadcast on the upcoming Saturday nights.

“Ladies, we’ve heard that the very naughty girl who is to endure the spike here shortly, is to also be whipped. The spike has, of course, been a regular punishment for very naughty girls since the passing of the Societal Behaviour - Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls Act 2020. But my records show that it has never hitherto been combined with a whipping for the girl being punished on it. Naughty girls get whipped; very naughty girls get the spike, but tonight I believe, we are going to witness, the very first time that they have been combined”.

Thus began Jemima’s commentary, holding the cordless lip-microphone up to her red lipsticked, generously lipped, and very kissable mouth.

“The Societal Behaviour - Correctional Guidance of Wayward Girls (Whipping) Act 2023, of course reintroduced whipping for naughty girls. But I am told by the leading judge in this case, who is an acknowledged expert on these two particular Acts, that the bench chose to set an example here, in that the girl to be punished for being very naughty, is an intelligent and educated young woman, who, as that same judge put it, quote, should be old enough, intelligent enough, and educated enough to have known better, unquote. Ladies, perhaps in what this wise judge has said, there is a ‘quote for the day’ for us.”


Though as yet unheard by me, and those with me, closed behind the soundproof doors of the torture chamber, Jemima’s inane commentary echoed off the nearby buildings as the over-loud public address system, long overdue modification or, better still, replacement, crackled and squawked with static, and occasional electronic feedback.


Outside, Jemima continued to mouth her nonsense: “Now, of course you are all wanting to know who the very naughty girl is on this occasion. Officially of course she is just a number, and that number is: ……let me just find my notes here…….: yep…..yes, that number is, 36D24…. erm….. 36D2437 ….erm….437-001.”

“So those of you at home, taking part in the telephone draw, if your home telephone number begins with ‘36’, one of our studio girls will be phoning you shortly: and all you have to do, is answer the simple question: ‘how many strokes will she get?’ And, if you get the answer right, and, of course, if it is your correct answer that is drawn by the very naughty girl after she has been whipped, you could be today’s lucky winner and be on stage with me at the very next London whipping!! And how about that?!!”

“Oh, and I should have said of course, that terms and conditions apply to the home telephone number draw.”

“Now the girl. Well, ladies, I understand that she stole a bottle of scent would you believe…..”

“Excuse me, one moment please, I’m getting a message in my earpiece….Can you repeat that please?…..the name? Yes of course……”

“…..As I was saying ladies, we are in for a real treat this evening because, if my information is right, the very naughty girl to be whipped here today, is none other than Katherine *****, the international model……..“Katrianna. ….repeat that please………sorry ladies my earpiece again….. ‘Katrina?’ …..’Katrina’ I’m informed.”

“Now not many of you will know Katherine, but I am told that she is as sexy as she is beautiful, and that she is certainly very beautiful. I think we have a still here from one of the magazines Katherine,………. sorry, Katrianna, has appeared in.”

“There it is now on the big screen….No… that’s the wrong one…..Yes….this is Katherine ladies. Isn’t she lovely? Wouldn’t we all like a figure like hers ladies? And I needn’t ask the gentlemen if they like her figure of course! No…….. sorry,……….. no gentlemen allowed here are there: but I mean if men were allowed here………..”

“And a special treat for the gentlemen, if there were any here of course, is that I am reliably told that Katherine is a devout lesbian. Does that turn you on boys? Yes, of course it does…..or it would if you were here wouldn’t it?”

“Wait now, I think the doors are opening for us, so we will shortly be able to see the spike, and then Katrianna,…….. sorry, Katy, sorry Katherine, will be brought out before us……..”


I heard the end of this humiliating commentary echo around the room in which I now stood, the doors to the public stage having been rolled open, waiting to be forced out onto the platform, totally nude, before the baying crude crowd of women and girls, gathered notionally to see justice carried out on a very naughty girl, but in fact gathered to enjoy seeing a sexy girl suffer pain.

I was already stark naked, except that my number had been removed from my sacking prison dress, and hung now on a chain around my neck, still labelling me as: “Very Naughty Girl 36D2437-001”.

I also wore a steel collar padlocked at the back of my neck, and my wrists were held in individual cuffs at the end of very short chains attached to the back of this collar, so that my hands and arms were out of any reach of my being able to use them to help myself in my upcoming torture, and my already severely whipped breasts were lifted such that they continued to poke out from my chest challengingly insolently.

I heard a cheer from the crowd as a metallic dragging noise told me that the spike had been moved centre stage.

Did it have to be so soon after this, that I was ordered: “Come on darlin’. Sooner it’s done sooner it’s over, eh?”

The cheer for the arrival of the spike was nothing compared to that the crowd emitted at my appearance.

As I girlilly leggilly wiggly-walked in my natural very feminine gait, the crowd whistled and cheered and jeered. I could see Jemima’s lips moving as she was commentating on what was happening, but she was totally inaudible now that the baying crowd had a beautiful girl at their mercy.

I was taken to the front of the stage, and my tears rolled down my face at the evident unmerciful desire of every woman and girl in the crowd to see me suffer.

No time would be wasted in taking me to the spike.

And there it stood in mid-stage. It was made entirely of steel. Its base was a sphere of steel: a sphere perhaps twice as big as a large globe-atlas-of-the-world, such as is found in many a school geography room.

Perhaps to describe the base as the like of a globe of the planet Saturn would more aptly indicate its size as compared with a classroom atlas-globe. To describe it as “Saturn”, would also conjure to mind, that around the “equator” of this base globe, there ran a six-inch wide solid steel platform, rather like the rings around Saturn, but welded to the huge heavy ball-base, and not free orbiting like Saturn’s rings of course.

From the edges of the six-inch wide ring platform around the Saturn sized, classroom globe-like, solid-steel ball-base, three supporting legs came down, at equally spaced intervals. But all of these even-length legs must be too short to touch the ground on which the ball-base stood, as all of the legs, presently had wooden chocks under them, so as to hold the spike itself pointing vertically upwards.

And the spike itself? The spike itself thrust hard up from the centre top, the “north pole” of the heavy steel globe. It too was solid steel but of round cross-section two-inches in diameter. It was also rigid, save for a telescopic element that enabled it to be pulled out of, or pushed into the globe, to adjust its height for the height of the girl, and the length of the legs of the girl who must ride it.

For me, the spike was set at forty-inches. It therefore rose forty-inches from the top of the ball-base. At its top it coned into a point, as if it were an inverted nail, the conical point that gave it the name: “the spike”.

This would be cruel enough in consideration of how I was shortly to have to ride this hideous torture device, but there was an added potential cruelty for all girls that must ride the spike.

Some of the public referred to this additional device as, “the pineapple”, some as “the fist” and some as, “Satan’s baby”, because the forty-inches tall, two-inch diameter spike, was not in fact two-inches in diameter for the whole of its thrusting height.

Nine inches down from its pointed tip and subsequent straight-sided circular-cross-section shaft, the spike gradually flared out like an onion, slowly at first, then gathering to a ball, before returning back to two-inches again.

And for the second nine-inches for which the spike flared out eventually into a ball, after the gradual initial expansion from the two-inches of the majority of the spike, the ball it became was of no less than seven-inches diameter.

And furthermore, whilst the rest of the spike was in smooth steel, the seven-inch diameter ball was covered with dozens of unyielding half-inch diameter quarter-inch midpoint-high, smooth headed eruptions like studs: raised profiles, “pimples”, like the mirror image of the dimples in a golf ball.


Somehow I found myself fascinated by Jemima ******’s commentary, or rather that she insistently stood near me, no more than two feet from my naked bound body, and yet all I could see were her lips moving, as she talked into her lollipop like microphone, her words being completely drowned out by the howling and cheering and lewd and rude remarks about my body, and about my being lesbian, that the girls, for it was the girls rather than the older women who were particularly wanting to see me suffer, threw up at me in their screeching screaming blood-thirsty voices.

Then Jemima thrust her microphone at me and all I heard was: “………..your breasts?”

I made no answer because I heard no question, but I looked down, as best I could in my steel collar, and could see that my savagely whipped nipples were bleeding once more.

I glanced down at my poor breasts for no more than two seconds, before I was grabbed by two of my four tit torturers, and lifted off the ground by strong arms, one from each girl, around my waist, and strong hands, one each under my lovely thighs, lifting my thighs so that I was being carried as if I were sitting upright in a chair, as I kicked my sexy legs in the fight against the horror of what I knew was coming.

One of my torturers was shouting in my ear, barely audibly above the tumult of the sex-and-blood aroused crowd, that I should keep on my toes if I did not want it: “right up inside me”.

Ramps for those carrying me were in place either side of the spike, and I had been carried up so that I was now held, still as if sitting in a chair, with my cunt hovered above the dreadful forty-inch long two-inch round spike, widening out to the seven-inch diameter ball “Satan’s baby” nine-inches down from its apex.

The crowd now bawled in unison: “ONE; TWO; THREE…..” counting to the time when I would be let go.

“Get ready with yer legs darlin’” shouted my chief torturer. “LEGS! darlin’ LEGS!” she shouted to try and get me to hear above the blood crazed crowd. It’ll go right through yer if don’t get yer legs down darlin. LEGS! darlin’ LEGS!”, she shouted.

She held me tight around my waist, and my thighs were let go, and I reached at full divinely sexy stretch with my orgasimically wonderful legs, to try and touch the six-inch wide “equator” platform with my toes.

Then she let go my waist and the crowd bayed in unison as my cunt slid down the first nine-inches of the pole, and I was impaled on the dreadful agonising spike, that had slid so easily its first nine-inches into my cunt, even as I stood on the equator platform welded around the ball-base on the very tips of my toes to stop the spike going further into me.

I gasped for breath. My lovely breasts rose and fell with the heavy nineteen-to-the-dozen heaving of my chest. And my flared nostrils and lovely invitingly open mouth gulped for air, in my crazed sweat-bathed and sweat-shining incredible fear. And you could almost see that my heart was beating so hard and fast that it must surely burst out of my lovely chest.

The spike was massive inside me. It was huge in its brutal coldness. It was titanic in its unyielding rigidity. It was gigantic in its ripping hardness. It was my punishment for being a very naughty girl.

I was impaled on the hardest coldest and cruellest penis. None of my torturers were immediately near me. As far as the risk of my potential escape was concerned, they had no need to be. I was impaled totally helplessly. I was inescapably impaled. I could not escape my impalement: I could not escape, period.

And, even as I stood penetrated a calculated cruel cold nine-inches by the spike that was my punishment for being a very naughty girl, I already suffered from having the soft flesh of the insides of my thighs chafed by the next nine-inches of the spike, the nine-inches where it flared out to a seven-inch diameter ball.

This ball-bulge, containing enumerable outward facing raised metal studs, had already introduce itself to the soft, soft, soft, smooth and lovely flesh of my inner thighs, as I was impaled upon the first nine-inches of the spike, standing in the sexiest of lovely-leggy-leg-stretched tall-tiptoe-long-leggy pain-gasping unsteady struggle, tippy-toes on the “equator” platform around the base globe, fighting to keep on the very tip of my big toes on the platform, so as not to have the spike go even further up into my wonderful cunt.

I struggled helplessly and hopelessly to free my hands from the back of my steel neckband in order to find some means of comforting my cunt, which was opened so wide by the nine-inches of the two-inch diameter spike up me. But I could not free my hands and I had no right to comfort. A very naughty girl has no right to comfort.

And the ramps they had walked up holding my body before it had been impaled on the spike were being taken away. And the chocks that supported the three legs of the ring platform at the equator of the ball-base of the spike, the platform on which I stood on my bare tiptoes, fighting to keep myself tiptoed so that the spike would not rip further into my cunt, those chocks were taken away…..

……and I cried out in petrified agony as the ball-base of the spike instantly rolled over from one pair of these legs to another pair. The fact that all three of the legs were too short for more than two of them to be grounded at any given time, allowed the huge ball-base to roll from side to side, and back or forth, with my poor body impaled upon the equivalent of its massive cock, so that I dare not even twitch a lovely muscle, because the ball-base would roll and the spike would be forced from side to side, or to and fro, within my poor tortured cunt.

And my pretty toes danced on the narrow platform as I fought and fought to stay both tiptoed and to re-balance myself every time the ball-base rolled from one unpredictable station to another, and I was crying out for mercy as I danced, lovely long, strong long, shapely long, beautifully long, leggy-legged long, tiptoed long, orgasimically leggilly on the narrow platform, the dance of the very naughty girl.

And as I enforcedly danced the tortured dance of the very naughty girl, impaled on the spike, so did the super-soft sensitive flesh of the inside tops of my gorgeous thighs get rubbed and bruised by the raised studs on the bulge just below this very naughty girl’s captured cunt.

And they left me there to dance for them. They watched the sweat of fear and pain streaming down my sweet body as I danced the dance of the very naughty girl in the hot spotlights, as the ball-base rolled at my every little muscular twitch, and the “north pole” on which I was so cruelly and immoveable and inescapably impaled, swung from one position to the next when I moved, as I had at some time to move, being a live human girl and not a statue.

And the spike swung over from one side to another, or forward or back, or in both directions at once, and I must ride it with my cunt, I must go where the spike went, where the ball-base rolled, and I must be fucked by the spike as it rolled my lovely girl’s body with its huge erection in my most sensitive hole, fucking me, fucking this girl unmercifully, fuck-raping her super-sensitive cunt. And I must ride the nine-inches of spike thrust unyieldingly erect and wholly hard up into my cunt, and dance the dance of the very naughty girl, as the base rolled and took my impaled cunt with it, and thus my gorgeous body with it, as I cried out in my terror and my pain at being thus brutally fucked.

And I must now, this very naughty girl must now, be whipped on her bare body to make her go right down on the spike: for right down on the spike is where this very naughty girl must be compelled to go for her full and proper punishment, and to set an example to all other girls contemplating being naughty.

And Mandy and Amy were behind me and, the crowd were baying so loudly for me to suffer, that I did not hear the whistles of their canes, but I felt the blistering fire on my beautiful bum half-moons, as THWICK, THWICK, in quick succession they whipped my poor bare bum. And I screamed as the ball-base rolled around wildly with my body impaled on nine-full-inches of its huge steel cock, and at the terrible pain of the canes red-striping my bare bum. And my toes slipped momentarily, and I did my sexy very naughty girl’s tiptoed dance, to keep myself tip-top-tiptoed, for fear of my cunt going further down onto the nine-inch-long, seven-inch wide, brutally unyielding, noduled bulge, that was the next stage of the spike, and which was already at the lips of my delicious cunt.

“Open yer legs darlin’!” shouted my chief torturer. “Open yer fuckin’ legs darlin’!!”

“She can’t ‘ear me. Fuck the noise. Fuckin’ crowds. Open yer fuckin’ legs darlin’!!!. ,,,,,,,,,,”

“It’s no use, she can’t ‘ere me!”

“Give ‘er some on ‘er thighs…THIGHS,” she shouted to Mandy and Amy, making a whipping motion at her own thigh to make herself understood above the absolutely tremendous noise of the all-female crowd enjoying my torture.

I had closed my lovely dark-brown eyes momentarily, but they soon shot wide-open, as did my pretty mouth with a scream that even the crowd heard above its own noise as, THWICK, THWICK, my stupendous thighs were both whipped with the canes in unison.

It hurt horrendously, and the pain was still searing me, as the ball-base rolled and I all but lost my tiptoed stance on the ball-base’s equator platform. And my inner thighs were again bruised by the bulge, with its horrible raised studs, and THWICK, THWICK my outer thighs were whipped again, and I screamed, and the ball-base rolled, and I rode the spike with my cunt, tiptoed in my incredibly sexy very naughty girl’s dance stance to stay on the ball-base’s equator platform.

“Open yer legs darlin’!” my chief torturer signalled with both her own parted legs, and her slow delivery of the instruction for me to part my legs, an instruction she hoped I could lip-read, such was the impossibility of being heard in the noise of the crowd at their enjoyment of my sexual suffering.

I did not understand, or at least I did not want to understand, what she meant, and avoided reading her lips. So her signal now, was to tap herself behind her knees. I did not understand what this meant either; but Mandy and Amy did……

Moments later, THWICK, THWICK, I was whipped by the tips of Mandy and Amy’s canes, wickedly hard on the backs of both of my knees. And to the baying shouts of blood-lust-joy from the crowd, both my legs kicked forward, and I lost my tiptoe-grip on the equator ledge around the ball-base of the spike, and I was kicking my powerfully pretty legs as if I were riding an invisible bicycle. And I was hollering in terrible, terrible, excruciating agony, because my cunt was being ripped open by my now completely unstoppable slide, down the dreadful spike, onto the bulge with all its horrible raised studs.

And my luscious legs were forced wide out horizontally wanton-prostitute-obscenely-wide open and out as I slid down, the 115 pounds of my delectable body taking me in an unstoppable slide, so that my cunt lips were initially parted by the gradual widening of the upright spike, until at last, as my legs were forced wide apart by my slick slide down the pole, my cunt was compelled to open and endure the dreadful reverse birth of taking the noduled ball into it.

As the seven-inch bulge ripped through my outer cunt lips and began to tear my inner lips, a second nine inches of the spike was going inexorably into my lovely cunt, and I was penetrated by the whole horrible nine-inches of ripping and tearing bulge. And I was only saved from being penetrated further than the eighteen-inches of spike that was now hard up my cunt, by a cross-rod through the spike on which my perineum finally and blessedly rested.

I was filled with the pineapple; I was ripped by the fist, I was carrying Satan’s baby in my cunt, and I was howling, and howling, and howling, and howling, in terrible, terrible pain, as the ball-base rolled around with me impaled by eighteen-inches of cold cruel steel spike. And with my legs splayed out like a wanton girl demanding a fuck, the ball-base rolled and I was raped inside my cunt the more by the horrible Satan’s baby.

And this I must suffer for an hour. My hour did not begin until I had the Satan’s baby in me. My hour therefore had only just begun.

The cameras moved in to show the detail of my agony. My terrible pain showed on my face. Such a lovely face translated into such terrible purgatory had no tears, for I was too agonised for tears.

My lively length-lovely lithe lissom legs exhibited their every girl gorgeous curvaceous contour. Magnificently muscled, sexily sinewed, they were siren seductive television targets for electrifying erections and secret secretions, as they lashed out uninhibitedly, piston powerfully promoting lecher love longing.

The width of the Satan’s baby was so huge in my cunt that I found my ease, if minimally marginally less agony could be called such, in holding my delicious legs out toes outstretched as near to the horizontal as I, a fit girl, could manage. Jemima’s commentary defined my stance as that of an aeroplane with superbly sexy wings.

But in fact I only managed this little lessoning-of-my-pain-stance for short spells, as the ball-base would still roll from one set of two of its deliberately too-short supporting legs, to two others.

I had eighteen-inches of the unrelenting “north-pole” spike from the top of the rolling ball-base rammed up my cunt, and my body had no choice but to go with the roll, and the increase in my agony it would cause, as the ball stopped its roll to balance on two of its three legs, but my soft girl’s body still moved, causing the Satan’s baby to rub the insides of my brutalised split even more.

So many times I fought to put my legs together to try and once more get at least my toe-tips on the equator platform on the ball-base, so that, in my dreams, I might relieve my nightmare by using my legs to ease my body up off the Satan’s baby.

And as many times as I tried, did I also completely fail. For, not only did I cause the ball-base to roll around throwing my body, pinioned by its cunt to it, from one perpetually purgatorially painful position to another, but the Satan’s baby was filling my body too hugely for me to be able to get my legs together sufficiently, to claim anything approaching even the grip of one big toe, let alone both, on the narrow equator ledge.

This was the punishment for very naughty girls. This was my punishment for having been a very naughty girl. But I had no mind for my being punished. The fact that I was being punished was never in my head during that agonising hour. My mind my body and my soul only ever and ever and ever thought about the dreadful pain as I rolled around fulcrummed on my cunt, filled by the Satan’s baby, axled by my cunt, filled with eighteen full unbelievably unyielding, unrelentingly uncaring, unmercifully upthrusting inches, of inhumanly inflexibly invading fiercely forcefully fucking cock.

The crowd cheered every time the ball-base rolled and at my every consequent pitifully agonised cry.

“Whip her”; “Whip her”; “Whip her”; they chanted, as if I was not in enough pain, and from their shouts I knew my long lingering loneliness had no love to relieve it.

My hour seemed to be lasting for eternity as time and time again an attempt to relieve my pain would cause the ball-base to tip and roll to a new angle of station, forward or backward or sideways from where it had been moments before, and my lovely body thus forced over on its agonising eighteen-inch-deep-in-my-cunt axle.

But then I became aware of a stirring in the crowd, and a moving-in of Mandy and Amy.

“Finish ‘er off!” shouted the chief of my torturers.

And then, because she could not make herself heard, after an interval to draw a deep breath, cupping her hands to make a “megaphone” for her mouth, she again shouted: “FINISH ‘ER!” to Mandy and Amy, who still could not hear her for the tremendous tumult from the crowd enjoying my torment.

My chief torturer then signalled with her forefinger drawn slowly across her throat, mouthing slowly the word, “finish”, so as to get Mandy and Amy to understand.

Mandy and Amy nodded that they were now clear on their instructions. And now, Mandy and Amy, as was the requirement for my punishment, for the punishment of a very naughty girl, took one each of my horizontally outstretched pretty feet, and walked with them, holding them tightly, to pull my lusciously lithe legs out straight, one leg forward and one leg behind me, so that I was in a forwards-and-backwards legs-spilt on the spike: on the Satan’s baby. And the crowd cheered and jeered at my increased agony.

And Mandy and Amy, then took my feet again, and pulled my legs straight fore and aft once more, but the opposite way, and the Satan’s baby further grazed me inside my cunt. And the crowd were beside themselves with joy at my suffering.

And then Mandy and Amy nodded at each other, and grasped my feet, and took my lovely legs out in a horizontal splits, and then walked slowly around in a circle, so that my cunt was the centre of their circle. And the heavy ball-base held steady so that, as they circled with my stupendous legs outstretched in a sideways-splits, my cunt was slowly agonisingly going through three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees of having its superbly sensitive insides rubbed raw by the Satan’s baby. And I was riding around legs outstretched pulled slowly around by Mandy and Amy, using my cunt impaled on the Satan’s baby as the hub of their circle, and I hollered and howled with the absolutely unsurpassable purgatory of the Satan’s baby’s studs ripping into my cunt, as my cunt was slid over them and they grazed the soft flesh of my most sensitive hole. And when Mandy and Amy let go my lithe lissom long legs, blood from my torn cunt trickled down the spike, mixed with a streaming abundance of my nectar, as I howled and hollered and screamed and shouted and bawled out my murderously massive orgasm: the orgasm of a duly punished shoplifting girl: the orgasm of a girl who only stole a bottle of cheap nail varnish: the heaven-in-hell orgasm of a duly punished, very naughty girl.

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 10:29 AM
Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer
Chapter 17 – Love In The Afternoon

By the 2020s the world was becoming a smaller place. If by the 2020s the world was becoming a smaller place, England seemed to be becoming smaller still. Even whilst I was recovering from the wounds the punishment for my having been a very naughty girl had left me with, a new government was being elected that was even more extreme than the present incumbents, and the freedoms of girls in England looked highly likely to be constrained even more, once the Assembly was back in session.

Jackie had long since read the writing on the wall, and transferred her businesses, lock stock and barrel, to Russia. She had not failed to care for me after my terrible torture, and I had been by now a six-month resident in her dacha near ******.

Though a girl with a bright highly intelligent mind, who had attained a high quality degree from a high quality university, the experiences of my taming to date, had made me little interested in the new-politics. Whereas once I would have girled the barricades in protest or at least marched with a banner along with my fellow English girls, I now regarded the laws likely to be passed in England something about which I could do nothing but try and avoid their consequences.

What concerned me more nowadays, as I listened to Jackie’s interpretation of the news from England, struggling with her broken Russian to read the newspaper of which she had scattered the pages over my bed, was that I had a tiny spot on my otherwise completely flawlessly beautiful face.

Talk of the prospective new and even harsher laws for girls in England was more than outbalanced for me, by the comfort of seeing that this very tiny blemish on the perfect canvass of my lovely features, not noticed by anyone other than me, was receding.

My taming had made me all-girl in my thinking. I would never now chide myself, as I always would have before, for my inability to choose between using different shades of coral or crimson lipstick. My concern was with my superb beauty and my incredible sexiness. My mind was, of course, part of that beauty and that sexiness, and its high power was being used by me now, solely for such concerns as whether my hair should be grown longer, the length of my fingernails, and whether I should work my legs more in exercise, or if that risked unfeminine muscular development.

I was twenty-seven now and more obsessively self-consciously girl than when I had been fourteen. I was a gift to girlhood: a pleasure and a treasure, and my undoubted duty was to keep that gift, the gift to the world that was my incredible beauty and undiluted sexiness, incredibly beautiful and continuingly undilutedly sexy.

In the six-months, my body had made a full recovery to its pristine perfection. Jackie had been patience itself, whilst I had spent my days in her gymnasium toning up my body, or swimming, or in her sauna, or in my room combing out my light-brown hair, which I had now grown, over the year since my taming had begun, so that it tumbled to the top of my buttocks when I stood, ………

My head-mind, by now, would not recognise that I was obsessed with my own feminine charms. It would not admit, that what to it had become the natural way for me to think, was an obsession at all. Nor would my head-mind admit that I was the heaven that had resulted from my hell: that I was the even more exquisitely delicious product of my taming.

In the past, like all girls, I had had at least two minds. The one mind, the single-minded mind, the mind between my legs, was now absolutely dominant over me, and completely relaxed in its knowledge that it had won total victory, and annihilated all resistance from the mind in my head, to its overwhelming power, the overwhelming power of girl’s cunt.

My cunt was my dictator. My cunt was my empress. I lived in a one-girl cuntocrarcy. My cunt was not my guide. My cunt did not give me choices. My cunt gave me orders and I obeyed my cunt’s orders unquestioningly.

So many talk of girl’s love being “an affair of the heart”. Others, who would pretend to be more scientific, would decree that a girl’s love was a state of mind. The truth for me, after my taming experiences to now, was that my love was indeed a product of my state of mind: my mind now being entirely in my cunt.

For much of my stay there were comings and goings but Jackie’s dacha mostly housed Jackie herself, Mina, Nina, Mi Li and me.

I had not given up hope of winning Mi Li from Jackie, even though for many nights I had listened to Jackie’s helpless moans, and known that she was being taken to girl heaven once again by the lovely girlboy Mi Li.

Even if I gave the impact of my steeling away Mi Li any thought at all, strangely, it never occurred to me how much it could anger Jackie were I to win the little Korean angel from her. In my mind, all was entirely fair in love and sex, and I had now relegated Jackie to hopeless cause when it came to thoughts of winning her love.

My modelling career had been on hold. My wounds were too great for me to appear before the camera, and my public punishment for being a very naughty girl, had ruined my “virgin” image. The image the magazines I had appeared in had fostered: the image of the lovely girl who never took off her panties and remained forever celibate untouched and untouchable.

My debts continued to be enormous. I was making no money for Jackie and yet she had never brought the subject up. In this I confess I was guileless and gullible. And yet, when I came across the copy of the Russian edition of the magazine “SapphFire”, featuring an advertisement for a DVD of my girl-cage torture for a specified number of dollars, and showing stills from my doggy-girl torment, I had been forgiving and unshocked. After all, it had been purely a business decision by Jackie, as well as an act of friendship, that had hitherto shelved the girl-cage torture DVD. Business must take priority over friendship when circumstances dictated. Circumstances had obviously dictated: hence the release of the DVD.

I was now in a fit state to return to glamour photography. Indeed, the demand for pictures of me had increased a thousand-fold because of the notoriety from my having a criminal record on file in England this last six months, and for another six months to come. It had been a business decision, a feeding from and of that notoriety, that had prompted Jackie to release the girl-cage DVD whilst my wounds made me unavailable for the cameras and therefore not earning for her and my debt repayment

For my twenty-seventh birthday, Jackie had given me a garter. This was no ordinary garter. It was bright scarlet lace with the most divine rose pattern in its upper and lower abundant folds, and tiny perfect woven-lace open-petalled scarlet roses around its elasticised centre that would decorate any girl’s thigh when she wore it. I knew this to be in honour from Jackie of the beauty of the legs she had always admired. So much did I adore its sexiness, that I longed to wear it, though only when it was secreted by outside clothing, “the right occasion”. So in this can be seen that Jackie still held me, her long-time friend, in high regard.

In the all-girl environment of Jackie’s dacha, I had taken to casually strolling around in various states of dress, perhaps more aptly described as states of near total undress.

I was feeling happy and healthy and fit once more after my long post public torture recovery, and I was in “randy week”, the period just before my period, in which I invariably felt by sexiness was at the peak of its height: the very apex of charms were upon me.

It was mid-afternoon. I had been exercising, working on my every very feminine enticing girly curvature and soft muscularity.

I had showered and dried my long soft light-brown hair, thrown on a tee-shirt that only just covered the cheeks of my entirely bare bottom, and was heading for my bedroom to brush out my hair, dressed in this tee-shirt and absolutely nothing else.

My bedroom was upstairs and the stairs open treaded, like a stepladder, with no backs to the individual steps, so that anyone below could look up and see who was walking up, and a lot more besides.

It just happened that day. That day it just happened. I was girly wiggle-walking in my natural feline way to my bedroom that afternoon, when I passed and was passingly greeted by Jackie, who had her back to the stairs and the micro-miniskirted Mi Li, who was facing the open backs of the stairs.

I was so instinctively and fully girl now that I made no plan to do what I did next, but automatically, one might almost say, I found myself climbing those stairs barefoot hitching my tee-shirt to ensure that I was showing everything that could be seen between my legs, as I purposely took an interest in the pictures that decorated the wall at the side of those stairs.

As works of art they were entirely unremarkable. But I showed the keen interest I had never before shown in the artist’s work and the brushstrokes. This, of course, necessitated my standing with my legs a little wider apart, so that I could admire at close quarters the nude girl in the picture at the very top of the stairs. I particularly admired, or at least made out to admire, the detail with which the painter had shown the light and shade between her thighs in the bright sunlight from the window. Purely coincidentally, of course, I was also allowing the beautiful work of art that was my very real pubic mound to be admired by Mi Li, were she to look up.

I kept completely quiet as I listened to the routine conversation about housekeeping below me. But it was, of course, entirely necessary for me to stand with my legs stretched wide apart so that, though this made it physically difficult for me to hold my stance in front of the picture, it enabled me to get my face close enough to it to use it’s glass cover as a mirror in which to try and see if Mi Li was looking up at me.

I was just being sexy girl. I was sexy girl. I casually looked down to see that Mi Li had indeed been looking up. I then just pretended that I had not noticed her eyes between my thighs, and lifted off my tee-shirt so that she could look up at all my wonderful nude body, before bending to take one last unnecessary look at the picture, and then turning my attention to my bottom and running a pretty bendy-back fingered long fingernailed hand over a bare bum cheek, as if I were doing a quality check for the blemishes I full well knew to be totally non-existent. I then casually wiggled to my bedroom.

As I entered my room, I closed my door quietly and bent with my bum against it as I bit the tee-shirt to control my sexy gasp, so turned on was I by my sensual behaviour and my enticing of Mi Li.

But I presumed my mission, though such wonderful pleasure for me, had failed, and put my tee-shirt back on, before sitting on my bountiful bare bottom before my dressing table to brush out my hair.

I could not see my bedroom door in my dressing table mirror. Therefore, to see who had very quietly entered my bedroom a minute later, I needed to turn and look directly. At least I would have needed to turn and look directly, had I not a sensitive nose for the delightful aroma of an exquisite scent.

Not a word was spoken as Mi Li’s petite soft warm right hand enveloped the right hand with which I held my hairbrush. I willingly conceded the brush to her. I had still not turned to look at her incredible dainty doll loveliness, with her soulful almond shaped dark-brown eyes, and those wonderful full lips.

Mi Li put my hairbrush down on the dressing table, and used her right hand to lift back the curtain of my light-brown hair from the right side of my face. And I became instantly aware of the warmth of her, as her face came close to the right side of mine and I heard and felt her soft breathing, as I instinctively knew she was looking to implant her lips upon me.

Ever the sexy girl, I turned my head sufficiently to offer my eager mouth, but was beaten to the draw as Mi Li’s delectable lips kissed only my cheek.

I felt disappointed, but made no move or sound. With my cunt already wet and whetted with just this chaste kiss from Mi Li, I watched her pick up my brush and use it firmly and gently on my hair to brush it out long and straight: my hair, the length of which I was now so girlilly proud of. And she brushed and brushed and brushed, silently other than for her soft breathing. And the sound of the brush through my lovely hair with the sound of her breathing and the scent of her, the scent she wore, aroused me to a slowly increasing height of uncertainty and excitement.

Again my instincts told me that I must not be the one to make the first move. Then my head-mind asked me, “the first move of what?” All that was happening was that Mi Li was brushing out my hair: something Mi Li had done for me, as I had for her, many times before.

But this was different. My cunt-mind told me that this was different. Static electricity was crackling in every brush stroke now, but it was nothing to the electrical charge I felt in the silent air between Mi Li and me, as she brushed and brushed and brushed my long light-brown locks.

Then Mi Li put down the brush quietly before walking away as I thought. I hung my head in despair that I had lost my battle to win her, and my beauty had failed me, and I let out my first gasp, as tears began to offer themselves as my only consolation.

But I was wrong. Mi Li was at my side, standing breathing at the right side of my face once more. I turned my head and this time there was no error of judgement by me, as Mi Li’s full soft lips including her incredibly sensuous upturned broad-middled upper lip, shaped like a drawn-back Cupid’s bow, were on mine and she kissed me long and gently, and I listened to the increase in her breathing as her lovely body took its full excitement from my complete charms as she kissed me. And I was pouring my nectar onto my seat with her arousal of me.

We both knew that we must not make noise because the inside walls of the dacha were so thin. Mi Li put a pretty index finger on her pouting lips to remind me of that very fact as she gently bade me stand and lift off my tee-shirt.

When I was nude, she motioned with a pointed down index finger stirring motion, for me to turn slowly around before her, and I did so with joy to allow her to look over my complete and absolute charms.

As I faced her once more, she lifted the hem of her micro-miniskirt, and I saw now the huge erection that was fighting to escape her panties. Even without her needing to bid me to, I lowered her panties slowly and enjoyingly down her pretty and very shapely legs, and watched her huge cock leap aloft in its full rigidly hard nine-inches, hymning the praises of my eroticism. The sexiness of my femininity had charged it to its full wanton thrusting desire for girl.

I took Mi Li’s panties to her ankles, kneeling before her dainty body as if in prayer and worship to her as I did so. And by staying in a squat before her, I signalled my willingness to kiss her perfect penis, or be totally subservient to her desires in any other way that would pleasure her.

Mi Li lifted me by holding my fingertips in hers, and then led me to my bed. “Katterrina you lie on back head over edge bed”, she whispered.

I willingly, but totally puzzledly, did as she bade, and was soon lying face up in the middle of my bed, by head uncomfortably over the edge of the side nearest Mi Li, my hair fallen down like the cascading rays of the sun.

Mi Li, her erection lowering slightly, but pulsing and throbbing excitedly again whenever she looked at my body, took my pillows and put them on the carpeted floor under where my head hung, or would hang were my neck not aching so that I fought to hold it horizontal with the rest of my body.

Mi Li now knelt on the pillows before my head still hanging over the side of the bed. She took my head and cradled me and then kissed me with a long lingering very wet kiss, that left my lovely lips shining with her mouth moisture.

I closed my eyes, knowing what was coming, as Mi Li put her penis to my mouth. I, of course, have three love orifices, but I had never ever given head to boy or girl before. Now, inside three seconds Mi Li’s hugely erect cock was past my lips, past my flickering reluctant tongue, and pushing and thrusting deep into my throat.

I was gagging and choking as my throat was filled so that I could no longer breath. All Mi Li did now was to hold her penis deep in my mouth and hold the back of my head hard and immovably by my hair, so as to keep my throat in the straight line that enabled her to fully fill my mouth and throat with her huge prick. She did not make any move to make love to me as I longed for her to do.

Mi Li waited with her excited stiffly erect penis hard and full deep-down in my throat: waiting for the inevitable. And the full horror of my predicament dawned. And I fought to get Mi Li’s penis out of my throat. And the more I fought the more she insisted with her hard holding of my head where she would have her prick for her pleasure. And I began to thrash my lovely legs as I fought to pull myself up the bed and off her prick as, to her undoubted further arousal and pleasure, I coughed and gagged and choked and fought with my tongue licking her erection to save my self from being choked by her cock. And I could not breath and my heaving to try and take a breath past her penis only sucked her deeper into me. And I began to kick and fight wildly and I heard Mi Li’s moans of pleasure as my choking and coughing and fighting and threshing and the shaking of my head to rid my mouth and throat of her huge penis pleasured her. And I must bite her I must bite her or I must choke surely to my death as I threshed and thrashed and bicycled my divine leggy legs, and she held me hard and unrelentingly tightly with her penis rammed down my throat unyieldingly, and I must bite her. But I could not harm her she was so beautiful, so I bit lightly to show that I was so desperate that I must bite her to survive as I flung my long lithe lewdly lashing legs around fighting against being smothered with my face turned puce with my lack of air, as she held my head harder and tighter still, pulling on my hair to do so. And my desperate gentle bite was her final excitement, and her cum suddenly spurted in throbs into my throat as she gasped and moaned and then emitted one long last long groan of entire fulfilment of long lasted longing.

I was now freed and pulled myself onto my side on the bed coughing and wheezing as I could once more gulp air. And Mi Li had picked up her panties and was holding them at the end of a dainty finger as she opened my bedroom door and went out, only to put her head back around it again a split second later and blow me a loving kiss, mouthing “I love you!” with her perfect lips.

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer
Chapter 18 – A Sleigh Ride

On my side on my bed, propping my upper body upright on one arm, for two or maybe three minutes after Mi Li had left the room, I coughed and coughed, before I began to wretch and had to dash to the bathroom to spit out her cum and rinse out my throat.

The feeling with which this episode had left me was one of total confusion. Mi Li had clearly signalled with her delightful fulsome mouth, with its erotic Cupid’s bow upper lip, that she loved me, and yet I also felt, totally used.

There had been no pleasure for me in what had just happened; except in the fact that there had been no pleasure for me in what had just happened. The feeling that I had just been used and abused confused my girlmind. I had wanted love. I had been given sex. I had been given sex or, rather, I had given sex. And I now found my cunt moistening at the thought that I had indeed just been used as a means to an end, and that my pleasure was of no account in that encounter.

I showered and dressed to go for an early evening meal. Except for on the special occasions which one always knew about through plentiful advance warning, there were no formalities in Jackie’s homes. This was a routine day, and so I merely put on a pair of white micro-panties, a white tee-shirt, a black bottom-hugging micro-mini-skirt, and some three-inch heeled sandals.

I took a deep breath as I left my room, a little unsure now whether, after what had not long since happened between us, I could look Mi Li in her pretty face. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, Jackie, who would be familiar with my footfall, and therefore knowing it was I that was up and about the house as of that moment, put her head round the door of the room she used as her office, and beckoned me in.

My mind instantly went into defensive mode. It must be that Jackie had learned that Mi Li had just had me, and I was about to get the telling-off of a lifetime for seducing Mi Li. I tried to ensure my face showed no more than, what was by now, my willing total subservience to all and any of Jackie’s wishes.

I need not have worried. All Jackie wanted to do was to tell me how pleased she was at my full recovery from my torment at the hands of the English legal authorities. She also needed to tell me that I was lined up for a modelling assignment the very next day, and that I could look forward to a sleigh ride.

I thanked her, turned to leave her office, and was surprised to find she had got up from sitting on the edge of her desk and was suddenly standing behind me, causing me to turn by a gentle touch on my left shoulder.

It was then that I smelt her scent: the scent she was wearing. The scent that she must have used very lightly for me not to have picked it up before. There was no mistake as to the aroma. It was the scent that had lingered in the air in my room at Jackie’s London home at the time I had been obsessed, that she must have lain with me as I recovered from the spiked chair torture. It was also the scent worn more heavily by the delectable Mi Li.

It’s aroma turned my head. I turned my head, my long light-brown hair down to the top of my buttocks, lifting and beginning to sweep over my right shoulder, till Jackie took gentle hold of both my upper arms, and then let go my right arm in an obvious indication to me that she wanted me to turn fully toward her.

And why would I not willingly turn toward Jackie and smile at her lovely face? And so I willingly turned toward Jackie and smiled at her lovely face, running my eyes up and down her familiar pretty features in an expression of my desire to obey her and to please her, and to take full notice of whatever it was that she wanted to call to my last moment attention, and to puzzle more about the scent she wore and what it could tell me, about what had happened and when during my time under Jackie’s taming of me.

Jackie took gentle hold of both my hands in hers, leant forward, and kissed me on my forehead. I continued to smile, and smiled the more for this loving token of Jackie’s appreciation of me. I then began to move away and waste no more of her precious time, when she kept hold of and took slightly firmer but still gentle grip of my lovely hands, before dropping them, taking me suddenly firmly by the waist and kissing me full on my mouth.

I thought initially that this was just a sisterly kiss; but Jackie’s gorgeous lips lingered, and pressed and explored my mouth. I was so astounded that I must have seemed to pull back as if I did not want this to happen. But in a split second I had opened my hitherto astonished and therefore tight-closed lips, to respond to her loving mouth, and to relax surrendered in her arms, so that she might continue the kiss for just as long as she wanted to, or for all the forevers ever, or longer still for all the willingness she would ever need from me.

The kiss, though seeming timeless, can only have been for a half-a-minute at most. Our lips parted and I was left blushing with breathless overjoy, and the holding of myself in readiness for another kiss or whatever Jackie might desire. My smile returned and I gazed soft willing lipped and querulous eyed at Jackie, my eyes asking what her kiss was for, saying kiss me again, asking if she wanted me to ask her for another kiss, asking her for another kiss, asking her if I should kiss her, saying kiss me, saying please kiss me, saying I love you, I love you, I love you, kiss me, oh please please kiss me again…..

…..But Jackie let me go, saying, as I walked away to leave her room with my every single nerve-end attentively attuned to the slightest lightest indication by word or motion that she wanted me to stay, that I was beautiful and that I should always remember that I was her girl.

If my mind had been in confusion before, following Mi Li having me, it was nothing to the turmoil it was in now as I went into the room across the corridor, where Mi Li, Nina and Mina where chatting and eating.

I ate nothing. I sat slumped in a corner with my chin in my hands elbows on my knees for five long minutes, and then ran off to my bedroom for tears of overwhelming confusion, even more overwhelming joy, and yet even more overwhelming longing to be alone to endure and enjoy my wonderful wondrous turmoil.

And as to the winner in the contest between Mi Li and Jackie, there was never ever any real doubt: I was in head, heart and soul, sole and solo, Jackie’s girl.

I slept that night better than I had slept in years. I awoke the next morning happier than I had been in years. I was Jackie’s girl. Jackie had said that I was Jackie’s girl. Perhaps tonight would be the night when Jackie took me to her bed and made love to me.

I showered and brushed my hair endlessly. I wanted to be perfection when Jackie saw me for the first time in my new dawn: no, not just my new dawn, our new dawn, for this was the dream state the kiss from Jackie had got me in. I was heading for heaven or I was heading for a fall. In truth it could have been either, but I was so girl now from my taming that I had absolutely no doubt that Jackie would ask me to marry her.

There was nothing half-hearted about how I felt after Jackie’s kiss, and not the shadow of a shadow of doubt in my mind that Jackie was as in love with me as I with her. I had no doubt whatsoever that this was love. I had found the girl I loved. This was true love. This was the truest love of all: the love of girl and girl.

Then a little tragedy struck. We girls with long fingernails can tell tails as long as our nails themselves, about the problems that can befall us. I had been so very careful. I loved my long nails; they were so divinely helplessly sexy. My long nails had no purpose other than that of being decorative. Their very impracticality trumpeted my femininity. The very way they caused me to have to use my lovely hands to overcome their impracticality said “sexy girl”, even “very sexy girl”.

So, it was a tragedy for me to discover that morning, the very morning I wanted to look my best for Jackie, the morning of my first model shoot for over six months, that I had somehow snagged the nail on my left hand little finger.

I was so annoyed with myself as I clipped it off, as I had to because it was already three-quarters off, and filed that fingernail as little as I could just to tidy it till it could grow long again. I had no idea how I could have caught that nail. It was hardly going to spoil my day, but I did so wish to look perfect for my love.

Then, as I still sat with my red silk dressing gown fallen aside to leave nude my superb thighs, continuing to busy myself in front of my dressing table mirror, there came a knock at my door, followed immediately, by the entrance of Mina and Nina with my clothing for the modelling assignment that day.

The previous day’s talk of a sleigh ride, told of the frozen snow that lay outside, even though none had fallen for days. Consequently, it was of no surprise to me, that my clothing for the day would be such as to take account of the sub-zero outside temperature and its complete contrast with the cocooning warmth on the inside of Jackie’s dacha, in which I was running a pretty hand along the smoothness of one bare extended leg, inspecting quality and finding expectation of perfection not disappointed.

Of course, the kind of modelling I was now to do, must match my new very sexy image. My “celibate virgin lesbian” image had been shattered by Jackie’s having to sell the DVD’s of my taming experiences in order that she should not lose money from my being laid-up, recovering from my punishment at law just before we left England.

I had also become aware, that Jackie had film of unseen angles of my very naughty girl’s torture on the spike, and that that was going to hit the market, as soon as any downturn in the sales of my girl-cage, spiked chair, and doggy-bitch experiences showed itself.

I was relaxed this day about all this. It may seem strange that that should be so. But why should it not be? Jackie had kissed me. That clearly showed that Jackie considered that I was now tamed. My ordeals were therefore surely over.

The kiss and her words had confirmed beyond doubt that I was now Jackie’s girl. Jackie had told me herself directly that I was her girl. I realised that there must be some further time elapse in order for Jackie to organise the event, but I was sure that Jackie must be leading up to a proposal of marriage, perhaps even before the year was out. All Jackie had to do was to ask me to be her wife: there could be no doubt whatsoever that I would accept.

Like all English girls, even mature intelligent and highly educated English girls of twenty-seven, I had always dreamed of marrying in some quiet English country village with a church and spire and thatched roofed cottages with roses around their doors.

I would willingly take the oath to honour and obey. I would equally willingly give over to Jackie all my worldly possessions. That was the sad part. I had no real possessions. I had nothing that I owned that I did not owe money to Jackie for. So why was that sad? It was sad because I would have liked to have brought some kind of dowry to my husband-girl. But, then again, the fact Jackie already effectively owned all I had, had the effect of pre-empting what the law required of a bride anyway.

As a teenager I had always harboured a hankering to marry another girl. Okay, I had been, or at least I thought I had been, or perhaps I should say I thought, when I was a young girl, that I was heterosexual. Even so, like many another teenage girl in my class at school, even the truly heterosexual ones, I counted my mother’s copy of “Pink Bride” among my favourite leisure indulgences. It had been the splendour and beauty of the wedding gowns and their accompanying finery that had at that time stoked my desire to marry another girl, not my then seemingly obvious sexual orientation.

In common with my pals, I would rarely read the editorial in “Pink Bride”. If pictures are supposed to better a thousand words, the sumptuously glossy pages of that magazine more than substituted for a million.

It was never the husband-girl pages at the back that had fascinated me either. My long lingering dreaming and dreamy-eyed study was always of the pink-bride pages themselves. I had day-dreamed of walking up the aisle resting on mummy’s arm, dressed head to toe in soft bridal pink, complete with veil and flowing train.

Neither mummy nor daddy would be able to give their daughter away now, as I had been an orphan for many years. But I could still honour them both by wearing the traditional pink when Jackie and I wed: or was I getting too far ahead in my strangely immature daydreaming?

For today though, and away from my dreams, I was to once more wear royal blue. I was to wear royal blue once more in the exciting form of the fox fur coat I had been given just before my horrible doggy-girl experience.

“We want this shoot to be very sexy”, Mina announced. “It’s very cold out, but this coat will keep you snug as a bug!” she smiled.

By “very sexy” they meant that I should be naked beneath the coat other than for my garter and the boots they produced for me.

I had not wanted to wear my birthday garter on any old occasion, but on hearing that Jackie wanted me to wear it, after discarding my silk dressing gown, I passed it up my wonderful left leg, to let it rest, gracing me with its livid scarlet lace mini-roses around my stupendous thigh, four-inches down from my oh so smackable bottom.

That they should want me naked beneath my coat went with my new public image. This model was no longer the insipid untouchable “virgin” that my publicity now portrayed my image as having been hitherto, but the new raunchy daring Katrina: a Katrina that had learned from life’s harsher experiences.

I did not like this new image, but knew it was the only one that could be conveyed of me now. Necessity had secured it virtue even if its message was that my virtue was virtually gone. I was not now and nor was I ever the fiery hellcat and feisty voracious sexual predator that the words in the captions under pictures of me published in “SapphFire” were now making me out to be. I had also had laryngitis within the first week of joining my church choir after school, and labelling me as a sweet choirgirl who had gone wrong, was just another lie to sell me as a sexual commodity.

I hated this, but I had no choice other than to accept it. I still needed money to live and to pay my debts. Jackie’s business interests had taken a heavy financial knock when she decided to relocate from England to Russia. It had not been her wisest decision. I was an asset to her organisation for only as long as my picture on the front cover sold her magazines and DVDs. I must therefore work. I told myself that I might have to continue working even after she and I married.

To go with my new image, for this next round of photographs I was once more to wear en-pointe-boots. In a strange way I welcomed the chance to wear them now, because they were so deeply divinely decadently sexy.

The particular pair Nina handed me, each of in turn, were fur lined inside and out, except for the outside of where my feet themselves would be lodged, with grey dyed fox fur, and came up to just below my knees. They were made like the booties I had worn to walk to my girl-cage torture at Jackie’s country mansion in England. They had the “front heel”, and the rigid steel-cored soles bent to ensure I must stand as if doing a en-pointe in ballet: indeed, not only stand but also always walk thus extremely tiptoed.

It had been a while since I had worn such exotic erotic footwear, and I cannot deny that my slit became damp as I felt the old familiar powerful stretched girlmuscular shape returned to my calves, the locked-back dimpling of my knees, the powerful feminine but forceful curvature of my thighs, and the deep concave side-dimples in my firm bountiful bottom, as my two companions once more helped me stand, orgasmically sexily legged, in them.

I was then helped on with my royal blue coat, noting that it now had additional fastenings to prevent its lower half flying open: fastenings I would be glad of in the bitter breeze that was blowing outside whisking up the odd scatter of soft snow from the drifts.

Mina put a huge grey fur hat on my head, covering my ears but leaving my long light-brown hair to fall down the back of my coat to where my beautiful rear curved the rear of the coat out. The collar of the coat was fastened up to my neck, I was given fur-lined gloves, and handed a grey fur muff in which to keep my hands snug and warm on the upcoming journey.

I felt so sexy and so pleased to be made so erotically beautiful for my photo shoot. I could not wait to see Jackie, my love, and have her see me in my astonishingly sensuous “Russian” outfit. It would be some time before I did see her though, as I had to very painstakingly negotiate the wooden stairs down from my bedroom wearing my tiptoeing skyscraper-legging boots.

My heart raced as Nina and Mina led me down the stairs. I could see Mi Li fussing over her camera equipment, ready to take my picture. She spotted us coming and got down to business immediately, snapping away with her combined stills and film camera. Yes, I had found Mi Li, but there was no sign of Jackie. Where was Jackie? Where was my love?

Then, suddenly, Jackie was there. She came out of her office saw me and smiled. She walked across the corridor and opened the door of her lounge, as I negotiated the last few perilous steps in my Eiffel-boots, and went in ahead of me. I could not wait to be with her, as I top-tiptoe-femininely-wiggle-bummy-walked in my full outside clothing to where she would greet me.

I was not disappointed at her greeting either.

“You look stunning my love”, she smiled, as she took my gloved hands. “I’d steal another kiss if this were not a professional photo shoot!” she declared.

Then the conversation took a strange turn.

“This is, or rather this was to be a professional photo shoot, but I think you have something to confess to me Katrina, don’t you?” The question was posed with sweet gentleness.

I was dumfounded and horrified and my face sought not to show it. She must, Jackie must, have found out about Mi Li and me.

Then there was a face saving knock at the door, and Mi Li came in to photograph me some more. I had so longed to have Jackie hold me or give some other indication that I was Jackie’s girl in front of Mi Li. I had so wanted to see the dawning on Mi Li’s pretty face of the realisation that I had won Jackie from her.

But now here I was with both girls in the room, and the one I truly and deeply loved to distraction, commanding me to confess, or at least apparently so, that I had had sex with the other. The conversation had been begun and then been interrupted by Mi Li’s entry, and nothing more was said as Mini and Nina also came into the room wrapped in fur coats, fur hats, and fur lined gloves and boots.

Jackie and Mi Li then began to dress for the outside cold. It had not recently been much colder than it was this particular day. Spring was far from around the corner, and a light and deep chilling breeze had got up since dawn.

“Let’s forget it for now”, said Jackie, obviously returning to the conversation I had hoped she had forgotten altogether starting with me. I certainly hoped she would not raise it in front of the other girls. It seemed as if I was safe.

Thank goodness the day was going ahead. I would be all day with my love. Whatever it was that Jackie wished to raise with me was clearly going to have to wait till the evening when we returned. If it had been something she could raise with the other girls there, she would surely have done so. Clearly, it was going to have to wait, as the other girls would also be with us all day.

Meanwhile, I could not help but admire Mi Li’s coolness. Just yesterday she had been unfaithful to Jackie with me, and yet she carried on with her picture taking without a flicker of concern on her face. Of course, to some extent this was pure professionalism. Mi Li was a magician with a camera. Her artistry needed her concentration and got it. So perhaps she could turn her memory off whilst she was occupied with her work.

Anyway, when I thought about it, Jackie had said I had been unprofessional. What had affairs of the heart to do with being unprofessional?

I would brave it out and not deny that I had enticed Mi Li to have sex with me. I was girl. Girl has needs. What Mi Li had done with me had only satisfied my need to be paid attention for my charms. She had merely taken one of my three love-orifices and filled it for her own sole pleasure. It had not been rape, but it had not been love insofar as mutual satisfaction was concerned.

I knew I was under a cloud and that it was a potential distraction from my enjoying the day. We were to go a sleigh ride to somewhere, for me to be photographed in all my winter clothing, perhaps against a wild background of snow covered mountains where it could be made to look that I was all alone in the wilderness, as only the prints of my Eiffel-towering-boots would be seen in the pristine white-blue ground cover, and a lone wolf silhouetted by the setting sun would howl on the horizon. Wow! That would look great!

Jackie had donned her second glove, and at her signal I began my tip-top-tip-tippy-toe teetering en-pointe-booted balletically tall feline walk out through the double-doors that insulated the lounge from the outside world, aware of Nina and Mina and, I very much hoped, Jackie’ eyes following the highly erotic undulations of my deep-side-dimpled bottom under my coat.

I was snug and warm, but it was not a day for standing still, so I hoped that the sleigh, horse-drawn I assumed, would not be too long in coming. I watched my own breath streaming and steaming from my nostrils, and the other girls wrapping their arms around themselves, as if hugging themselves, to overcome the chill breeze.

I stood to be photographed some more by Mi Li.

It was then that I heard the nostrils of a horse or horses reverberate as it or they breathed out. I looked up. Around the corner from where I was being photographed I could see it. I could see the sleigh and the two gorgeous ponies, black against the blue-white of the snow, and the sleigh, looking for all the world like Santa’s sleigh.

The whole set-up was so adorable! And against all my professionalism as a model, I wiggle-steppy-trotted to Jackie as quickly as I could in my steeple-boots and hugged her, before wiggle-trotting to hug the lovely gentle horses and kiss them in my girly joy.

The smile on Jackie’s face showed that she forgave me this little outbreak of charms. And I blushed my perfect English rose blush as she let me be first into the sleigh, thus giving honour to my super-femininity. And as Jackie sat next to me, with Mi Li and Nina opposite, I felt my heart pump wildly and I could not resist putting my head on Jackie’s shoulder. As Jackie drew a fur rug over our knees, I smiled my total surrender at Jackie and she kissed my forehead.

Mina drove the sleigh at a gentle pace and I was in a dream of girly joy in the arms of the girl I was sure I was going to marry. All my suffering now had its reward. If Jackie was convinced I was fully tamed and if this was the reward my taming had delivered me, then I would go through it all over again ten thousand, no, ten zillion billion times.

I was a girl head over heels in love in the arms of the girl I was heels over head in love with. This was heaven. I must close my eyes to keep this reality a dream forever. No! I must never close my eyes. This could be a dream and I might wake up to find in reality it had gone.

Was all this romantic wonderland arranged so that Jackie could ask me this very day if I would marry her? Had she a ring in her pocket? Would Jackie propose to me this wonderful day? Would I be engaged to marry Jackie before this perfect day was out?

I would leave all the wedding plans to Jackie of course. It was not right for the bride to interfere with such matters. Husband-girls were best placed to plan such matters. I must not worry my head with things that need not concern me. My only duty, rightly and properly, would be to ensure that I was beautiful on our wedding day, and every day of our marriage of course, come to that.

I hoped I would marry in full bridal pink, but if Jackie only wanted to wed in a civil ceremony before a judge, that too would be perfectly acceptable to me. Then too I would need a gown to go on honeymoon with. I would ask Jackie’s advice on that as well. Jackie was so clever. She would know best: a husband-girl always knows what is best for her wife.

As for where the honeymoon should be, Jackie would decide. Jackie should decide. Whatever she wanted was more than fine by me. Perhaps she would ask me, even if it were really entirely her sole right to decide.

There was also the wedding night to think about. Jackie might ask me when my period was due. At least from that I would know whether she wanted to have me for the first time as her wife when I was between my periods, or whether she preferred to take me for the first time as her wife, whilst I was menstruating.

I did not think I would enjoy sex whilst I was menstruating. To some husband-wives, of course, it was very important that their bride did not enjoy sex. The enjoyment of sex, or rather gaining pleasure from sex was considered by many to be very bad for the character of bride-girls.

This was indeed modern thinking. Or at least it was regarded as modern thinking, even though I recalled reading about it as a teenaged girl. Physiologists had written articles I had read just the once or twice in “Pink-Bride”, saying that sexual denial and frustration were excellent means for keeping a bride-girl under control. “Why Bride-Girls Should Never Have an Orgasm”, went the headline.

These articles reminded the reader that it was the bride-girl’s duty to service her husband-girl in any and every way that the husband-girl might demand, but that there was no concomitant duty on the husband-girl.

However, should a husband-girl, as was recommended by the articles, decide to deploy sexual frustration to control her wife, in order to guard against any possibility of her wife indulging the evil of masturbation, she should buy her wife one of the many modern chastity belts available.

I loved sex. I hoped that Jackie would not be one of the husband-girls who deprived her bride. However, if it was the price of being her wife, I would accept whatever Jackie required or denied me in that regard also.

Such was the girl state of my mind that, as I cuddled up to Jackie, these thoughts went round and around my dizzy pretty head.

Even as I cuddled close to Jackie in the morning cold air, the thought that I was also avenging Mi Li’s selfish use of me had not been forgotten, and with the wonderful disguised peripheral vision that all girls have, I awaited Mi Li looking up at Jackie and I, to time my getting closer to Jackie, or my genuinely adoring looks into Jackie’s eyes.

Progress in the Santa sleigh was slow. I cared not. For me it could go on forever, but we eventually came to a halt in a clearing in the pine trees that enforested this particular area.

It was back to work for me now. Although I did not want to, I must let go of Jackie’s arm and take up station wherever they would have me posed for Mi Li to photograph me. My one consolation was that at least I could look forward to snuggling up to Jackie on the journey back.

The other girls were held back, and Mi Li, who always directed her own photo shoots, asked me to walk into the pristine snow, and then turn toward the camera and look distressed.

As it had been twisted and tangled by the cold breeze, my hair was brushed out straight again. I then wiggled girlilly in my skyscrapering boots leaving a trail of deep boot-toe-end impressions in the snow, as I walked slowly in a curved path, as I thought that would add drama, and then turned and showed to the camera what I fine little actress my modelling experiences had now made me.

This was the “distressed beauty alone in the wilderness of snow” series of pictures I had imagined might be taken.

I was very pleased with this start, the chance to show off my lovely “Russian” clothes to my adoring readers, and how wet it always made me between my legs to think of all the pretty girls who masturbated to a cum looking at my compelling erotic beauty.

I top-tip-of-tiptoe-tiny step trotted back to the group of girls my gorgeous light brown hair being lifted and twisted in the increasing cold wind. Although I was warm at the moment, especially after the sleigh ride with the fur over my knees, and sharing Jackie’s warmth, I hoped this session would not go on for long, because the weather seemed to be defying the forecast, certainly the wind was bitingly bitter now.

Even as I waited around for the instructions for my next pose, Jackie called out, “I think you have something to confess to me, don’t you Katrina?”

It was the same question again! Jackie was homing in on me, working on my conscience, pushing me to confess about Mi Li. It was the same embarrassing question now made even more embarrassing because it was being put to me in front of the other girls this time, including Mi Li herself: something I had comforted myself that Jackie would not do.

I just could not think of what to say. I was about to respond, and would very likely have blurted out something entirely foolish, giving away all that I would have preferred, and Mi Li would most certainly have preferred, I keep hidden from Jackie. But then Jackie’s interrogation took a strange turn……….

“Perhaps a fingernail?” said Jackie.

I heard but I did not understand. What was Jackie talking about?

The cold breeze caught my hair and wafted it across my mouth. I had to take off a glove to put my hair back over my shoulder. Of course! I had split the end off the nail on the little finger of the hand still at the moment with its glove on. That was what Jackie was talking about. What a relief!

“Is there something you need to tell me about a fingernail my love?” Jackie asked.

Her calling me “my love” sealed it for me. I went into a complete dizzy-girly spin of flustered and flummoxed joy and excitement, and blushed the deepest of English rose blushes, because the girl I loved had called me “my love”.

I headily readily confessed to the accident with the fingernail on the little finger of my left hand, even taking off my other glove, despite the cold, to display my lingeringly-long bendy-back-fingered left hand and show the damage. Mi Li moved in to take several pictures of this totally minor detraction from my otherwise completely pristine appearance.

I was so relieved that Jackie was only talking about just this entirely trivial thing and not the big issue of Mi Li having had my mouth.

“I am surprised at you Katrina”, Jackie responded in a measured steady unemotional voice. I watched the condensation steaming from her pretty lips as she scalded me with her tongue.

“I really am surprised at you. Not only surprised, but also very disappointed. This was to be a professional photo session and you are a professional and experienced model. How could you let me down so? How could you be so downright clumsy and careless as to break a fingernail on the very eve of a modelling session you were given plentiful forewarning was coming up for you?”

I felt a strange dread coming over me. None of Jackie’s questions sought my answer. All I could do was to let the tears misting my eyes answer for me as I tried to smile at her.

“I will not have this kind of conduct from you. I will simple NOT put up with this kind of thing”, she continued in the same tone, a tone of quiet sorrow rather than of fire and fury.

“Katrina my love, how could you?” asked Jackie, “I, of course, knew about the fingernail. The cleaning staff found the broken end in the waste bin next to your dressing table this morning and, quite rightly, brought it to me. Part of my disappointment, my love, is therefore that I even had to ask you if you had something to tell me, when it should have been obvious to you that you needed to tell me about your fingernail.”

“Today’s whole modelling session is cancelled and will have to be reprogrammed because of you Katrina. I have had to get the editor of ‘SapphFire’ to find a new cover-girl and change the contents of the spring special”, Jackie continued in a mildly upset-at-being-let-down tone.

“There is no use for it. We might as well call the whole day off right here and now Katrina. Just get undressed”.

I hung my head in shame at what my carelessness had cost my love by way of upset and, no doubt, money. I was on the verge of tears. The day I had so been looking forward to was spoilt. Surely they could photograph me so as to hide that I had one disproportionate fingernail. It was only the nail on my smallest finger. Could they not use computer trickery to cover it up?

I began to wiggle walk toward the sleigh, to no doubt take a further telling-off from Jackie for my lack of consideration on our way home.

“And where do you think you are going?” Jackie enquired with a hint of mockery in her voice.

“Home to undress” I answered innocently.

“I told you to undress, I did not say we were going back to the dacha”, Jackie snapped.

The gust of the cold breeze blew again. As I stood indecisively and hesitantly, another mischievous breeze once more took my lovely long hair and wrapped it across my pretty lips. It was a particularly strong gust and a flurry of loose snow it carried hit my coat below my waist.

“I told you to undress” Jackie calmly repeated.

“No. Please. It is so cold……..” I begged.

“I told you to undress. You may leave on your boots and your garter, but you will strip otherwise totally naked, and do it right here and right now. The cold is not my problem Katrina”, Jackie commanded once again, patiently.

Unusually, I felt a strange petulant temper come over me. I would show her. I began to strip as if I didn’t care.

Mina took my muff. I took off my right glove, and once again put my breeze-scattered hair back over my shoulders. I handed her that glove and then my left one.

Then, as the frightful cold bit into me, my little spat of temper had gone; quite literally cooled by the air I stood in. I now stopped undressing and looked appealingly at Jackie. Her face made no answer.

I took off my hat and the breeze chilled my face as it once more wildly twisted my free-flowing hair.

I slowly unfastened my wonderful royal blue and grey, fur-lined and fur covered outside coat. I drew it back and then covered myself again. I took a deep breath and pulled it off my shoulders baring my breasts, and then eased it from the whole of my beautiful body.

I slipped my coat down my lovely slim arms, and then hugged it to me to feel the residual warmth from my body having worn it, as that warmth faded into the horrible deep chill of the morning air.

Mina held out her arms. Already beginning to shiver, I folded the coat, and obediently and passively handed it to Mina.

I stood in the fiercely freezing cold and the bitterly biting breeze on the hard snow covered ground wearing only my Eiffel-boots and my sexy scarlet garter. My teeth began to chatter involuntarily, and I hugged my chest with my arms, on the ends of which my pretty fingers were already chilling.

Nina now came to me, and clipped around my neck, a leather head-brace, with girlacles at its rear, into which she padlocked my wrists, so that I stood with my arms helplessly held up aloft and my wrists tied behind my neck.

I looked to Jackie for the slightest sign of mercy in her eyes. There was none to be seen.

My body goose-pimpled all over, and my girlmuscles began to twitch, not least in my divine buttocks, as the cold began to soak and saturate me.

Tiptoed as I was I began to wriggle on the spot sexily to try and induce some warmth within my muscles. Even without asking permission, I started to dance my glorious legs up and down on the spot as the only way I could think of to combat the terrible chill, as my body was already beginning to turn pink with the cold cutting into it.

“You will stay out here and you will stay naked until you beg to be whipped Katrina” Jackie announced.

I shuddered from head to tiptoe as the breeze cruelly kissed my naked curves and I began to beg, in a voice stuttering and juddering as was my jaw with the cold, for them to give me my clothing back.

And, even though Jackie had announced the photo session to have been aborted, Mi Li was busier that ever photographing my body, which was turning blue with the deep unrelenting unforgiving unmerciful refrigeration of my whole body.

The icy chill of snow flicked up by the wicked breeze hit my bare breasts and I begged for mercy.

Nina had a long thin headmistresses’ cane in her hand and lifted it, ready to use it on my twitching bottom atop my legs helplessly trembling with the deep bitter cold. But Jackie restrained her and reminded her that I had not just to ask, but to beg to be whipped.

I had been naked but for fifteen minutes at most now, but the terrible, terrible cold had numbed my feet and my fingers were white-blue and tingling. My nipples stood hard as rubies on my juddering breasts and my whole body was dancing, completely out of my control, with the St Vitas twitch of sexy muscles as I shuddered and shook uncontrollably turning to an incredibly erotic blue in superb contrast with the only item of clothing I had left with which to combat the dreadful cold, the scarlet garter on my erotic thigh.

My breath steamed in a stream from my mouth and flaring nostrils, taking even the inner core of my body heat with it.

“Whip me, please whip me!” I cried out, the condensation of my breath as I called out being blown around my almost statue hard frozen face by the bitterest of cryingly cuttingly cold winds.

Nina lifted her cane. But, once again, Jackie held her back.

“She is to beg, not merely to ask” Jackie ordered.

I shuddered and juddered from head to toe now. Mi Li took film of my breasts doing the lewdest of dances. I could not hold myself still. I fought to release my wrists from the girlacles but was losing my strength to the cold, the numbing, biting, unrelenting refrigeration of my body.

I shook my head as I involuntarily danced without moving my feet. My body swayed sexily as my muscles twitched and I cried out for mercy in a stuttering stammer caused by the uncontrollable rhythmic teeth-chattering opening and closing of my pretty mouth.

I was now so very very cold that my mind was begging to drift………I had only one escape…

“Whip me, please, please whip me!” I cried out in a crazy stammer that I could not recognise as my own voice………

Jackie nodded. Nina drew back her cane and brought it down on my naked enticingly twitching left bummy curvature, with a resounding tremendously terribly painful THWICK….

I screamed with the pain, so increased, so incredibly increased by the cold, the acutely cutting continuous complete cold that had permeated the whole of my nude body. Agonised, I stood now, light blue close to catastrophically chilled to my core, and with a livid red stripe among the still uncontrollably muscularly twitching beauty of my left bottom cheek.

“Whip me, please, please whip me!” I begged once more.

Jackie motioned me to bend over.

I was shaking so incredibly that I could only carry out her command with the greatest difficulty and I bent only momentarily before Nina swished the cane through the icy air and it kissed the tops of my blue-cold thighs and my frozen love lips with the cruellest THWICK followed by the loudest scream from me and ending in a muffled screech as I fell fully forward naked onto the snow.

Mi Li took photographs and film as I lay on my face in the snow, and then, at Jackie’s instruction, Nina and Mina lifted me, unfastened my wrists, removed my collar, and put my coat around me, before carrying me to the sleigh. Once I was on the sleigh, Jackie had both fur rugs put over me, and then sat next to me for me to get some benefit from her warmth.

I was still shuddering uncontrollably as I flung my arms around her and kissed her cheek and told her I was sorry and that I loved her.

The sleigh was much quicker on the return journey and warmth was returning to my body as we got near Jackie’s dacha. And with that returning warmth came a throbbing pain from my cane strokes. And with that throbbing pain from my cane strokes, especially the one that had kissed my cunt lips, came my nectar. And Jackie looked at me as she heard my sexy gasp, and she knew that my love juice was wetting the seat as I looked at her lovely face with my eyes vacant because of my hyper-arousal.

As we arrived back at the dacha, before turning on her heels and going into her home in advance of us all, Jackie instructed I be taken indoors and put in my bed.

Wrapping my coat around me, Mina and Nina helped me in my graceful wiggle-walk back to the house. Once in the house, the girls put my coat and hat properly on me and fastened my coat closed.

I was in a daze of pain and shuddering and juddering and yet the highest of high sexual arousal despite the incredible terrible chill that frosted my body to its very core. Mina and Nina took me to my bedroom, and put me into bed, still fully clothed in my boots, my garter, my coat and my hat. They then pulled the heavy duvet over me, kissed my forehead in turn, and left me.

What happened next I for a long time thought I must have dreamed. For out from the shower came, naked and oh so very wonderfully lithe and lissom and perfectly girl, the love of my life. Jackie pulled back the duvet and unfastened my coat, before putting her naked hot body on me, and wrapping the coat and the duvet around us both. She then rolled me over so that I was on top of her. My deep frozen body having begun, just begun, to draw her wonderful warmth, she scattered kisses all over my face and started to rub my back to warm me. As I slowly began to respond by a tiny lessening in my constant shivering, she positioned herself so that my right thigh, still shuddering and numb as ice, was between her lovely legs and being defrosted by her moist quim. And Jackie’s lovely hands felt the contours of my delicious rump until her right hand found the weal that the first cane stroke had given me, and I yelped and involuntarily jerked even at her extremely gentle touch. And as she eagerly felt the deep red welt in my left bottom cheek, and ran her gentle fingers down its full still very painful length, I continuously winced and gasped jerked and twitched, and I heard Jackie’s unbelievably sexy moans and frequent and louder and increasingly sexual gasps soaring to her sinful sensuous shudders and her critical crying-out crisis as, to my justified jubilant joy, uncontained and unrestrained she obtained orgasm originating from my overwhelming body.

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 10:31 AM
Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer
Chapter 19 – “With This Ring”

For the whole of the next day I stayed cuddled in my bed warming my body through and through thoroughly, dreaming dreamy-dreams of my love, Jackie, and trying to recall the sound of her sighs and of her orgasmic moans, the wonderful music of heaven that my body had, at so very long last, caused my darling to sing as she lay with me for the first time.

I was a girl deeply in love. I had never loved any other before so incredibly adoringly. There had been many a man of my dreams, but they had always turned to clay: worthless clay. I had hunted all my life for the golden grail and thought, when I had wanted men, that my quest would be forever unfulfilled. In Jackie I had found not only the grail was of the finest purest gold, but also that it was full of the finest reddest sweetest most precious and most intoxicating wine.

Why had I been such an utter fool as to turn Jackie down when we were at school? What had I missed through not letting my love go to the one who deserved it the most? Why had I wasted all my life before on men? Men are wonderful, but why had it taken me so long to realise that I was always really and truly only a girl’s girl? How could I be deserving of Jackie now? What would my life be like were I to lose her? How could I be sure she would ask me to marry her? Could I make up for the time I had lost by being so stupid as to turn her down over all the years since my teens till now?

These and a thousand other related questions revolved in my head as I lay between sleep and wakefulness most of the day, interrupted by Mina and Nina who tended to me.

It was Mina who broke the news, when I had at last got out of bed at around 7.00 that evening. I was fresh from the shower and Mina had been blow-drying my hair, before brushing it out.

“I’ve something to tell you”, she simply said, but with a hint of mystery and excitement in her voice.

I was sitting in a blue silk mini-dressing-gown in front of my dressing table, concentrating on ensuring that, with Mina’s help, I would once more look beautiful. My mind instantly latched on to Mina’s intonation and I looked up so that we faced each other, so that her eyes and mine met in the mirror, she momentarily leaning her chin on the top of my head.

“I know something you don’t know”, teased Mina rising. She had the smile of a girl who was really and truly bursting to give out her news.

My heart leaped and began to beat more quickly.

“May I know please?” I asked, as the tame girl I now believed myself to be.

“Certainly you may”, Mina teased again.

I lowered my eyes, not daring to ask again.

After a period enjoying the torment on my lovely features, Mina exclaimed, “I know a girl who is to get married in this very house tomorrow!”

I looked up once more not daring to believe what I had heard.

“You heard right!” said Mina, “A judge will be here tomorrow morning and Norna will be the best girl. Did you know that Norna is Belinda’s daughter by an earlier marriage?” she threw in.

I did not know and nor did I take this in; all I heard was my heart thumping in my chest. I almost passed-out with my suppressed joy. I then looked again at Mina’s eyes in the mirror, seeing her eyes seem to flicker and waver because I was looking through the distorting lenses of my silent tears of joy.

“I hope I may say congratulations?” Mina queried jokingly. Then she bade me stand, took me in her arms and hugged me gently as I sobbed uncontrollably. “It’s true” she said, It’s true. You are to be married right here tomorrow, you incredibly lucky girl”

“I always thought Norna had a soft spot for you, but she’s said she’ll be best girl out of love for Jackie. Jackie got Norna another job after Belinda fired her over that shoplifting incident. Her own mother fired her would you believe! She’s a hard woman that Belinda, but so incredibly beautiful…….. She’ll be here tomorrow as well. Jackie and she have been friends for years…..”

Is it too strange to relate that, even as Mina chatted on, my mind was focussing on disappointment? Why had Jackie not approached me directly about the wedding?

Then, as if she had heard my thoughts, “It’s all very sudden”, Mina said, “but it’s bad luck for the husband-girl-to-be, to see the bride before the ceremony, so Nina and I are going to get you ready and Norna will join us in a while. Norna has the eternity ring for you to wear ready for tomorrow!”

“Jackie says you’ll have to go out to work even after you’re married. Apparently, Belinda runs a firm of girl-cabs. They are all the rage in London now, what with the environmental legislation banning cars altogether. They say Rickshaws are crowding the streets. Belinda has cornered the market in lovely girls for her rickshaws, or so she claims. If you believe her, the rich and famous love “Glamour Girl Gigs” as she calls them……..”

“Anyway”, concluded Mina, as Nina re-entered the room, that’s for after tomorrow, tonight and tomorrow itself are for the lovely bride, and we must get you ready for your big day!”

Nina took hold of my left hand, waived her right index finger in front of my face and tutted jokingly as she pointed out the one short fingernail. For the next thirty minutes my two lovely tormentors busied themselves making all my nails even, and shaping them to look the very prettiest they could be, without the extensive length that I must necessary lose, so that they all matched once more.

If it is possible for someone to knock on a door shyly, a shy knock was heard on my door, and the perfectly lovely little redhead, Norna, entered at Nina’s bidding.

“Isn’t she looking lovely Norna?” Nina teased the schoolgirl, who, from the look on her face, was still infatuated with me.

“Katrina always looks lovely”, Norna opined blushing deep pink at daring to use my name, her white skin making her go pinker by its contrast than would my own blushes.

I thanked Norna, and she blushed again.

“Our little Norna has got a ring your future husband-girl wants you to wear said Mina.

“You have got the ring, haven’t you Norna?” she then enquired.

Young Norna blushed once more, as she nodded.

My nails were complete. Mina had continued to brush my hair as Nina worked on my nails.

“Now we have to shave you”, said Nina matter-of-factly. “Between your legs” she said, in answer to my querulous look.

“Please may I ask why?” I sought.

“Jackie wants you to be a reverted-virgin for your wedding!” said Mina with a sexy and naughty smile on her face.

It was my turn to blush now. Of course I would agree to have me shaved between my legs if that was what Jackie wanted.

“If we shave you now, we can use ointment to ensure your skin will recover from any soreness by morning”, Nina assured me thoughtfully.

Then Mina called out from the bathroom, where she was running the shower connected to the bath to ensure warm water, “We don’t want the bride looking sore on her wedding night do we?!”.

Nina took my hand and led me to the bathroom where I stripped naked and stood in the bath whilst Mina played the hair-wash shower between my legs to soften my pubic hair.

This done, I stepped out of the bath, was dabbed dry with a towel and my pubic hair covered with shaving foam, which in itself felt very hot. Nina then, meticulously carefully, used a safety razor to remove even the most infinitesimal vestige of hair from my lower lips, applying localised squirts of the self-heating shaving foam where she met with trouble or an awkward angle.

I was then bade to stand in the bath again, and take another gentle shower between the legs.

It felt wonderful. To be without my pubic hair for the first time in my adult life felt stupendously naughty and extremely sexy, and my clitoris twitched and my nectar began to ooze as I looked at myself in the steamed-up bathroom mirror.

“Better fit the ring now”, ordered Mina, who had throughout assumed seniority in the proceedings.

I girly-giggle-smilingly held out my lovely left hand, palm down, as if to say, “now or sooner suits me!”

Mina laughed, as she arranged a towel on the middle side edge of my bed.

“Sit on the towel Katrina, and lift your legs as high as you can. Nina and I will hold your legs apart while Nina fits your ring”, ordered Mina.

My complete mystification clearly showed on my features as if it were reluctance.

“Do as you are told Katrina, and do it now!” Mina ordered quietly but firmly and in a manner allowing of no dispute.

I had not meant to disobey, or even to appear to disobey. I wiggled my lovely body over to the bed and sat as ordered, before leaning back, as Nina and Mina took hold of my glorious legs and lifted them high and very wide apart to open the lips of my purse.

As I lay on my back, the delectable little Norna put a pillow under my head, and with a shaking palm, showed me a tiny gold ring, a centimetre or so wide, and with a less than half--centimetre hole in it, its outside surface circled centrally by tiny sharp looking diamonds.

“You know what to do, don’t you Norna?” enquired Mina, as she and Nina took tighter grip on my superb legs, and drew them down and out a little more toward the horizontal.

What followed next combined incredibly arousing sexiness and sharp pain. I could only feel what was going on, but there is no more incredibly sensitive organ of a girl’s body with which to feel, than her cunt.

It was as if my cunt had eyes. All and everything I felt, told me all and everything that was going on. I had sort of “touch sight” of all and everything.

I felt and therefore I “saw” Norna putting a prop of some sort between my outer love lips to hold them agape and then I moaned with pleasure, despite or because of the horrible humiliation, as Norna felt around near my clitoris with some kind of cold metal implement.

For such a shy girl, Norna proved very adept at getting what my “touch sight” clearly told me was a pair of pincers to grip firmly on the end of my clitoris.

“Stretch it then girl, for goodness sake” Nina ordered, and I gasped and then cried out with pain as Norna’s brutally bruisingly bitingly tight pincers pulled out my poor clitoris.

“It hurts it hurts, oh god it hurts. Please stop oh please it hurts it hurts!!” I howled

Then as Norna held my clitoris stretched out with pincers held in her left hand, I felt her work something down those pincers and onto my clitoris.

“For goodness sake, Norna, Keep her clit stretched so the pins inside to ring don’t scratch her” Mina reminded.

Norna pulled my clitoris out further, and I moaned with sexual pleasure now. I was very girl and my reactions were very girl, as I slowly rolled my head side to side, eyes closed in “no, no, no” of “yes, yes, yes” pleasure pain.

Norna had obviously slid what I now of course realised was the little gold ring, as far up my clitoris as she was able, with her second set of tweezers. And so she let go of my clit with both tweezers at once and despite the other girls still holding my legs, I leapt upright and hollered with pain, as the hitherto squeezed end of my clitoris that had been gripped by the tweezers, had blood and feeling flood back into it, and as my clitoris was gripped by the gold ring around it.

“Oh please it hurts me. Oh please take it off!” I begged as I became aware of just how very tight the ring around my clit was, and that four sharp little spikes at ninety degree intervals around the inside of the ring, had pierced me, so as to ensure the ring could never come off.

"Of course it hurts Katrina”, Mina told me as if I should know. “It’s an eternal-torment ring. Your future husband-girl is exercising her rights with you, that your body suffer the eternal torment of never again being able to enjoy sexual arousal without pain. It is to subdue you and make you tamer still. Such will be the pain from your clitoris getting engorged by arousal that, initially, it will douse your sexual fire instantly, so that, during sex, your thoughts are completely concentrated on satisfying your husband-girl. And yet, over further time, you will crave sexual release so very much. So pent up will be your desire over time that the constant ring-hurt will become your pleasure and you will be able to make love to your husband-girl whilst suffering the agony of the ring when your clitoris expands, for your own pleasure, and to the further enhancement of hers.”

This was horrible. I, of course, knew that some husband-girls did not like their wives to enjoy sex. I had read the articles recommending sexual deprivation as a means of taming and controlling wife-girls. But I had dreamed of making love to Jackie and, if I am honest, even more so of her pleasuring me in passionate nightlong love sessions that my beautiful body existed solely for. This ring was horrible. I could hardly believe it of Jackie that she would want me ringed thus. But if this were indeed what Jackie wanted, I would wear her ring forever and never ever complain of its pain.

I loved Jackie. I longed to marry her. If Jackie, as my future husband-girl, wanted my clitoris to wear an eternal-torment ring, I was pleased to suffer it for my love: the love of my life, the girl I absolutely unquestioningly adored.

Now that the ring fitting was over, I moved to ease my position.

“And just where do you think you are going!?” Mina asked as if I should know the answer to her question.

“Norna has not finished with you yet. She has still to sew you.”

“Sew?” I asked quietly, unsure I had heard what Mina had just said, and certainly not understanding.

“Yes Katrina, I said ‘sew’ ” Mina repeated patiently.

“Please Mina, I only ask because I do not understand. Please tell me what is to be sewn” I begged the fear trembling in my voice.

“You are Katrina”

“Oh god please no! Please, please, please no!” I cried.

“No! No! No!!” I cried out again as I watched Norna threading a horrible sharp looking curved bodkin needle.

“Norna will give you a rubber strip to bite on whilst she sews you up” Mina said, by way of reminding the nervous Norna.

The gentle Norna, offered me the rubber strip and I took it between my lovely teeth as tears of dreadful fear trickled down my face onto the bed.

My legs were gripped more tightly once more, and Norna began her awful and dreadful task, just as I began my awful and dreadful screams, the proffered and accepted gag having fallen from my sweet mouth.

My agony was total. I screeched and screamed and fought to get my legs together to escape the searing pain as Norna slowly pushed the needle through my she-lips, drawing through after it the tough thin nylon fishing-line-like-thread with which I was having my cunt sewn totally closed forever.

Norna worked down from the top of my outer purse lips nearest my clitoris, and sewed me closed with X shaped cross-stitches neatly at half-millimetre intervals as I cried out with the pain that was as physical as it was psychological and as psychological as it was physical.

“You will still be able to urinate and menstruate, though both will be a little messy henceforth”, Mina told me, as I still jerked and moaned with distress every time Norna’s steel bodkin was pushed through my tender sex-lips.

“As no penis will ever enter your love box again, there is no need of leaving a small hole, as is done with female circumcision. Since this is to be a girl-girl wedding, you can be returned to new-virginity by total infibulation”, Mina announced, as if I should welcome my cunt being sewn up.

“Just think what pleasure you will give your husband-girl on your wedding night when she discovers that you are a new-virgin!” Nina joined in. “She may still choose to deflower you with the cutting or ripping of your stitches”.

“Now you are to marry, your husband-girl appears to have decided that sexual pleasure must be denied you. Therefore, unless she decides you be deflowered, you must think only of your husband-girl’s sexual pleasure forever from now onwards. Never again will anybody, yourself not least, be able to touch inside your cunt. Your key pleasure organs are locked away for-ever-and-a-day now”, Nina continued. “Once married, if you allow yourself to be unstitched, your husband-girl is entitled to have you beheaded”, she concluded.

The agony of my being sewn-up ceased with Norna having thoroughly knotted the lose ends of her work, and skilfully hidden the knot inside me, by pushing it behind the bottommost cross-stitch.

For a short while as they let me sit up, I sobbed like a baby.

Mina and Nina then helped me stand. The stitches seemed terribly tight. Mina congratulated Norna on her workgirlship saying how wonderfully neatly she had sewn me closed.

At Mina’s bidding, I walked over to the full-length mirror in the door of my wardrobe and there, for the first time, I saw my cunt, my poor cunt, so naked without its hair, so virginal-looking without its down, so beautiful with its neat tight stitches criss-crossing the gap between its divine lips, lips now sewn forever tight-shut.

I raised a pretty hand to my mouth as I stared and stared at my infibulated cunt. I could not believe what had been done to me: I could just not believe what had been done to me. I put my lovely fist to my mouth to stifle a cry of despair, and the tears rolled down my lovely soft face as I stared and stared at those wonderfully neat and oh so dreadfully awful stitches.

It could be that I was to remain sewn closed forever more. If so, never again would I be able to experience the internal pleasures of my most girl part, my love box: my gentle sweet and sweetly gentle cunt.

“Dry your tears, Katrina. Every bride has last minute doubts on the eve of her wedding. You’ll get used to the clit ring, and the stitches will become as if they had always been there. Your pubic hair will grow again as long as your husband-girl does not forbid you it of course.

Nina brought drops for my eyes so that they would not be bloodshot on my wedding day, and ointment was put on my sore sewn love-lips. But I continued to stare and stare at my sewn-up girlhood between my slightly parted legs. And, as I thought of the sacrifice I was making for Jackie, the girl I loved and who I so looked forward to being my husband-girl, my charms caused me to nectar and the new innocence of my totally nude shaven and totally infibulated cunt caused me to feel heavenly arousal, and I gasped and sighed with joy that despite being sewn up, my cunt was still girl and could still feel heavenly pleasure. And my nectar ran inside me and I sighed at my charms and then I cried out with terrible pain as my clitoris had joined in my arousal and the ring I now wore around it, bit hard into it, as my clit tried to swell and extend. And I clutched my belly with the pain this gave me, and my sexual fire instantly flickered and died. And yet I loved this killing of my fire. And my desire and my fire flickered momentarily, and then flared and flamed anew. And this time the perfect agony from my pained clitoris aroused me beyond endurance, and I was once again sexy Katrina as I had a series of tiny orgasms, staring and staring at the horrible beauty of my sewn-up cunt lips.


Using the bathroom in my infibulated state proved most unpleasant. It was very messy as my golden shower sought its way between my cruel tight stitches, and I passed a little blood, as my skin had not as yet healed from my being sewn closed.

I bathed myself on the bidet and applied more ointment to my very sore she-lips.

The day I had lately longed for had now dawned. This was the day of my wedding: my wedding day. Somewhere in Jackie’s dacha, Jackie too would be preparing for the wedding.

I should have felt wonderful and excited. This was the day of a girl’s dreams: certainly it should have been the day of my dreams. But as yet I still felt the pain of my eternal-torment ring and my stitches, and my ardour was duly truly dampened.

It was not yet dawn on my wedding day. I was in the bathroom having my legs smoothed with hair removal cream, following a careful close shaving. For the next two hours I would be beautified. I was perfect raw material and my attendants, Mina, Nina, and Norna now being joined by Mi Li, only needed to work on the components of my very beautiful whole.

My hair was to be raised in a bun atop my head to crown me with all its glory once more. I showered and then put on a towelling dressing gown, so that I could kneel with my head over the kidney shaped bath in the corner of the en-suite facilities, and put my head over the bath and hang my hair into the bath to be thoroughly shampooed and conditioned.

The excess wet was dried, and I was combed and brushed till it began to pull on my scalp unpleasantly: such is the price of beauty.

Mi Li tended to my eyebrows, not finding anything stray to pluck, and chose a deep rose red for my lipstick, to go with the rest of my makeup, which would emphasise my high cheekbones and the mystery in my dark-brown eyes.

As Mi Li painted my lips, she had me perform lewd gestures with my mouth so as to ensure perfect coverage and to emphasise the very kissable thickness of the top and bottom middles of my sensuous lips.

She then made a move I had not expected. Baring my right breast, she held its soft firmness in her left hand whilst, with tongue in corner of her mouth, to aid care and concentration, she began to, and then completed, the painting of my right nipple with the lipstick. Then, as if this were done everyday, she took my left breast and painted its nipple deep rose red to match my lips also.

I blushed as I looked at the result in my mirror. It was very exotic and extremely erotic, and my blush was from my arousal as the old Katrina arrived on the scene and I began to take pleasure in my day, and in my body, and in my bountiful curvature: the curvature of woman, the curvature of an all-girl girl.

Time was flying. Time was moving on. Time was that I must now be moved downstairs to dress me for the ceremony. It was the right of a husband-girl-to-be to choose how her bride should dress, and I felt butterflies in my tummy at the thought of how Jackie would want me to look lovely on my wedding day. What would she have chosen for me to wear?

Mi Li went ahead to check the coast was clear and we would not risk the bad luck always said to result from the groom seeing her bride before they would meet in front of the judge at the wedding hour itself.

Mina and Nina went off to change for their part in the ceremony that was getting ever closer.

They reappeared in lovely striped suits with white blouses. Charcoal grey matching jacket and mini-skirt, charcoal grey with thin lighter stripes that is, black stockings and four-inch heeled stilettos. And they brought with them matching clothing for Mi Li, who was to walk me up the isle.

I was so excited to have my wedding clothing revealed to me.

Whilst Mi Li took her turn to go and change, and to check that Norna was ready for her role as best girl, Mina took over and started with my g-string. I sighed a little as I realised that my dream of marrying in pink was not to be reality. My g-string was white. My g-string was white because, from the infibulation of my cunt, I was become a “new virgin” and was therefore to wed in pure white.

Indeed my appearing wearing pure white beside my husband-girl at the wedding, would be a thrill for my husband-girl, as my completely white raiment would tell her for the first time that I had obeyed her in submitted myself to the needle to be sewn-up in her honour.

My g-string was pure white and so too were my suspenders. My lovely hips were decorated with pretty, near translucent, lace panelled, rose patterned, white suspenders, to match with my completely opaque, shaven sex secreting g-string.

The wonderful white stockings that were next rolled up my gorgeous long strong legs echoed the white rose pattern in the panels of my suspenders. I was allowed to do nothing of my dressing. This was my special day. I was to be waited upon literally hand and foot, and so it was Nina who stretched my individual suspenders to hold up my shear white rose patterned stockings, perhaps wondering if those stockings could possible flatter legs that were of themselves so superbly shapely.

My rose decorated lace red birthday garter would eye-compellingly decorate my orgasmically gorgeous left thigh.

Now for my shoes…….

I had not known that I was to wear feet-balls. But there they were waiting to have my feet strapped to them. There they were, two golden coloured steel outer and lead inner-cored balls, of some eight-inches diameter, with a one-inch gold coloured steel chain linking them.

I was made to sit, and had my feet strapped into the white leather open-toed “sandals” that were irremovably fixed to be integral with the outer curved surface of the balls, that thus effectively formed the sandals’ soles. As I was strapped in the sandals, so my feet, the soles of my feet, took on the curvature of the balls.

I had seen girls standing in these in “Pink Bride” magazine. Why is it that whatever girls are seen doing in any magazine or advertisement, they are always shown with a happy smile as if they have just attained the perfection you will have to continue to seek forever, unless you do what they are shown doing?

I knew from those pictures the way I would have to stand in these feet-ball-shoes, because of the “heel” wedge at their rear. And both Mina and Nina took one each of my lovely long-fingered hands, and helped me stand up. And as I stood up, my feet-balls rolled to settle on the wedge “heels” at their bottom rears. And as they so settled, so was I lifted on long lithe lovely lissom leggy legged tiptoe in the pain of standing, as the balls forced me to do, on my bent-over big toes, for my bent-over big toes were all that stopped the balls rolling forward and toppling me onto my gorgeous face on the ground.

I winced with the pain as Nina checked my suspenders whilst Mina went to find something else: a gag. I was to wear an O-gag. I was to wear a gag at my wedding.

In the world I now inhabited as a tamed girl, I should have felt no surprise that it would be expected I be married wearing a gag. But as Mina put the gag over my face and I felt the cold of the gold-coloured steel ring touching my pretty lips, I turned in surprise.

“Open your mouth as wide as you can Katrina”, Mina instructed.

“Please may I ask how I am to give my oaths at the wedding wearing a gag?” I enquired with polite curiosity.

“You are only the bride. Your oaths can be spoken on your behalf, just as the husband-girl can choose to have someone else speak for her as well. It is of no account whether you give your oaths yourself or not. They are equally binding in law if someone else makes them for you. Even if you disagree with them, you have no right to change them” Mina reminded me. “Anyway silly girl, you are not going to say ‘no’ at you wedding are you?”

I smiled as I answered my “no”. Of course I would never ever say no to marrying Jackie.

I obediently opened my mouth, and Mina worked the O-gag over my teeth. A big circle O, the O-gag had a groove around it and curved to fit inside my mouth, so it could fit over my teeth like a gum-shield.

As Mina tied the white ribbons from my O-gag at the back of my head, my mouth was held permanently agape in a sexually inviting “O”, with my perfect pink tongue flickering visibly around inside my wide-open mouth enticingly. My mouth was held open as beautifully “O for orgasm” invitingly, as the mouth of a blow-up sex-doll is agape obscenely.

Nina now brought my final garment. It comprised a crown. A complete circle of gold, real gold, that was to go around the bun that my hair had been drawn up into on top of my head. And from this crown there tumbled down a freefall abundance of heavenly glorious white lace. It cascaded down in multi-pleats of rose patterned white that formed not only a veil but went far beyond to cover to my stocking tops as if my veil were also my wedding dress.

And so this astoundingly virginally-sexy hiding everything and revealing everything torrent of beautiful lace, should cascade in its multi-pleats down to my stocking tops as if it were also my wedding dress, because it was both my veil and my wedding dress.

I was late for my wedding. I was keeping my future husband-girl waiting. It was my last right as an unwed girl to be late for my wedding.

Mi Li returned. She was dressed in the same grey skirt and jacket scheme as Mina and Nina. The hint of masculinity in the dress of these very pretty girls, would purposely contrast with the helplessly feminine, revealing and hiding, new-virgin white of the bride.

Mina ordered me not to shed a tear for fear I would harm my make-up, as she positioned a mirror so that I could see myself in my full wedding outfit. And Mi Li took photographs of a wedding dress and beautiful bride that would undoubtedly adorn the pages of “Pink Bride” and “SapphFire” magazines within the next few weeks.

This was it. This was it now. My time had come. My dream was coming true. My dream had come true. My love awaited me just across the corridor. My love. The love of my life. My Jackie. My Jackie awaited me just across the corridor. I was going to be married. I was going to marry the love of my life. I was going to marry my Jackie and be hers forever, and for ever and a day.

I began my slow slink in my feet-ball shoes, so heavy and so tightly and so shortly hobbled by the one-inch linking chain. It would take me an eon of imprisoned ball shackled big toe weight bearing sexy shuffle-walking to get to my husband-girl-to-be, but infinity would be as a split-second such was my willingness to take the pain of every step to get to be beside my love.

Mi Li went ahead of me, and I could hear talking in Jackie’s lounge, where I was heading, as I rotated my sexy bottom, bare beneath the cascading lace of my wedding veil dress, advancing my heavy balled-and-chained feet slowly, advancing a slave to love toward my wonderful wedding.

As I at long last shuffled myself into Jackie’s lounge, Mi Li offered me her arm, and smiled at me, as she stepped slowly beside me as I strong-leggilly, long-leggilly, steeple-leggilly, bottom hemisphere undulatingly, super-femininely wiggle-walked my divine body toward the judge, Belinda, Norna, Mina, Nina, and above all my beloved adorable Jackie waiting for me, waiting for the stupendously sexy and beautiful bride slave girl, the winsome willing tame slave of deep love: me.

All were facing the front. Etiquette required that the groom-girl not turn and must wait to see her bride when her bride had made it to her side. But the judge, a wonderfully tall slim graceful negress, with the divine smile of warmth and welcome that I needed to comfort my nerves, the nerves of a bride about to marry, looked at me and made it known by her eyes that I looked perfectly gorgeous and gorgeously perfect.

She pressed a button, and the tune I only knew as, “here comes the bride”, began to play on speakers secreted in the walls. This was heaven. This was my heaven. I had entered heaven. I was standing beside my Jackie and she was smiling at my incredible beauty and looking at my long legs, and admiring my perfect pert breasts with their nipples painted the red of my O-gaped O-ring gagged mouth, and my dark brown eyes aglow with my charms, and my oh so smackable nude round rump rear, and my white g-string telling her that I had had my purse-lips sewn tight closed forever for her, if she desired I remain infibulated.

And the wedding began. And Norna confirmed that she would speak for the bride: for me. And I was asked: “Does the bride take the groom-girl, to have and to hold from this day forth, forever to honour and obey, to the forsake of all others keeping only unto her, till death doth them part?”

And Norna answered for me, “She does” and I smiled at the lovely little virgin schoolgirl who had made my vow for me so adorably.

And the judge now turned to Jackie and asked: “Does the groom-girl take the bride to have and to hold from this day forth forever?”

And I looked in Jackie’s eyes as Jackie, my love, the love of my life, the girl I adored, answered: “She does”

And the judge smiled at me and announced in her lovely clear contralto voice: “With the fitting of the ring on the bride’s wedding finger, and the sealing kiss of the husband-girl’s lips, on the bride-girl’s wedding-ringed finger adorned by the wedding ring, you become in the eyes of the law of this land, and before for all the world of love, husband-girl and wife”.

And I could hardly help tears starting in my eyes as Norna passed Jackie the ring, the gold band that was to go on my wedding finger: the gold ring that was to go on my wedding finger gently slid above my second knuckle by Jackie, the girl to whom my love was totally and irrecoverably irrevocably enslaved………

…….But oh god no what was this!!? Jackie was giving it to Belinda, she was giving the wedding ring to Belinda and Belinda, the cool cold cruel green-eyed wonderfully beautiful blonde, was reaching for my left hand and sliding that ring on my lovely slim naturally bendy-back ring-finger, even as I shook my head in total disbelief and horror, trying through my O-gag to call out NO, NO, NO, NO, NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! The groom-girl would only have to kiss the ring on my hand, and I would be married. Belinda would only have to kiss the ring on my hand, and I would be married. Belinda would only have to kiss the ring on my hand, and WE would be married. And Belinda held my hand helplessly tightly in her own frigid fingers, and bent her head to place her ice-cold unfeeling cruel lips on the ring on my finger. And Belinda bent and kissed the ring on my finger, and we were married. Belinda and I were married. Belinda and I were girl and girl. Belinda and I were girl and wife. I was become forever Belinda’s wife………….

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer
Chapter 20 – Belinda’s Wife

I was now the wife of the cruel cold Belinda. The iced-diamond blonde beauty was my husband-girl and, though I was too devastated to realise it at the time, Norna had become my stepdaughter.

I was in a daze of distress. I felt betrayed by Jackie. I wanted to howl my tears and sob my pain, but I was surely tame girl now and had no right to express myself in that or any other way. My feelings were irrelevant.

My pain was double. The mental torment of being deceived by my loves, Jackie, and Mi Li, and even by the pretty schoolgirl Norna hurt me. The physical pain of the horrible stitches with which the lips of my cunt were sewn so tightly closed, would not have hurt half so much if this for me, my wedding, had been the occasion of joy I had so dreamed of. This being no occasion of joy, my sewn-up she-lips hurt and hurt terribly.

So disorientated was I at the way I had been treated and tricked, that I can hardly recall the rest of my wedding day, the feast the toasts, the congratulations given Belinda by all assembled, at her having wed such a wonderfully sexy and beautiful girl as I, and the unsubtle jokes hinting at the close upcoming joy of taking a deeply sexual all-girl-girl like me to bed.

I must have managed to smile for a time. Then I know, because I was told much later, and only because I was told, having no recollection of it myself, that I fainted and had been taken to Belinda’s bedroom and put to bed naked by Mi Li and Mina.

The next morning I awoke early to find that I had slept entirely alone in Belinda’s bedroom, my husband-girl’s bedroom: our bedroom. I showered and dried myself and took time to brush out my hair and prepare myself for the day with the brushes and combs make-up and other girly paraphernalia that had been moved into Belinda’s room for me from my old room.

I dressed for the dawn of my married life, in a black micro-miniskirt and white sleeveless vest. Pantiless and braless, I sat on the corner of my bed, feeling misery compounded by fear, and the constant reminder whenever I moved, of just how tight were the stitches that sewed my cunt lips closed together.

I wore, of course, the simple gold ring on my left hand confirming my married state. Within my cunt I wore also, the gold eternity ring tight around and piercing my clitoris. And, painfully reminding me of my sub-girl status, I wore the cross-stitches with which my delicious nectar-pot slit had been sewn completely closed.

Once more that very morning I had experienced the extreme unpleasantness of having to let my golden piss trickle from between the sealing stitches of my completely infibulated cunt. That at some time soon I would experience the horror of menstruating whilst savagely sewn securely shut, shivered me with a shudder……..

………Then a knock came on my door.

I stood barefoot in my micro-mini and vest top, instantly, obediently.

Mina’s pretty blonde head popped around my door: “Your husband wants you in Jackie’s office now”, she ordered.

I was observance itself. I did not even pause to find shoes. I just moved as fast as I could to go down the stairs and knock on the door of Jackie’s office to await my order to enter.

I stood outside the door of Jackie’s office for over a minute, though it seemed more like an hour as my heart pounding with fright, before, “Come”, instructed Belinda’s ice-cold contralto voice.

I entered timidly. Belinda was alone with her daughter Norna: my stepdaughter now.

“Wait there!” Belinda snapped pointing to a spot just inside the door as I entered the door and closed it quietly behind me.

I stood my ground as ordered, putting my hands behind my back and lowering my head, to signify my subservience to my husband-girl’s commands.

When Belinda at last paid me attention, she was, in fact, sweet and kind, even though her tone of voice also conveyed that what she told me next was not open to question in any way shape or form.

“I did not marry you for love Katrina”, she began. “Your head seems to be full of silly romantic girlish dreams, so let us be clear on where we stand. I did not marry you for love. I do not love you. I have never loved you. I will never love you.”

My heart had already been broken by Jackie’s betrayal of me on what was surely meant to have been the day of her wedding me, so this statement could not hurt me any more than I had been hurt already.

“You could say that I married you for debt”, Belinda continued. “I have known Jackie for many years. Her businesses have taken an unexpected financial tumble recently: problems with a bank loan and taxes. With interest, you owe her a cool million by now. I agreed with Jackie that, to help her out, I would take over the debt you owed her. But I was not going to take over your debt and leave Jackie with any hold over you, so I made it an absolute condition that you be made to marry me.”

“I am going to make you officially my secretary so that you become tax deductible. Norna is already on my books for the same reason. My lawyers in England are handling the paperwork on you right now”.

“You can think yourself very lucky that you married me. I do not need your repayments. Where I am concerned, your debt is cancelled. I have paid Jackie all you owed her. You therefore no longer need to work as a ‘model’ or whatever it was that you claimed to be”.

“However, I am not going to have you idle. You are highly educated and highly intelligent, and I have a genuine need for, a butler, a maid, a chef, a gardener, a cleaner, and for a secretary of substance; not just a notional appointee for tax saving purposes. Norna will look after the telephone and voicemail. You will do everything else, whether at my command or my daughter’s”.

Belinda looked at me with what appeared to be a genuinely kind smile as she told me all this. Perhaps, after all, I had been wrong in my assessment of her. Perhaps, after all, she was not the cold unfeeling cruel vixen I had somehow from first sight of her, and from all word heard of her, begun to conclude she must be.

“I am essentially heterosexual Katrina”, Belinda advised me. “You are a very beautiful and very sexy girl, but I have no use for you. I do not want you sexually: I will never ever want you sexually.”

“Norna was born from a love affair with the man I married when I was as naïf as you seem to have been in your teens. She is not the product of today’s artificial insemination. She was a love-child, till my man did me the honour of changing my name by wedding me to legitimise her by giving her his surname.”

“I have changed my surname by marrying again since, and I’ve been divorced by both men……….Two changes of name and two failures.” Belinda looked vulnerably sad momentarily as she recalled this, and I longed to comfort her, moved as I was by her obvious pain.

“I have no use for you as a lover”, Belinda continued. “But you are an asset that has cost me a great deal of money”. So you will continue, with Norna’s assistance, to maintain your physical charms at the utmost peak of their perfection, in case I ever find a use for them”.

“I have no use for you as a lover”, Belinda reiterated, “but neither either am I going to have you made love to by anybody else, least of all by you yourself.”

“I had your cunt sewn closed. But, for a sexy needful driven girl like you, Katrina, I fear that the sewing-up of your cunt lips is not sufficient protection of your chastity.”

“Whilst ever you are my wife, and that almost certainly means forever henceforth Katrina, you are forbidden, absolutely, finally, unquestionably totally and utterly forbidden, all sex. You will never in any circumstances whatsoever, enjoy the pleasure of sex ever again. Do I make myself clear?”

Tears were tolling from my eyes as I answered obediently, “Yes mistress”.

“Let me hear you say that clearly Katrina”.

“I will do as my husband orders me”, I sobbed.

“Good” announced Belinda, with a note of satisfied sadism now seeming apparent in her tone, after all

“Go back to your room, or rather our room. Norna will go with you and witness, on my behalf, that Mina and Nina, who work for me now, dress you in what you will wear forever in the daytime from now on”.

From being uplifted by my husband-girl’s initial surprisingly gentle tone as compared with the reputation I had given her in my mind for cruelty, my heart now sank deeper than the galaxy’s core at the lifelong sentence that had just been so casually pronounced upon me.

Just because I had married a girl who had no use for my physical love, she was, as was entirely her right of course, sentencing me, her wife, to a life forever without physical love. For a red-blooded all-girl girl like me, it seemed that the frozen desert that I must endure forever from now onwards might just as well have been called what it was: the sentence of a living death.

I could not stop the tears that rolled down my face and the twitching of my sensual lips, contorted as they were by my horror sorrow, as I obediently walked with my step-daughter, the pretty little redheaded Norna, back to the bedroom I had woken in that morning. As I returned to that room I did so with less hope than even the no-hope-at-all that I concluded I had at waking for the day.

In that bedroom I stripped naked. Mina and Nina did not talk to me as they prepared me. Mina and Nina did not talk to me because, from henceforth, nobody was allowed to talk to me and I was not allowed to talk to anybody without my husband-girl’s prior permission.

With patient care, the girls removed every last vestige of my nail varnish, before trimming my nails, the lovely nails I had taken such pride in growing impractically femininely long, back to close-to-end-of-finger length. They then bathed my face to remove all trace of make-up. And then they sat me before my mirror and used electric shears, to slowly and carefully trim my head hair to stubble.

Nextly, Norna brought a bowl of made-up lather, and my head was soaped thoroughly as a preliminary to it’s being shaven utterly and completely bald. And I watched in the mirror and from the corner of my gorgeous brown eyes amidst the flickering mist of my tears as my lovely hair was being gathered off the floor and dumped into a waste sack.

Bade to stand, I put my feet into crude rubber sandals, that appeared to have been made out of recycled car tyres. No more for me it seemed, was there to be the stunning glory of my stupendously tremendous legs displayed in high heels.

I stood next, and watched in obedient misery as around my waist was passed a strong steel belt, hanging down from the back of which was a slim-profile-gauge but strong flexible stainless steel multiple-hinged plate that, after covering my anus and indeed the hemispheres of my bottom, was shaped to go down between my legs and to cup my sewn-up sex before touching my belly, as it fitted me thoroughly as if tailored, as indeed it had been, and being padlocked irremovably in place at the metal belt’s front.

This was my double-chastity belt completely preventing access to my front and rear lower love-tunnels. Indeed, the front of my chastity belt was covered in meaningful cruel and businesslike outward facing alternating one-inch-long and half-inch-long spikes to discourage any attempt at getting anywhere near my beautiful love-slit.

Over my head was fitted a stainless steel branks: a scold’s bridle. This branks comprised four strips of stainless steel, forming a plus-type cross from the aerial view, and leading down to a neckband. The front of the branks, where the strip of steel divided to go either side of my nose, was hinged to open out so that the branks would go over my head and could then be shut and padlocked in place at the sides of my neck, where the two halves of the neckband met for that very purpose.

Running around the front of my branks, rising up from the neckband, was a chin and mouth cover, leaving put a tiny round hole in front of my lips through which a tube could be inserted to enable me to drink. This was the “chastity belt” for my third love-tunnel, my lovely livid living loving lips.

Now they brought to fit to me my defensive brassiere. It too was made of hinged stainless steel. It had curved hooks in lieu of shoulder straps. These were put over my shoulders, and my huge breasts were contained within its perfectly semi-circular half-globe cups. Then its hinged wings, the “bra straps”, were soon being padlocked at my back. And my breasts were thus covered and defended from any touch including my own, by being totally contained within the half-globe bra cups, and by the total surfacing of the half-globes with the same meaningful cruel and businesslike outward facing alternating one-inch-long and half-inch-long spikes that also protected my cunt from being touched.

So that I should no longer be able to display and entice even with my pretty hands, I was having armpit long black rubber gloves rolled up my slender upper limbs.

And clear plastic tube was fitted to a drainpipe at the base of the cup in the chastity cover over my lower love-lips, and taken up to the hole in my mouth shield. There it was pushed through so that I could quench my thirst during the day with the only sustenance I would be allowed: my own piss: my pee.

To ensure that any incontinence of faeces would be looked after during the long hours I must spend endlessly in my imprisoning anti-love anti-sex protection, tight fitting rubber panties, like schoolgirls’ knickers but in black rubber, were pulled up my legs, till their leg-holes squeezed the tops of my thighs just below my buttocks, and they could be pulled over my steel protected bottom, and then stretched over my front, where the area where my cunt was defended by the outward facing sharp spikes, saw those spikes sticking warningly through the tight-stretched black rubber material.

Because the holes caused by my warning-off, warding-off spikes were self-sealing, my tight black rubber knickers would capture and contain my faeces, any escaping urine, and also ministrate to any escaping menstruum when my periods were on. Thus my belly could be filled with water at the start of the day, and I could thereafter be worked endless hours. I could and would be expected to sustain myself by drinking my continuously recycling urine. I had no need of the bathroom for defecation either, as I would be expected to defecate into my rubber knickers so as not to have to leave off from my duties at any time.

Now, and finally, they brought my horrible black rubber gown. It was simply and solely a head-to-floor all-round robe: a shroud. I must lift my arms so that its loose rubber sleeves could slide down my gloved upper limbs. It thereafter covered me head-to-floor, being placed over my branksed head, and then manipulated in order that a narrow gauze-covered horizontal window-slit was located so that I could see through it.

This narrow gauze-covered horizontal window-slit was not only my only means of looking out at the world; it was also my only ventilation under the heavy rubber head-to-floor completely covering shroud.

I was thus covered, draped over for all the world like a human tent. Like a sheet being used by a child to pretend being a ghost, this black rubber cover flowed down from my head in folds, till it dragged on the floor all around distantly from my feet, so completely did it cover and disguise me.

I was shapelessly and formlessly covered and hidden. I was secreted from the eye of humanity. I was de-sexed. The overpowering wonders of my enticing ensnaring exceptionally emphatically erotic charms were completely hidden and forbidden.

I was dressed, purposely dressed, to be unsexual. The wonderful gift of beauty that my charms gave to the world was to be hidden from the world for evermore now. I was still sexual girl. I would still have desires, urges, needs, longings, wanton cravings, but any hope of any satisfaction of these was to be both forbidden and physically impossible for me for evermore from now onwards.

I would still secrete my nectar. I would still pour my piss. I would till menstruate my blood. I would still eject my faeces. All these human and girl processes were not denied me. But I would and could no longer have physical love. I could not even feel a touch. I could never again be kissed, not even with the most sisterly of lips.

As I walked covered head-to-toe in my black rubber cape, the hem of which dragged on the ground at my rear, I was already late for the first of the seven-day-week sixteen-hour days that I would henceforth be constantly available to work as Belinda’s unpaid secretary and all-round slave.

As I walked covered head-to-toe in my black rubber cape, the hem of which dragged on the ground, so fully covered that I was showing not even a micro-millimetre of flesh, I was beginning my life of forever-enforced chastity.

As I walked covered head-to-toe in my black rubber cape, the hem of which dragged on the ground as I glided along not even revealing my toes let alone my sandaled feet, I was even passed unrecognised by Jackie.

“Katrina?!!” Jackie’s lovely loving voice enquired as she turned and realised the shapeless black rubber-blanketed form that had just glided past her in her ground-floor corridor, must be me……

………But I was Belinda’s wife now, so I must ignore the love of my whole world, my whole universe, my whole being, my whole soul, and my whole life. I must ignore my Jackie and obey my husband-girl and forever and forever forego my freedom, my humanness, eye contact, smiles, touches, kisses, embraces, tenderness, conversation, compliments, seduction, my sexiness, satisfaction, satiation, sex, life, love, forego indeed my very charms.
[The fantasy continues on page 2 of 2]

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 10:33 AM
Chapter 21 – Belinda’s Secretary

My daily routine had been unaltered now for nearly a year past.

We were still in Jackie’s dacha at ****** in Russia. “We” by now meant Belinda, Norna, Mina, Nina and I. Jackie and Mi Li had gone back to England. And, when I speak of “Jackie’s dacha, I am strictly incorrect. Properly speaking we were now living in Belinda’s dacha, as even the dacha, one of Jackie’s homes for many years, had become Belinda’s, as part of the deal arrived at to save Jackie from bankruptcy.

I now knew, since I was Belinda’s secretary as well as her wife, that Belinda owned almost everything that had formerly been Jackie’s. Even the magazines in which I had previously starred: “Pink Girl” and “SapphFire”, were now emblazoned on their editorial pages with the detail: “Published by the Belinda Press Inc”.

Belinda’s operation was worldwide and, as a consequence, twenty-four-hours-a-day. As a consequence too, she thought nothing of making me work for twenty-four or even forty-eight hours non-stop.

At the end of each day, when the day had an end for me that is, she would personally oversee her wife’s undressing in the privacy of my room. My rubber knickers would be cut from me as I stood in the shower so that the piss and shit with which I had filled them, and my menstruum when I was seeping, could be washed away.

My chastity bra and belt were removed during showering, and I would go to bed naked. I would go to bed naked, but in the shower I would be blindfolded or wear a four-foot-diameter rubber disc, like a ruff around my neck, so that I could not look down and see my own naked body, so that it should not arouse me sexually. I was never allowed to touch myself in the shower either. I must rely only on the gentle water to cleanse me. No swift flow was allowed either, in case that too might be used by me to arouse myself.

Before bed I was given the only meal I had all day. This comprised only raw fresh fruit. I was always and ever only to live on raw fresh fruit.

Abed, as well as through the fact that my cunt was still sewn closed, my continued chastity was ensured by my having my wrists girlackled and chained to the individual uprights of a four-poster bed, and my legs wide-parted and tied to the bed-end uprights. I lay thus on my back with no covers to warm me, in case I tried to rub myself against them to pleasure myself.

My bound legs were chained to the foot of the bed. I was gagged with a rubber strip. I was blindfolded with a rubber hood and still fitted with the neck disc, so that I could not see my body. Steel shutters were then raised to close the top, bottom, and both sides of my bed, and these were padlocked to keep me prisoner, protected, chaste, and absolutely celibate.

There were no longer any mirrors in my room. I must not be allowed to look at myself. Belinda would shave my legs and my bikini line whilst I wore a blindfold. My head would be shaven every other day by Belinda, Mina or Nina. For this operation, I was dressed in an all-over- figure-hiding, rubber covering cape, and my face was masked so that I could neither see nor have my face seen. And beneath the mask, I was rubber gagged so that I may not talk.

I rarely had more than six-hours sleep, before Belinda lowered the shutters surrounding my bed. I would then, after I had been showered blindfolded or in the rubber-neck-disc, in readiness for the day, have all my chastity belts and bra and branks refitted.

If time allowed after I was put in my shroud, I would go to the gymnasium to cycle, run the rolling road, and row, to keep me fit.

All the time before my day started, I was being filled with water through a tube in my mouth-covering chastity branks. This was my store of liquid for the day. My cunt-cup-to-mouth tube would be fitted thereafter, so that the urine collected in my chastity belt could be sucked up by me to drink. I would have no other means of quenching my thirst and indeed no other sustenance all day, for sixteen long hours. So I was forced to drink my own urine to try and keep myself hydrated.

Each and every day, a pair of black rubber armpit-length gloves would be rolled up my exquisite upper limbs. New black rubber knickers were then pulled up my glorious thighs to ensure my need to defecate could be dealt with without need of my leaving off from my duties. My black rubber shroud would be cast over my head, covering me totally head-to-toe once more, and I would glide in my flat-soled heelless rubber sandals to the office, kitchen, or garden, to begin my slaving.

In truth, I longed for the work as the only means I had to occupy my mind. What I was to do each day was boring for an intelligent girl such as I. But I needed to take my mind off my misery.

I had been deprived of talking for nearly a year now. My misery was total. Nobody had been allowed to talk to me for nearly a year now. My misery was total. I had been deprived of love for the best part of a year now. My misery was total. I had been deprived of sex of any kind for nearly a year now. My misery was totally total.

Among my duties, was that of waiting on the other girls at their break and meal times. There they were free and beautiful. And there I would be covered head-to-toe in my purposely-shapeless rubber robe, imprisoned beneath it in my chastity protecting, chastity enforcing, chastity ensuring, spiked cunt and tit shields, ever present among them and yet ever absent from them.

I would listen to their chatter about life and love and family and friends, and my loneliness and helpless hopelessness would be thereby emphasised. It was from this chatter that I had learned that Jackie, my love, had returned to London. It was from this chatter that I had learned that Jackie, my love, was living with Mi Li, that Mi Li was Jackie’s lover, and that Mi Li hoped that Jackie would ask her to marry her.

Nobody spoke to me as I waited upon them. They would merely point at what I was to do or bring, and I would obey.

It was not only my duty to prepare all meals, it was also my duty to clean up behind them and to wash the cooking utensils, the crockery, and the cutlery, and tidy the kitchen.

I had also to vacuum clean, dust and polish throughout the dacha, and to make their beds, change their sheets, and perform all the other duties of a housemaid.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, I would be washing and ironing. On Tuesdays and Thursdays and Sundays, I would be on my knees scrubbing the kitchen floor and polishing the wooden corridor floorboards, the banisters of the stairways, and the wooden stairs themselves.

As well as tidying and changing beds, collecting soiled clothing for the laundry, dusting and polishing the bedrooms every day, I must also clean out the showers and the lavatories….

…..Throughout the spring, autumn, and summer, winter too when the weather allowed, I tended the garden, with particular emphasis on growing vegetables and fruit for self-sufficiency, and with potatoes carrots and other ground vegetables necessitating heavy spade work by me ……

…..And I must do all this and more, dressed always in my full chastity protection and my head-to-toe shroud, though often perspiring profusely and always extremely weary.

I performed all my duties dutifully. I was totally obedient. It mattered not whether I was scrubbing out a lavatory-bowl or sorting Belinda’s filing as best I could in my arm-length rubber gloves, I did as I was obliged to do: I was the totally obedient wife of my wedding-day vows.

For almost a year I had also been totally chaste. My clothing covered me such that I could attract nobody with the magnetic beauty of my body, so fully and completely and purposely hidden was it. My underclothing also covered me so as to protect me against any of my sexual parts being visited by either a stranger or by me myself. My only sexual pleasure was to admire the free girls, Mina, Nina, Belinda and Norna, and my wet-dreams, most often of Mi Li’s erect cock hard up my bum, shagging my lovely derriere after she had spanked it.

But my wet-dreams would never ever deliver me a cum. The eternal rorment ring tight around my clitoris saw to that. I could not get aroused sexually without the hell of the pain this ring caused me. If my clitoris dared try to engorge, it would bite savagely cruelly into me. It had therefore been a year since I had experienced an orgasm.

I was still very girl beneath my dehumanising de-sexing clothing. I still had longings. I still had desires. I still had wants. I still had needs. But, effectively, for twelve long lonely months now, I had been deprived of all sex, and this was but the beginning of a life that from henceforth would always be empty of sex and love.

Was it any wonder that I cried myself to sleep almost every night?


From time-to-time, Belinda would hold dinner parties. Most often these were for the purpose of improving or at least maintaining business. My duty then, totally without assistance, was to prepare the courses ordered, to serve them, to serve wine, to tidy away, and to clean up afterwards. And even along with this, I must answer the door and take the hats and coats of the guests and serve them with the welcoming drinks of their choice.

These occasions would be breakneck-hectic for me. At all times I must be awake and attentive to the needs of Belinda and her guests so that my husband-girl would not be let down by her wife. I had barely a moment to try and quench my thirst by sucking and sipping my salty urine through the tube from the cup over my sex.

These evenings could also spill over into early mornings, and I would have been never-endingly on my feet slaving over my endless tasks all day, only to be expected to work all night too, if Belinda’s guests showed no desire to go back to their own homes.

I was completely used now to walking around with my rubber knickers full of my faeces. In the early days in the shroud and celibacy bondage, I had tried to restrain myself and hold-off from defecating until my evening shower. But my diet of fruit, and fruit, and more fruit, made me need to evacuate myself twice a day at the very least.

I was never allowed a moments rest and there was certainly no chance that I would ever be allowed to undress to the degree needed to use a lavatory every time I needed one, so I must piss and shit in my rubber knickers. I must pee in my knickers, or at least into the cup over my sex that the tube ran to from my mouth. And I must shit into my rubber knickers. And I must walk around in my piss and shit filled rubber knickers all day.

Even as I waited on table at Belinda’s dinner parties, I would be doing the bidding of her guests with, unknown to them, my rubber knickers filled to the brim with my shit.

“But you are married Katrina ****!” announced one slurred drunken guest’s innocent girlish voice one very late evening as I wandered around the table busy with refilling wine glasses for the umpteenth time.

“I did” Belinda answered tolerantly, being only too aware that this was the girl, this very young girl was the girl with whom she needed to agree a key contract.

“She’s lovely” opined the same drunk girl. “I wish I had legs like hers: legs one million or are they ten-million miles long……”

Belinda made no answer.

“What’s she doing now: Katrina; your wife; what’s she doing now? This very pretty miniature blonde-bombshell with her hair under a white soft-felt hat enquired.

“I’d prefer you not to talk about my wife”, Belinda insisted quietly.

“Sorry Belinda, sorry”, slurred her too loud and all too drunk companion, “Bet she gives you sleepless nights though. You couldn’t just lie alongside a body like hers and not give it what it deserves….”

“……Is she juicy? I bet she’s a real melon. Bet her cunt dribbles eh? God I’d have loved to lick her out! Lick the mustard from her slice; nibble her little hot-dog-sausage. Bet she cums like a thunder storm, you lucky girl! You’re a fuckin’ lucky girl Belinda, to be married to Katrina an’ all…….Oh god, how and how I’d love to taste her kisses!!”

“If you must know”, Belinda began patiently, “If you must know, you have had the pleasure of Katrina’s presence all throughout this very evening.”

Even though I could see little through the tiny horizontal gauze-window-cum-ventilation-slit in my shroud, I noticed this drunken doll of a girl, whose loudness seemed to belie her fundamental sweetness and innocence, proving in fact that she should not take alcohol, looking around and trying to find what she had been missing: for to her eyes there had been nobody there that evening except she herself, Belinda, and the other guests.”

“What’d yer mean!?” the still getting drunker girl demanded, clearly entirely out of character from the tongue-easing and mind blurring of alcohol.

“My wife now wears the shroud”, Belinda confirmed, “As Katrina is my wife she must obey me absolutely. I have ordered that Katrina, my wife, be chaste and one-hundred-percent celibate henceforth forever”.

“Oh my god!! You mean the creature….the creature…the thing….in the rubber robe… the thing like a black ghost creeping around among us……?”, the astonished girl struggled to slur her astounded query…..

“Yes”, said Belinda. “Katrina has worn the vestments of new-virgin-celibacy for exactly one year today. Today is our wedding anniversary.”

“That’s Katrina ******?! The creature covered head-to-toe in the horrible rubber robe is Katrina ******?!!

“Yes!” said Belinda, “The girl in the rubber shroud is Katrina. The girl in the shroud is my wife: the girl I married one-year ago this very morning”.

“You’re putting me on! You couldn’t…..I mean she was so sexy…..she was so beautiful…..she was so girl………..Katrina was so girl, you couldn’t keep a girl like that………I mean she was so incredibly desirable…..so impossibly alluring…..she was the girlest girl I have ever come across……….Katrina was girl, all girl…..”

“Katrina was wild uncontrolled and untamed”, Belinda mused calmly: “….Jackie, bless her, did her best to tame her. Jackie even got her legally spiked by deliberately making her shoplift in London. Jackie had no idea really…..”

“…..The girl in the shroud is my wife. She will wear the shroud for ever and ever now. And, what is more, she is fully chaste and she will remain chaste and celibate forever more: for ever more from now. All three of her love-holes are guarded at all times and she wears a chastity-protection brassiere over her breasts at all times, and has done so for a year. Katrina has had no sex for a year……”

“And is she….? Is she….?”

“’Is she’ what? ‘Is she happy?’ is that your question?”, asked Belinda, “Whatever the question is, it is irrelevant. Katrina will wear the chastity protection and remain chaste and celibate forever beneath the shroud. She has no say in the matter. She is my wife. And as she will never ever need it again, I have even had her sex sewn closed….”

“Oh my god. You’re kidding….You’re just saying that to turn me on …..She’s infibulated? You’ve had that sexy beauty infibulated?!!”

“Yes……….Katrina has had her cunt completely sewn tight-shut. She is totally and permanently infibulated. She had no say in that matter either. She is my wife.”

It was only at this point that I realised that this conversation about me was being had in my hearing in part because it was turning both young women on. Even as both girls pretended that nothing of the sort was happening, the very young girl, a contessa, was running her inexperienced right hand up and down Belinda’s stockinged thigh beneath the table.

As, at being beckoned, I drew near them to pour more wine into the drunken girl’s seemingly ever-empty glass, I saw that this girl’s hand was now in Belinda’s micro-panties and feeling her soft blonde curls, and that Belinda was loving this attention to her stunningly gorgeous body.

I moved away as I must to attend to guests leaving, obediently finding their coats and holding the door open for them submissively, till they chose to exit.

For another hour and a half, this went on, till all the guests had departed, except for the felt-hatted contessa, who was now being kissed and caressed by Belinda.

As I returned once more to the banqueting hall, Belinda was being kissed full on her lips very passionately, Belinda and the drunk being the only people left in the room bar myself, and I did not count.

Of course I was recounting over and over in my head the cruel words Belinda had told me with, that she had no love for other girls and would never ever want my body. Of course I was recounting over and over in my head the bitter tears I had cried at Belinda confirming that it was she who had ordered that my cunt be sewn-up and remain sewn-up because it would never ever be needed for love-making again. Of course I was recounting over and over in my head how I had sobbed at Belinda ordering that I be made to wear the chastity irons over all three of my love-holes. And of course I was recounting over and over in my head the savage sentence Belinda had pronounced upon me, that I must be put in the shroud for ever and a day, because if she did not want me, then nobody else was going to have me, and I was certainly never ever to be allowed to touch myself.

As I caught a glimpse of my husband-girl’s wonderful strong shapely thigh, I lowered my head so that I could witness no more of her betraying me, and went about my duty of clearing the dinner table in order to hand-wash all the used crockery and utensils and clean the kitchen, before I might be allowed to report to be tied in my bed for the little of the night that was left.

In clearing the mess from the table I was, of necessity, getting ever closer to the kissing couple, and was about to decide that I would be diplomatic and, even though they carried on as if I was not there, because in their minds I was not there, because in their minds I did not count as a human presence, I would vacate to the kitchen till they had left.

It was then that Belinda’s voice called; “Wife!”, and I turned and lowered my shroud covered head.

“Go to my room, turn back the bedding, and wait for us” Belinda ordered. “Contessa Zarina and I have some business to attend to….”

I went immediately to do as I had been bade, and then waited patiently near the slightly opened door of Belinda’s bedroom, so as to be ready to carry out the duty of letting the loving couple enter.

I waited and waited and waited, nearly falling asleep on my feet I was so extremely tired.

……Then, after nearly an hour, I heard footsteps in the corridor……..

“Are you sure, I mean really sure?” I heard the contessa ask for what I guessed might not be the first time.

“Sure I’m sure” Belinda answered, “I was going to have it done some time anyway. It’ll be my wedding anniversary present for her. And besides, don’t you dare question my orders!”

“Do I get to see her then please?”

“No you do not!” Belinda commanded, sober still despite copious red wine.

Contessa Zarina almost fell into Belinda’s bedroom she was so drunk, and I almost committed the unpardonable sin of saving her from falling by catching hold of her. It was a reflex action that, perhaps fortunately, I did not in the event need to carry through, for I would never have been forgiven for daring to touch anyone, least of all Belinda’s honoured guest.

As Belinda followed into the room behind the contessa, she placed something, two things, or three, I could not see clearly through the eye slit in my all-enveloping shroud, on her dressing table. I was also surprised to see that Belinda had with her, the shroud I wore to hide my body when I was having my head re-shaved bald, and the mask that was used to hide my face during head shaving.

She, Belinda, pointed toward the bathroom and I went, as per my unspoken order, before her. In the bathroom, she lifted off my full-cover shroud, took out my drinking tube, unlocked and removed my branks, and put my head through the shoulder shroud, the head-shaving shroud, before masking me and ordering me, by a curt shove, back into the bedroom.

In the bedroom though I could not see because of my blindfolding mask, I got the impression that the contessa had her back to me and was sitting before the dressing table in which I had obediently ensured before that I did use the mirror, because it was not allowed me to do so. This was seemingly confirmed by her next words, which indicated she was struggling with some intricacy, and only from her sixth sense become aware that Belinda and I had re-entered the room.

“But I can’t get it threaded mistress”, the contessa nervously complained.

“Allow me” Belinda sneared and, I assume, succeeded where the contessa had failed. Belinda was perhaps still working on the problem when the contessa suddenly called out, obviously having turned to see me, and speaking in a voice that suggested she was aware she was being disobedient: “You’ve shaved her! You’ve shaved her head completely bald! You’ve shaved the poor girl!”

“Katrina is forbidden to entice” Belinda announced cooly, “Her hair was an integral part of her attractiveness. It had to go, and it has to stay gone. She is shaved bald every other day to keep it in check”.

“The poor girl! She was so stunning!” opined the pretty little contessa. “Please: I hope you never order me to be shaved…..”

“She is my wife now. I have no use for her being ‘stunning’ as you choose to put it” Belinda mused out loud, sarcastically.

“There now: I’ve threaded it. Don’t forget you must leave a gap in the middle.”

I braced myself suddenly. Something was going on that involved me.

Then I sensed that Belinda was behind me. She took a firm grip with her arm around my neck and then, with her free hand, bent up the lower part of my mask to expose my mouth, to be seen by somebody other than her, my husband-girl, for the first time in twelve long lonely months.

“She always had exquisite lips” Contessa Zarina opined, quietly admiring my mouth, the only part of my masked face she was allowed, indeed privileged to be allowed to see.

“You’re not here to admire her lips or anything else that was true in the past about her” Belinda reminded the contessa. “My order to you was that you sew Katrina’s mouth closed”.

As I instantly recoiled by reflex on hearing her say what was about to be done to me, Belinda took tighter almost choking grip of my neck, her forearm pressing hard on my Adam’s apple.

Immediately I was made to purse my lips through a bulldog-clip being attached to one side of my two closed-together lips, so that, as I realised with terror and horror, they could be sewn together.

“Remember” Belinda reminded Contessa Zarina, “You must sew her mouth from either side to the centre. It needs only a small hole left in the middle. A hole is only to be left so she can be fed through a funnel, have mouthwash to cleanse her teeth, and so she can use the tube to drink when she is thirsty. Otherwise she is to have her mouth sewn completely utterly and finally shut.”

This was my husband-girl speaking. I must obey my husband-girl. And so I stood obediently waiting for this complete stranger to sew my mouth up. Unbelievably, I stood obediently patiently waiting for the contessa to sew my lips closed. I was going to have my mouth sewn-up, and yet I was obedience itself. This was my wedding anniversary present: I was going to have my sweet pretty mouth-lips sewn together.

And then Belinda tightened her grip around my neck and I was almost being choked. And then I felt the point of the needle below my lower lip on the left of my face scratching my soft skin as the contessa’s very nervous hands shook. And then she was pushing the curved needle into me and my soft skin was compressed and yielding, but not yet pierced.

And then the contessa thrust the curved needle hard upwards and I moaned with the pain as she had pierced through my lower lip at the white skin just below the red of my lips, behind the red of my lips. And I could feel the cruel needle being pushed up and up so that now it was touching inside my mouth behind my upper lip. And then it was through my mouth and up through behind my upper lip and following it through my flesh was the thread. The thread was being slowly pulled through my lower and upper lips. And now the needle had gone right through both of my lips. And the thread stopped from being drawn through my flesh as the knot that tied the two ends of the thread, the tight nylon thread that had gone through the eye of the needle, the knot was stopping the thread being drawn through my lips any further.

And the needle was at my lower lip once more so that the thread had crossed in front of my lips. And I was being sewn through from behind the red of my lower lip a second time perhaps two-millimetres from the first stitch and the needle was mercilessly pushed through behind my lips to sew them as pursed, to sew them permanently pursed. And I felt the thread being pulled through my raw sore flesh and the needle was again at my lower lip and this was unstoppable, I was having my mouth sewn closed, and I could do nothing to stop this hideous torture.

And the thread was being pulled through after the needle to complete my third stitch. And I wanted to cry out. I wanted to shout out for them to stop. I wanted my pretty mouth. I wanted to be able to use my lovely mouth. I wanted to shout for mercy before I was forever sewn shut and could never speak again. But I obediently stayed my speech. I was not allowed to speak without my husband-girl’s permission. My husband-girl had not given me permission to speak even once in the past year, and she was not going to give permission now as she was having my mouth sewn shut so that such permission became a total irrelevance for all future time.

And the thread was being pulled through me to complete the fourth stitch. And at each stitch I had the tight thread behind my lips and in front of my lips, as each new needle piercing was begun just below the red of my lower lip, so that the thread from my previous stitch ran tightly over both of my lips from where it had been pulled out above my top lip, just behind the red of my top lip. And I felt the thread being drawn through as the fifth stitch was completed.

And the needle was once more at my bottom lip to sew my mouth closed. And now I felt a twitching in my cunt. The brutality of what was being done to me, the raw brutality of my sweet mouth being sewn up, was causing my nectar to run behind my girl-lip stitches, behind my infibulation, inside my already sewn-up cunt.

And I must not let my husband-girl know that her holding me helpless as my mouth was being sewn closed was arousing me. And the sixth stitch was being completed and the seventh begun and half of my mouth was slowly but surely approaching being sewn closed. And the seventh stitch was done and the eighth begun, and my cunt-honey was dribbling into my rubber knickers with my arousal, but I must not let it show, I must not let it show. Sexual pleasure was totally forbidden me. I must not let my arousal show!

And I suffered the searing stitches in subservient silence as the centre of my mouth was reached and the thread tied off so that new thread could be used to sew to the middle again from the right side of my mouth. And once more I felt the pain and it was pleasure now. The total horror of my having my mouth sewn closed forever, was a perverse painful pleasure to me now. It was a sexual pleasure. And my clitoris now began to throb. And then I murmur-moaned-out with agony as my clitoris tried to expand and the eternal-torment ring around my clit, bit hard into it, and doused my sexual heat in milliseconds of excruciating pain. And my secret was out. There was no needle near my lips to cause the outcry I had just emitted, so my secret was out. My clit ring had bitten me. My clit ring could only bite if my clit was aroused, so my secret sexual arousal was no secret anymore.

My dousing, the dousing of my sexual fire was complete and the pain of my mouth being sewn up was real and agonising as it slowly reached its conclusion and the stitches coming in from either side of my mouth left me with just a tiny hole in the centre of my lovely lips. And they were so tight; my stitches were so terribly tight, and painful, and my mouth was now as completely sewn shut as was my cunt, and my tears of horror and pain and frustration ran down behind my mask.

Above all my tears were of frustration: sexual frustration. I longed for a cum. I despaired for a cum. I was a girl with needs like any other girl. I was a sexual being. I was a sexual girl. I had longed and prayed for a cum for twelve long months. I had suffered my clit ring for twelve endless months. I had endured my cunt being totally sewn closed for twelve arid months. I had worn the chastity belt over my two lower love-tunnels for twelve months. I had had my beautiful breasts encased in the spiked protective brassiere for twelve empty months too, so that they could never be caressed again. I had worn my branks and had the chastity of my mouth protected for all twelve of the twelve months of the year. I had had my pretty hands hidden in the long rubber gloves for that same twelve months, so that they could not excite and entice. I had worn the top-to-below-toe completely enveloping completely hiding, completely de-sexing, completely de-girling shroud, for all twelve of those same horrible married months, the twelve months of my married life, the twelve months of my life as Belinda’s wife. And now I had endured my mouth being sewn shut forever, at the behest of my wife. I was a girl in heaven’s name!! I was a girl!!

As Belinda led me back into the bathroom to hide me from her guest whilst she removed my mask and took off my head-shaving all-enveloping cape, and returned me to my full cover head-to-floor black rubber shroud, even after refitting my branks despite the fact that my mouth was sewn shut to ensure that my upper love-tunnel was completely unusable. She put the pee-drinking tube back into my mouth, my newly sewn-up extremely sore mouth, through the hole in the branks into the only hole left between my lovely lips, and sent me back to the bedroom still without a night’s sleep food or water. Belinda sent me to the bedroom like a slave frustrated and forever without a cum.

I was to be now and forever chaste and celibate. I was to be for now and forever without a cum. The tears poured down my lonely face under my shroud, and I shook with uncontrollable complete and utter misery as I obeyed my husband-girl and returned to the bedroom where the contessa just stared at my shrouded form as I stood, back-to-the-wall, looking at the foot of Belinda’s bed, looking at the pretty young Contessa Zarina sitting waiting for Belinda to rejoin us. I was a girl in heaven’s name!! I was a girl!!

This was my wedding anniversary. This was Belinda’s wedding anniversary. Belinda and I had been married for one-year as of later in the morning of this terrible day: the day on which, as her anniversary present to me, her wife, Belinda had just had my mouth sewn closed by a complete stranger, for the sole unfeeling purpose of taking over a contract from her and to torture the contessa by making her commit the terrible crime.

The contessa, no more than five-feet-one in her soft felt wide-brimmed hat, perhaps fourteen-years-old, pretty, blonde and with a clearly firm and heavy bosom, still sat on the edge of Belinda’s bed, staring at me, the hem of her mini-dress having unconsciously slid up to reveal white fleshed, pink-stockinged, pink-suspendered, very shapely legs.

Contessa Zarina’s legs were sensational. They were wonderfully muscled and muscle-toned. She had quite evidently trained as a dancer and, probably, from the perfection of her every movement and the magnificent muscularity of her lovely lower limbs, as a ballerina.

Busy as I had been serving the guests at Belinda’s dining table, I had not had any real opportunity to look at this lovely little girl till now, when I was in fact doing so against my year-long mental attuning, in favour of lowering and averting my eyes when feminine beauty presented itself to me: as I was a married woman now.

Throughout the dinner, Contessa Zarina had worn her wide brimmed soft white-felt hat. She still wore it now. Even so, I could see that beneath it, she had, evidently presently drawn up on top of her head, bright-shining golden blonde hair.

Everything about this girl was compact perfection, even down to her sweet little hands. I found myself imaging her lovely little hands on my breasts and my cunt began to moisten despite the burning pain from the wounds caused by the sewing-up of my mouth.

Her face was divine. It was heart shaped with a little nose, freckled across its bridge, upturned at its tip. Her mouth, small pretty and forever smiling, perfect teeth displayed; always caught the first focus of one’s attention. Thereafter the eyes had you. Lovely bright-blue, twinkling baby-blue-orbs, that cast themselves down at a look from another, especially an admiring look: eyes that seemed to tell of sexual innocence.

The contessa wore a long-sleeved mini-dress, tight at her wrists, coral pink in colour, and lipstick and nail varnish to match. There was something about her dress and make-up that told of inexperience and youthfully misguided choices of attire and make-up. Nonetheless, this added to, rather than detracting from her attractiveness.

Belinda, my husband-girl, was out of the view I was able to span through the heavily gauze covered slit in my all-covering rubber shroud. Then Belinda came back into sight. She now wore white leather. Head-to-toe she wore white leather: top, leg-long pants, and spike-heeled knee-high boots. Her top and pants fitted her so closely that all of her lithe slim model-girl’s body was almost more naked than if it had been naked in fact. Only her long-fingered hands and her pallid high-cheek-boned, sharp-featured, piercing green-eyed face were free. Her blonde hair was drawn up into a ponytail. She looked the essence of cruelty. She looked a wonderful wicked witch.

Belinda was clearly the dominant partner with the contessa. Hitherto it had almost seemed to be Contessa Zarina who had made the first move. Perhaps that had been the heavy drinking that the contessa now seemed to be remarkably quickly recovered from. But now it was undoubtedly Belinda who was the dominant partner with the contessa, and the contessa, supremely soft and fully femininely very vulnerable.

“Are you going to whip me for getting drunk again?” asked the contessa, staring doe-eyed stunned-lovingly up at Belinda.

“Take off your panties”, Belinda commanded in response.

The pretty contessa looked over at me. She could not see my eyes but she knew, or at least she thought she could be sure, that I was looking at her.

“Katrina’s looking!” she protested mildly.

“Who is Katrina?” Belinda sneered. “Katrina is nothing. She does not exist. The creature in the shroud can be completely ignored. She is a total irrelevance…….”

Even though she was unconvinced by this response, Contessa Zarina reached up her skirt and slowly lowered her bright pink panties down to her dolly divine feet in their three-inch heeled sandals, and stepped out of the panties, blushing almost as pink as the panties were coloured.

Belinda took the panties and, as she did so, I saw how red the gusset of the panties was. A huge patch of the gusset was stained red in contrast to the pretty panty’s pink, because the gusset was totally saturated by the contessa’s musk

Belinda took the contessa’ panties and lifted them to her nose to inhale the contessa’s musk.

“Your musk is the scent of Eden’s forbidden fruit” Belinda told her, winning a gasp of sensual sexy surrender from her pulchritudinous pupil.

“Strip absolutely naked, except for your hat” Belinda demanded.

The curvaceous compact contessa’s face flash flushed fully rouge.

Since I was only a servant, it was Contessa Zarina’s right to come to me and turn her back to make it evident that, in order for her to obey Belinda’s instruction she strip nude, I assist by lowering the zip at the top rear of her dress, so that she could thereafter reach it down the rest of the way.

I obliged with this tiny service and received the reflex words, “Thank you” from the perfect petit angel, giving me almost the only appreciation I had had from anyone, bar Belinda’s daughter Norna, in the whole twelve months of my married life.

That sweetly spoken genuine “thank you” almost melted my poor heart, so sudden and sincere and innocent of the year of deprivation and humiliation I had endured was it. But what melted my heart in truth and reality was the sight I saw as the contessa stripped initially to her underwear and then, as ordered, to nothing bar her soft felt wide-brimmed hat.

As she stripped, for some reason my eyes focused first on her slim wrists, which were reddened and bruised in clear evidence that they had recently been tightly bound. Then my heart went out to the angelic contessa as I saw her body. It was divinely delectable, not least to the eyes of a girl such as I, who had been sex-starved for a whole year.

Contessa Zarina’s fourteen-year-old’s body, was divinely delectable. She was delineated like a Stradivarius cello, with huge firm breasts, I could tell from my rear view that perhaps she was but thirty-four-inch C-cup, but her breasts seemed huge on her doll-sized body, and the roundest firmest bottom, topping out her ballerina muscle-toned legs.

Contessa Zarina’s body was divinely delightful. It had also recently been savagely whipped. As she stripped, out of modesty, she had turned her back to me, and I could see that the soft skin of her back was striped with healing welts that seemed to be radiating around her sides, toward the front of her body.

It was only as she turned that I saw what had been done to her: for then I moaned with pain for her, as I looked at her breasts. Her breasts had been beaten hard, often, brutally, and unmercifully. Clearly, she had been suspended by her lovely wrists and had had her breasts beaten with a scourge around from behind her.

Had Belinda done this? Had my cruel wife beaten this sweet doll so cruelly?

Belinda had been once more out of my sight, but I knew where she was by looking at the infatuated china-blue, wide-staring, transfixed innocent eyes of the contessa. Now Belinda came back into the view from my lonely narrow gauze covered eye-slit.

Now Belinda came back into view, and I saw that she wore a harness around her white-leather clad body. She wore a harness that comprised of a strap around her waist, a strap running down between her legs, and straps around the tops of both of her thighs. The harness, in white leather, was to support a ten or eleven-inch erect dildo that thrust up from between Belinda’s legs. Belinda was wearing a white leather strap-on dildo.

“Remove your hat my angel”, Belinda instructed with the loving tenderness of voice I, her wife of one whole frustrating year of tears duration, had longed to hear from her.

“Remove your hat my angel”, Belinda instructed the contessa, and I witnessed the most incredibly wonderful sight I had ever yet seen in the whole of my life.

“Remove your hat my angel”, Belinda instructed the contessa, and the contessa reached up in what my clear memory recalls as slow-motion, took out two hat-pins and lifted her wide-brimmed soft white-felt hat from her head, to let fall, a cascade, a torrent, a waterfall, a miracle of shimmering shining shimmying swaying abundant abandoned kink-curled golden blonde hair, that fell as if from heaven down to her slim ankles.

I moaned with my absolute astonishment at this fantastically incredible unbelievably erotic vision. This little doll had the most beautiful head of the longest blondest blonde hair, and here before my unbelieving eyes it had fallen from the heavens to cloak her head to pretty feet in its sweet perfumed perfection. She looked for all the heavens now, like the sweetest of the sweetest angels: an angel’s angel.

Contessa Zarina looked for all the heavens now like an angel’s angel, yet she was wanton girl as she ran and leaped to cling to my husband-girl by her lovely ballerina’s legs wrapped around Belinda’s waist, and her little doll’s sweet arms around Belinda’s neck, and with the tip of Belinda’s upthrusting white-leather strap-on dildo just inside the outer lips of her tiny, tight. curly-gold-blonde-downed slit.

And I watched through the tears clouding my eyes as my husband-girl let the angel’s angel, with her hair hanging kinked-curly wildly down to nearly touch the very ground, slide down onto the dildo and cry out with open-mouthed eyes-shut astonished pain. And I watched the face of the innocent contessa as her slit took the strap-on dildo into her. And I saw her pretty mouth agape with astonishment at some little agony within her intimate hole. And then I saw fresh livid crimson trickle like milk down the dildo that was only partially in that angel’s sweet slit.

And I realised that she had been a virgin and her cry of pain and the blood as she lowered her cunt further, was from the ripping of her hymen, and her extreme first-time tightness, and her cry of pleasure and her “No!” such a sexy “No!” such a “No!” as meant “Yes!!” as the pain pulsed, as she was lubricated as much or more by her virgin’s blood as by her virgin’s musk, to slide right down onto the dildo’s eleven-inches, to moan sweet heavenly childlike pained pleasure, pinnacled from her first time orgasm, so rapidly did she cum, and so often did she cum, as she clung to Belinda, and cried tears from her astonished, astonishing, clear-bright-blue eyes, as she surrendered her virginity to the woman who, just one week since, had cruelly, skilfully, unyielding unmercifully, scourged her naked virgin’s breasts to flog this virgin to her first ever multiple orgasm.

And beneath my inhuman dehumanising shroud, I cried endless bitter tears, with helpless hopeless heeding that I had finally and absolutely lost the love I had never had. I had finally and absolutely lost the hope I had never had. I had finally and absolutely lost all hope that my husband-girl would ever love her wife. I had lost all hope that my husband-girl would ever love me. I had been tortured, physically and mentally, for a year till this, the dawn of our first wedding anniversary, and the loss of virginity on the anniversary of my wedding night: the loss of this captivating completely cunt-besotted girl’s virginity, to my husband-girl, as I was forced to watch.

And as the bounteously-besotted blonde fourteen-year-old ballet-beautiful-legged angel’s angel stared dreamingly unseeingly at me over the left shoulder of my husband-girl, to whom she still clung by her wrapped around arms and legs in sweet soft surrender, her eyes, her innocent fourteen-year-old’s doll-blue eyes, were opening and closing in supremely shocked surprise, at her sudden swift-soundless-searing-security-sheath-splitting, and the sensually surrendered saturation she had so swiftly sustained, since, sensitive securing-sheet split, she had slithered her sundered sopping slit so, surrounded by her seeping slot, the spike on which her sex sat, had speedily sliced her to sexual sensation satiation…….

……..And the hitherto innocent, the hitherto virgin, the fourteen-year-old angel’s angel ballerina’s lovely blinking besotted blue eyes looked straight through me, as her bright red virgin blood, the crimson blood from her freshly ripped hymen dripping to the carpet, mocked my agony at deliberately enforcedly witnessing the joy, her joy, at what; in what; from what; I would never ever know again.

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer
Chapter 22 – Ring Wrong

I had been sold. It came as a total surprise to me to learn it, but I had been sold and bought.

The first I learned of it was about a month after witnessing the deflowering of the fourteen-year-old Contessa Zarina on my first wedding anniversary: the first anniversary of my marriage to Belinda. Ever since that night I never saw Belinda, my husband-girl, without the exquisite long-blonde-haired angelic contessa in close attendance. Indeed, most times, Zarina, completely naked, had close clinging arms around Belinda, mouth ever ready for a kiss, in sexy surrender of her total love worship and adoration.

Now among the many slave-like duties I had to perform in the sixteen and eighteen-hour days I was made to work, was to be on standby in Belinda’s bedroom. Thereby I was, fully intentionally, mentally tortured by watching and listening to the girl to whom I was married, taking the innocent Zarina to squealing orgasms. Sometimes these would number as many as a dozen or more in one night; and still the horny incredibly sexy contessa would make it known that she wanted yet more. She was completely insatiable and so girl that Belinda found her irresistible and would take her to a cum over and over and over again.

All the while of course, I continued to be locked in all my chastity and celibacy ensuring belts brassiere and rubber clothing, including my de-sexing and dehumanising head to foot rubber shroud. For me, as I had concluded and indeed as I had been told, never ever again would there be another pleasurable experience and certainly never ever again any love, let alone any love-making.

Then the contessa had disappeared for twenty-four hours. And then there suddenly appeared about the place a clone of myself. A clone of myself, complete with the dreadful black rubber shroud. It was Contessa Zarina. I just knew it was Contessa Zarina.

The little angel must have had her stupendously erotically magical head-to-ankles blonde hair cut from her, and her head shaved so that she was, like me, now completely bald beneath her shroud. For that horrible catastrophe to befall that lovely girl-woman, and for such a highly sexed and supremely erogenously endowed and sexually driven beauty to be wearing forever the chastity imprisonment, was the equivalent of putting her in hell on earth.

My husband-girl had clearly had this done to her. Belinda had clearly had this done to Zarina. Quite clearly too, the poor little recent-virgin had almost certainly been infibulated of cunt and of mouth as I had. For this to have been done to me, a nearly thirty-year-old grown woman was dreadful enough. For this poor little girl, so sweet and innocent and constantly lovingly sensual and sexy, to be deprived of all love and sex for the rest of her days, was truly severely savage in the extreme.

I even heard talk, that I dearly hoped for Zarina’s sake was not true, that Belinda had made Zarina sew herself up. She had made Zarina sew her own cunt lips closed forever. That is what I had overheard and that is what I fear was absolutely true.

You might think that since Zarina had bewitched and stolen Belinda, my husband-girl, from me, and secured, at least hitherto, all the attentions I might consider should rightfully have been mine as Belinda’s wife, that I would be pleased that the contessa was condemned to suffer the deprivatory hell I had by now endured for over a year. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. I felt distress for the poor girl. After all, I knew at first hand the terrible fate she was suffering and to suffer forever like me.

Twenty-four hours after I had become aware of Zarina’s entry into enforced nunnification, I was sent for by my girl-husband, who merely told me that she had sold me.

It was, of course, entirely within Belinda’s right to sell her wife: to sell me. It was, of course, entirely within Belinda’s right not to have to inform me to whom I had been sold and on what terms. Accordingly, Belinda told me nothing of my fate, merely remarking that, as I had probably realised, she no longer had any use for me, as Zarina had been obliged to take over all of my duties. She was therefore, she said, cashing me in as an asset before I was, as she put it: “past my sell-by date”.

To be dismissed so peremptorily, was very deeply hurtful to me. Whilst it was never my choice to become Belinda’s wife I had sacrificed all of my life and love since our wedding day to the absolute fulfilment of my vow to honour and obey her. And this was my reward. I had been sold. I had become someone else’s chattel. I did not even know if Belinda had sold me to a man or another girl, and I had no right to ask.

As my sale divorced us, I was ordered by Belinda to leave my wedding ring behind when I left. From my delivery under the contract of sale Belinda had signed, I would cease to be Belinda’s wife. I would no longer be Belinda’s property. I would be someone else’s property, albeit that I would not be the wife of whoever had bought me unless they chose to seal me to them through undergoing a wedding ceremony.

Of course, it would not be necessary for my new owner to get married to me. This was the 2020s. Under the laws Russia had adopted, as in England, my first marriage had made me into property. From that marriage onward I could be bought and sold as property. My wedding-day vow of obedience equated to a surrender of all my human rights to my husband. By the law I had wed under, the word “wife” effectively had the same meaning as the word “slave”, save that the latter word was never used to define wifely status, as it was considered grossly ill-mannered to do so.

I don’t recall how I got wind that I was being sent to England. The day I was to leave dawned the same as any other day. The same as on any other day, I was equipped with my chastity fixings and covered in my head-to-feet rubber shroud, complete with the drinking tube for me to draw up my urine as my only means of keeping hydrated, and the rubber knickers in which I must satisfy any need I had to defecate.

Thus garbed, I was driven out to the airport by Belinda’s lovely daughter, Norna, who was under Belinda’s direction to put me on my flight. At the airport, I was by no means the only nunnified girl. At the airport, for the first time, I became aware of the extreme contrast between the girls whose husband-girls had, for whatever reason, decided that they should be nunnified like I was, and girls whose husband-girls still allowed them freedom.

Many of the free wives wore their hair as long as it would grow. This was the latest fashion. They also, many of them, wiggled around in seven-inch stilettos and micro-mini skirts or dresses. To the eyes of this girl: to my eyes, eyes that had seen so little of feminine beauty, because I had disciplined myself over the year of my marriage not to look at other girls, I was suddenly entered into a fantasy toyshop. The free wives, most of them obviously braless, wiggled and jiggled sexily around in such complete and utter contrast with my imprisoned shrouded hell.

I noticed too, how all free non-nunnified girls wore wedding rings, which some girls wore on their right hands. I had been away from the speedily changing world for a year now. I saw that every girl wore a ring on one of her hands, on the wedding-ring finger or its right hand equivalent.

To wear the wedding ring on the left hand, as per long established tradition, was apparently now purely indicative of a girl married to another girl. Girls married to men, wore their matrimonial symbol on their right hands.

Norna took me and put me standing with a group of some ten other nunnified girls, who were to take the same flight as I. She then left me, as per her orders to return to Belinda once she had “deposited the goods”, me that is, at the airport.

I felt dreadfully nervous waiting to go to my future and not knowing what that future held in store for me. Even though I had experienced by now many extremely stressfully demanding times, I was contemplating the worst that could happen.

With my mouth sewn up I could not talk. I could listen and listen only. My hearing seemed to have become more highly attuned since my lips had been sewn closed. I supposed that this was because when I had been able to speak I had been empowered to ask for any point misheard or thought to have been misheard to be repeated. I had no such lazy-minded luxury now that I could no longer make any words with my mouth, and must thus concentrate properly when I was addressed.

Then a vision of loveliness appeared. A wonderful negress, with gentle brown eyes and very shy demeanour stood before all we nunnified girls. She wore uniform. A blouse and skirt of the colours required by “Top-Flight Airlines”. Even though her light-blue top and jacket, dark-blue mini-skirt, and black stockings were not of the colours best suited to her flawless soft smooth brown complexion, this young girl, she was perhaps twenty-two, looked absolutely adorable.

In part, this stunning beauty’s apparent shyness came from her inexperience in what to her was a recently new job. In part it came from the fact that none of her passengers’ eyes were visible to her through the slits in their nunnifying rubber shrouds. And, in part, it was from her genuine loving and gentle personality.

“Hi. I’m Melissa, and I will be your in-flight attendant on our journey to London England”, Melissa announced through the feedback screeching from her holding the microphone too close to her delectable lips.

Even as she spoke these few American accented words, I watched her unprofessionally easing her aching right foot from one of her seven-inch-heeled stiletto mules, perhaps momentarily forgetting that we could see her even if she could not see us.

Melissa than asked us to nod, if we could not speak, as she read out in her melodic voice the passenger names on the list attached to her clipboard. I still nodded to her calling of: “Mrs Belinda *****”, my divorce being so fresh that my name had not been reverted.

To look at his girl was a pleasure. To look at his girl was an honour. To look at his girl was to be reminded that there was still such beauty in life and the world, and that the most beautiful thing in life and the world is girl.

How I longed for the freedom Melissa had. How I longed to be able to display my womanly charms for the delight of the world once more as she could and did so wonderfully. I wanted so much to tell her how gorgeous she was. She could even have had me if she had wanted me. I would so dearly have loved her to have my body, for Melissa to make love to me. But what use was I to her? I had no mouth, I had no cunt; they were both sewn up. I was totally encased in chastity belt and bra, and these were covered in strategically placed warding-off spikes to keep me sexless, loveless, frustrated, and celibate. I was obliged to drink my own urine: my rubber knickers were filled with my shit. This was my life now. This was the hell in which I dwelt.

I was a nearly thirty-year-old woman whose perfectly natural desire for love and sex had been denied her completely and utterly for the past year, and would continue to be completely denied her for evermore. This was my life now. This was the hell in which I dwelt.

The only pleasure I had now was from my eyes. My only sexual organs were my eyes. I could look. I could admire. I could enjoy, even if that enjoyment was pain and frustration to my heart and mind. It was all I had and I was going to ease my eyes by enjoying looking at Melissa as often and for as long as I could during the flight.


Once on the plane I had another chance to ogle the divine Melissa as she stood before us all miming to the pre-recorded safety and escape procedure advice that she gave on every flight every day several times per day, flashing the wedding ring on her lovely right hand. She looked a mixture of bored nervousness. I longed to hold her and reassure her. She was clearly put out of countenance because she could not see our eyes or faces in our nunnifying gowns.

I really and truly wanted this girl to at least notice me. I was a girl starved of the love of her fellow girls for over a year. Free from the oppressive slavery I had endured as Belinda’s slave, my mind had taken an extreme view of the liberty I had. I had swung mentally from one side of the pendulum, complete slavery and submission, to the other side, and imagined I had total freedom once more. My taming was unravelling, unrealised by me.

I had fixed on what I was going to do to stand out to Melissa from the crowd of black rubber shrouded nunnified girls she faced. I had fixed on what I was going to do to stand out the instant after I had seen the shy black beauty at the airport.

On the plane, as soon as the light ordering we remain in our seat belts went out, I began to make my move to the bathroom to carry out my plan.

In the bathroom it was not easy. I wanted to roll down and take off my arm-long rubber gloves. To take either one of them off first, when I was wearing the pair of them, was not at all easy, but I managed it after some five minutes of struggle, and wiggled back to my seat with both of my lovely arms bare.

I wore no ring. On left hand nor right hand I wore no ring. I was free. Melissa would see that I was free. I was not really free but Melissa would not know I had been sold by my husband-girl. Melissa would see that I had no wedding ring on either of my hands, and would think I was not married to girl or man. In my distorted imagination, she would then therefore come and talk to me and get to know me and I would have my hands free to hold her hand and, joy of joys, maybe caress her, and joy of joy of joy of joys maybe get to feel her.

I was, though I did not know it, suffering a sort of sexual fever brought on by my complete and utter deprivation. It was a fever born from latent lust. It was a fever that would never have caused me to ask myself why a beautiful girl like Melissa, with a ring on her right hand to show she was already married to a man, would want an ugly bundle shrouded in rubber to come anywhere near her. The very thought, had Melissa thought it, must have caused her to shudder with mental and physical horror: but in my fevered sexually aroused mentally disordered and distorted state I had no thought or realisation of this.

The truth dawned fifteen minutes later when Melissa happened by me and saw my bare arms and hands. I will never forget the look of horror on her face and the way she panicked and almost ran to fetch a senior hostess to double-witness what she, Melissa, could hardly believe she had seen.

“Calm down Melissa. I’ll get the pilotess to radio ahead,” her boss had ordered.

Beneath my shroud, tears ran down my face, as the look of horror I had engendered from Melissa, the delightful Afro-Caribbean hostess princess, played over and over in the studio at the forefront of my memory and mind. I was condemned. I had for one wild moment forgotten, but I was now brutally reminded that I was condemned to be forever and ever a girl denied love, completely hidden and forbidden beneath my cruel shroud.

What had I been imagining? Why would a girl like Melissa want a freak like me? Why had a tortured myself by letting myself imagine for even one split second that my lack of a wedding ring would persuade this maiden made in heaven to look at me?

Even though, for some reason, Melissa’s senior seemed to be a frequent visitor to check on me, and even though she never once spoke to me when she paid her oft-times visits, as if checking on me, I spent the remaining hours of the flight to London from Moscow in deep lonely misery.


I was in for another shock when I reached the airport. Among all the other nunnified girls I stood out from my still having my hands and arms bare. Even so, I had no idea why it was that, having been-pointed out by Melissa and her boss, I was immediately pounced upon by Girl-Control officers.

“ ’Fraid yer’ll ‘av to come with us luv” a strong and fit blonde Girl-Control girl ordered.

With my mouth sewn closed I could not ask her why, but she sensed from my body language that, although I was not resisting her authority, or that of her pretty redhead companion, I had no understanding of what I could possible have done wrong.

Immediately in answer to my unspoken question, this girl simply said: “No ring luv”.

On the plane I had thought it impossible that my misery could be further compounded. The truth of the untruth of that thought had come home to me with those words: “No ring luv”.

I must have committed some offence. I had no idea what the offence could be, but “No ring luv” had been sufficient to see me taken in charge by two attractive Girl-Control officers, aged perhaps twenty or so, and I was being driven to the London Airport Girl-Control station, watching my fellow passengers board the bus that would take them to their futures of comparative joy and peace. Even the other nunnified girls were free just now compared with me, as I rode the short journey to the Girl-Control station-house at a more distant terminal on the airfield.

Once in the station-house I stood in fear of the unknown as the sergeant-girl in charge berated the fellow sergeant-girl who had just gone off shift-duty before her, and was consequently well out of earshot from the jocular abuse pretended to be for her hearing had she been around.

“Fucking Maggie! Times I’ve told her to put the fucking chastity-gear-universal-master-key on the fucking hook it fucking belongs on! I’ll swing for that fucking idle bitch, I swear I will! ‘Ow are we goin’ to strip this’n off for the judge, if we can’t find the fuckin’ master-key?”

“……….Bloody ‘ell! ‘Ere it is!” the sergeant continued, having made a discovery on her desk, right next to her right hand.

“I’m still goin’ to ‘ave it out with that fucking cow Maggie when I see ‘er next though, you mark my words. Hooks is for keys and a hook is where this key goes. It’s clearly labelled. Even that bloody useless sow ought to be able to put it back where it goes when she’s used it, and she knows it’s kept in the combination-lock key-safe at all times; or should be! I’ve saved ‘er skin more than once making sure it don’t get stolen.”

……“Down to business, anyway” the sergeant nodded toward where I stood, “ ‘as this’n got anyone meeting ‘er ‘ere at the airport?” she asked, in good humour, her tirade having been more for comic effect than an expression of genuine feeling.

“Dunno sarge.” She don’t talk much what with her mouth being sewn up I expect”, the blonde patrol girl answered, with a tone expectant of applause for a comic answer well delivered in her own, and not only her own, estimation.

“Well Mandy, why don’t you give ‘er a pad and a pen and bloody well ask ‘er to write it down?” the friendly sergeant answered in mock exasperation.

The blonde turned to her redheaded companion as an audience for her next answer, and won a snort of barely suppressed mirth as she retorted: “I will sarge, if you ‘aven’t lost yer pen!”

“Use yer own bloody pen!” the sergeant-girl laughed in appreciation of being mocked in good humour by her junior.

Oh what it must be like to have such friendly relations in your day-to-day work and oh how lonely I had been this year and more gone as I had suffered being worked like a slave for Belinda and by Belinda.

Through giving me a pen it was soon established that I knew that I had been bought, did not know by whom, and did not know for certain whether I was to be collected at the airport, let alone who was to collect me.

Despite this, the sergeant concluded it was absolutely assured that someone would be looking for me, and dispatched Mandy to go and seek them out, and have them report to the airport court, to which I was bound to be sent, for being found literally bare-handed, as a girl clearly over school age without a wedding ring.

“Come on then Rebecca” the sergeant commanded the redhead Girl-Control trooper, in her non-too demanding tone of affable friendliness, “Whilst Mandy’s on the look out for the new owner, let’s you and me get this’n stripped and hosed down eh”.

“ ‘Ope you realise that under that cape she’ll be sewn up. I mean, not just ‘er mouth an’ that. I think it’s bloody cruel what they do when the nunnify them. Bloody cruel!” the sergeant gently opined to her new recruit colleague.

“Can you imagine ‘avin a ring around yer clit, so bloody tight, that it ‘urts like fuck if you even dare to think about summat that turns yer on? You can’t even think about a pretty girl without the pain of it gripping you. Bloody cruel: that’s what it is: bloody cruel.”

“And to be completely forbidden any sort of sex for ever and ever, just how bloody cruel can yer get? The sergeant asked, intending her question to be rhetorical.

“I don’t know” came Rebecca’s sweet toned answer. “I think what they do to these girls is rather beautiful. They are put in a state of grace. We should honour them for their sacrifice”.

“You were always an odd ‘un Becks. Glad I ain’t got education if that’s what it does for yer” the sergeant girl joked.

The sergeant and Rebecca had been gently guiding me to a spot in the corner of an ante-room off to the side of the main Girl-Control station office: an ante-room where there was a slight slope to the floor leading to a drain

I was made to stand with my back to the corner where the drain was, and I braced myself as the two young women took hold of the hem of my nunnifying robe in order to whisk it off me.

It was done in a second and I stood naked but for my chastity belt and bra, the rubber knickers in which I was forced to defecate, my branks, and the tube that led up to my sewn-up mouth.

“Oh my god!” cried Rebecca as I was revealed snow-white from lack of sun over the past year, my hair just beginning to show stubble on my shaven head, my deep-brown frightened eyes flickering side to side in fear of the unknown, and the fright of my first complete exposure before other girls, other than the cruel Belinda, in over a year of savage nunnification.

“I did warn you Becks” the sergeant consoled. “It’s always a shock when you see your first’un.”

“No sarge!”, Rebecca answered “It’s not like that. She’s beautiful. Isn’t she beautiful? Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

I hung my head in shame and joy, so hoping this lovely girl meant what she was saying and not just saying it to torment me.

“Well, she ain’t no use to you, you silly mare. She ain’t allowed other girls to touch ‘er. So you can bloody well forget it and concentrate on yer job. Get ‘er bra off. And watch it when you cut those knickers off. We’ll need to 'ose 'em out with water or she’ll stink, the poor luv”, the sergeant instructed: but even she seemed to have a tone of voice expressive of some pity for my suffering.

The sergeant trusted Rebecca with the universal-key that would unlock all my chastity gear and, with a sharp knife to cut my rubber knickers off. With the hose, the knife, and the key, I was, bit by bit, stripped bare and hosed clean.

“Oh just look at ‘er cunt sewn-up like that! Can yer imagine 'ow much that must ‘urt?!” the sergeant orally winced to Rebecca.

“I don’t know: I think it is rather beautiful that she is sewn-up completely like that” Rebecca replied.

“Don’t be bloody stupid Becks: ‘ow would yer like it done to you?”

“If my lover wanted me sewn-up, I would willingly sew myself closed for her” Rebecca answered.

……..“God, you really are weird Becks………” the sergeant girl gently mocked.

I was thoroughly hosed down by the girls, and welcomed the cleanliness and freshness that I felt as a result.

“Now then: just take ‘er next door and make ‘er put ‘er tits on the scanner”, the sergeant ordered.

I broke out in an instant sweat and began praying in my head that this would not reveal what I knew it almost certainly was going to do.

“Take ‘er next door and put ‘er tits on the scanner. Let’s see if her nipple prints is on file”, the sergeant ordered.

Rebecca pointed me to the room in which I had first been brought in custody. I looked around wildly, hoping her order did not mean what I really knew it meant, and then slowly wiggled my beautiful body, my breasts proud and bare and proudly pertly prominent before me as I, all femininity, all girl, all obedient, all tame, graced my lovely way to where I was being ordered to take myself.

I was then stood before what to all appearances was a flat-bed photocopier with no cover over its glass.

“Bend over so yer tits are pressed ‘ard on the glass luv. I promise it won’t urt, and I alus tell the truth luv”, the sergeant soothed me.

I knew that were I to try and resist or were I to show the slightest sign of reluctance, they would whip me till I obeyed and would anyway consequently know I had something to hide. I therefore lowered my soft firm protuberant beauties so that my huge pink nipples and their massive areoles were firmly pressed flat on the cool glass of the machine. The sergeant pressed a button: there was a flash such as from a camera: instantly a red light flickered, and suddenly a tiny tinny klaxon sounded.

“Oh my god, she’s on record!” the sergeant exclaimed, “They’ve got ‘er nipple prints on file at ‘ead office!”.

I had stood myself up straight again as I also watched, along with my two guardians, a printout from the “Counted Under Not to be Tolerated” records, or “CUNT computer”, as it was known in police and criminal circles, emerging slowly from the nipple scanner.

“ ‘Er name’s ‘Katrina ******’ “ said the sergeant reading the printout. “She was spiked over a year back for shoplifting, poor kid. We’ll ‘av to tell the magistrate about this. Still, she pleaded only ‘guilty’ and the court accepted it, so she’s only on C.U.N.T. records for a year.”

“Bloody odd that. ‘Er year should ‘ave bin up by now! Still I ain’t arguing wiv records again, not after last time. Bloody computers. You’d think it’d be programmed proper an that!” the Girl-Control sergeant ruminated aloud.

“Better get ‘er in the balls-and-chain for the court” she then instructed.

I had already spotted two massive, two-foot-diameter, steel balls with a one-inch chain between them: balls-and-chains that had seen much use and were rusted from age but were clearly still strong and in full working order: whatever their function was.

Rebecca momentarily took my pretty hand in her own lovely white-skinned soft fingers to lead me to the balls-and-chain.

“Don’t touch ‘er Becks! For gord’s sake don’t touch ‘er, it ain’t bloody allowed ever!” the sergeant almost screamed in her panic.

Nonetheless and no matter how briefly, I had experienced the gentle touch of this lovely redhead and I felt the first momentary sexual arousal at the pleasure of its innocence paying me honour as a beautiful woman, the beautiful woman that Rebecca had declared me to be in her eyes when she had first seen me out of my all-enveloping-robe.

I looked at Rebecca with eyes that were meant to convey the thanks for her gentleness that my mouth, sewn-up tight-closed as it was, could not speak.

“You stupid bitch Becks: you mustn’t ever to nuffinck what will get ‘er the slightest bit aroused! She ain’t allowed it never ever!” the sergeant snapped out, clearly in a panic.

“Sorry sarge”, Rebecca responded with transparent sincerity.

“So you bloody well should be, you stupid mare” the sergeant retorted in a now-relaxing-a-little-more tone seeing clearly that Rebecca had taken her hand away.

I graced slowly womanly-bottom-swayingly over to the two two-foot-diameter solid-steel spheres and obeyed the unspoken instruction, clear from a quick examination of the balls, to insert my pretty feet deep deep down into the individual recess in the top of each sphere, so that I was tiptoed in them, and the sergeant could pass straps, anchored one side of the holes in which each foot was inserted, over my Achilles’ heels to buckle the balls irremovably to my feet.

Now, for the first time in a whole year, I stood with my long legs lusciously tiptoed erect, and shaped by that erectness to the superlative perfection that can only be achieved, by the beautiful legs of a beautiful girl, combining their supreme functionality with their even more extreme contoured smooth curvature, divine shapeliness and erotically compelling eye captivating orgasmic wonder.

“Oh god what gorgeous legs she’s got! Rebecca exclaimed, forgetting herself in the instant at the sight of my wonderful girlshapely lower limbs.

“Make ‘er walk to the court and use a whip on ‘er if you ‘av to!” the sergeant ordered.


I had struggled to walk in the massive feet-balls, huge in size, and huge in weight, lifting them with my powerful beautiful legs insofar as I could with the mere one-inch hobble-chain that separated them. I had struggled to walk, and had thus been made to super-wiggle as my charms had been supremely magnified by my feet being so imprisoned, and my legs so tautly shapily tensioned and stretched to tip-of-tiptoe, were made so erotic to the compelled eye, and my bottom, dimpled by my erectness, had wiggled and waggled wildly as enticing as a girl’s bottom could ever be and more beyond, as I had struggled to walk in the massive feet-balls.

I now stood before the woman judge. I was bathed in a sheen of perspiration that made my wonderful body glow.

“Katrina ******?” the magistrate called, and was pointed to where I stood with my head bowed.

“Ah yes” said the judge, running an appreciative eye over me. “My word, you are a considerable beauty!” she exclaimed to herself.

“I see from her record that she has had her clitoris ringed. And I can see with my own eyes that she has had her mouth sewn-up and her cunt fully infibulated. That must mean that she has been married and nunnified, so where is her wedding ring?”

“That is just it my lady”, the sergeant of Girl-Control explained, “She was in public with ‘er nun’s gloves peeled off and wearin’ no weddin’ ring”.

“That is intolerable” the girl judge noted.

“I’m afraid m’lady, that we’ve also found that we ‘ave her nipple prints on record” the sergeant continued, proffering the printout of my criminal record toward the judge.

A sexy naked redhead, with her feet balletically erect in heelless ballet booties wiggled over to the sergeant. This girl was the clerkess of the court. Taking the printout, she wiggled on tiptoe to the judge and curtsied deeply, lowering her gorgeously auburn crowned head to her chest, and waited to be bid to rise, as she instantly was, so that she could, still with head bowed to chest, offer the judge my printed C.U.N.T. computer record with her extended delectably double-jointed elbowed bare slim arm.

Despite my predicament, I found my eyes feasting on the full slim-bodied wonder of the charms of this girl, this clerkess, this divinely sexy young woman employed for her decorativeness as well as her high intelligence and her full and deep legal education and training, to grace the court with her beauty and, when called upon, to deliver her wisdom, as a sort of human computer and store of knowledge of all the many detailed intricacies of the girl-laws.

The judge showed this girl my record, and I watched as she whispered to the judge the advice she had from her store of knowledge of precedent.

“I thank, as ever, our indispensable clerkess-of-court for her wisdom and advice, as well as for her transparent loveliness this day.” The judge began.

In acknowledgement, the clerkess, curtsied full long legged low and blushed.

The judge continued: “Katrina ******, you have been a very silly girl. Clearly, nobody would have known you were not wearing a ring if you had kept your gloves on, as no doubt your former owner intended you too.”

“You were carried away by passion no doubt. You should have learned the lesson from your nunnification. You were nunnified because you no longer had any right to passion and desire. You have had two of your love orifices sewn closed and your third love-hole heavily protected to cure you of, and prevent you from ever again experiencing physical love. Yet, even after what I am informed has been but only one year of nunnification, wearing the honoured shroud of a de-sexed girl, you clearly have not learned your lesson.”

“A girl who has been nunnified has no right: no right whatsoever to passion and desire. She has her clitoris tight ringed, and her mouth and her sex sewn-up in sacrifice, and as demonstration of her surrender to a life without sex forever. She may be beautiful but she hides her beauty from the world beneath the all-enveloping shroud so that her loveliness cannot betray her and make her stray from the path of a totally passionless, and completely sexless life.”

“She may not have volunteered to be sewn-up and wear the shroud. But if her superiors have decreed that she be infibulated and wear the cloak of the forever-virgin, she must forget and forego her sexulity as that, and no less than that, is what true obedience then decrees.”

“I see from your updated record that you, Katrina, were married. You took an oath to obey your husband-girl. Your husband-girl decided, as is of course her right, to have your clit-ringed and your slit sewn-up forever.”

“You have disobeyed your husband-girl Katrina; and you have dishonoured the shroud!”

“It will be for your new owners to decide whether you will be returned to the shroud. My only duty is to punish you for not wearing a wedding ring. As you are fully aware, here and now in the 2020s, all girls of your class and of age eighteen or over, have by law to be married or else be an owned slave. In either circumstance they must always, also by law, wear a ring on one or other of their wedding-ring fingers at all times.”

“However, I am told by our lovely clerk that, if only in the sense that your existing criminal record does not have to influence sentence, failure of a girl to wear a ring is considered a minor offence.”

“Is there anyone to pay bail and buy her out of punishment?” the judge suddenly asked the Girl-Control sergeant as if she, the judge, had forgotten to enquire till now.

“Not that we have found so far ma’am”, the sergeant answered.

“Very well then.” the judge concluded, turning once more to look at me. “As it is your first offence of being openly ringless in public, I am content to sentence you, on the basis of established precedent. In accordance with that precedent therefore, I hereby sentence you to twenty-four hours hard labour ………”

“……..Next case please………”


“What do you think you are looking at bitch?!”

The girl who addressed me thus was dressed in a white robe like a Roman toga. She was herself black: a negress of beauty surpassing even that of Melissa, the stewardess on the plane that had flown me to London. She had in her left hand a white parasol with which she protected herself from the heat of the sun that I was obliged to stand in naked. In her right hand, with its looped handle around her wrist, she held a two-foot long strap whip with which she had just threatened to thrash me around my naked thighs.

“What do you think you are looking at bitch?!” she barked again, knowing that with my mouth sewn up I could never ever answer her.

The sun burned down on my naked body, a body that had not seen the sun for twelve long months. A body I had not been allowed to oil against the beating sun, a body being beaten by the sun searing down upon it on an unusually hot outer-London spring day.

“What do you think you are looking at bitch?!” she shouted again.

I had been looking at her beauty. I had been admiring her breasts. I had been marvelling at the trim slimness of her waist and the flatness of her belly. I had been looking at her legs. The dress she wore was tied in such a way at her waist, that the whole of her right leg was bare: so I had been looking at her right leg.

“What do you think you are looking at bitch?!”

THWACK! Her whip cracked next to my left thigh and I flinched and shrieked with fear and then hung my head to show I had surrendered to her superior power and her magnificently cruel beauty.

“Welcome to the workhouse you shite slag” she sneered. “I am your personal overseer. I am here to work you. I am being paid to work you. And you are going to work like you have never worked before, bitch. And let’s be clear about it, you will do exactly as you are told. I hope you understand that as well as my little Betsy understands it. Little Betsy loves kissing girls. You’ve just nearly had one of Betsy’s kisses on your leg, slag, and believe me the next one won’t be just a warning!”

I was no longer wore the huge two-foot-diameter feet balls. I stood sweltering before this black beauty; she cooled under her sheltering white parasol, steepled big-toe-toe-tip-high in front-heeled punishment-booties. Heelless, at the rear, steel-soled booties, they lifted me to permanent balletic en-pointe, respite from which could only be gained by resting the front-heels to ground, the only way to walk in which was in constant balletic-tiptoe.

As a consequence, my legs were once more stretched to the supreme extreme that displayed their superb beauty at its utmost, and I had been aware that my overseer had been staring at my legs as much, if not more than I had been compelled by her beauty to admire her exquisitely wonderful dark-brown body.

I wore steepling punishment booties. I also wore chains. I was a prisoner. I was a prisoner in chains. I was a girl in chains, and my ankles were chained to one-another with a six-inch heavy hobble-chain running between strong leather anklets.

My wrists, which were behind my back, wore a slimmer version of the leather anklets: leather wristlets, between which was a one-foot length of chain no less heavy than that which tied my ankles just six-inches apart.

Around the mountainous glory of my huge firm breasts I wore two steel hoops: hoops that were at each of the bases of my lovely breasts, linked together by one link of heavy chain in my cleavage, and then held to me by chains that ran from each side of the hoops around my back, and each top of each hoop over my shoulders, like bra-straps to fasten to the chain that ran around my back. Furthermore, another heavy chain ran from each of the bases of these breast hoops again around my back to secure the hoops firmly to my chest.

Around my neck I wore a leather collar with a huge strong steel ring at the back, from which a further equally heavy chain dangled down through between my shoulder-blades to attach at their mid-point to my wrist chains, and continue down to attach finally to the midpoint of the six-inch hobble chain that tied my ankles together.

Around each of my dainty ankles, where I already wore the six-inch hobble chain, I also wore two-foot long heavy chains attached at the rear of my anklets so that two two-foot-diameter solid-steel feet-balls of the size I had hitherto been made to stand in, were now trailing behind me, chained to my ankles: I wore a ball-and-chain on each ankle.

I wore a ball-and-chain on each ankle. I was so heavily chained in heavy links that I could not possibly escape. I wore a huge heavy ball-and-chain on each ankle!

Around my waist I wore the same huge heavy chain pulled very tight around my egg-timer slimness, and a further chain ran from the front of my waist chain under my crutch, whereafter it went through the valley of my bottom hemispheres to end by being padlocked to the rear of my waist chain at the small of my back.

I also wore a look that told of my agony because of the pain from my breasts. I was in pain because of what had been done to my nipples. In my wonderful pink nipples, with their massive pink areoles, I wore nipple-propellers.

I wore nipple-propellers. I had screamed and screamed helplessly in my chains, nearly tearing open my savagely sewn-closed mouth lips, as the nipple-propellers had been fitted to me. They were steel about one-eighth inch thick, and comprised a single blade “propeller” one-inch wide and six-inches long. For all the world they looked like the propellers on a child’s toy aeroplane. Indeed, with them fitted, I looked, for all the world too, as if I were an obscene twin-propellered aircraft.

To fit them to me, my gorgeous breasts had been individually encaged in metal frames, each comprised of six equidistant bars, curved so as to form the shape of an individual brassiere cup cage two sizes too small for my huge breasts. My glorious breasts were then squeeze-forced into these, one cage over each beauty. The far ends of these bars were already curved so as to be fitted behind, and thus secured by, the steel rings around the bases of my breasts, thereby completing a purposely too-small bra-cup for me to wear.

But before the hooked ends of the six bars could be engaged behind the hoops, I had had to be cruelly tortured. Where the six bars met at what would be the equivalent of the peak in the cone of a bra cup, the propellers were fitted. They were fitted in such a way as they could be spun freely, being already attached to an axle that went through the equivalent of the peak in the cone of a bra cup. But it was that axle that was, as intended, giving me agony.

And oh how I had screamed and screamed and screamed as my nipple-propellers had been forcibly fitted to me, for the axles at the end of which the propellers were fitted, formed ten-inch-long knurl-shanked needles, and I had had these unmercifully slowly pushed through the milk-holes of my gorgeous nipples. All ten cruel rough-sided inches of each of those needles had been forced into my milk-holes, so that I had ten-inches of cold merciless needle through the milk-holes of my exquisite nipples, and ten-inches of brutally painful steel needle had pierced the insides of my lovely breasts crushingly compressed in the cups of the cages over them. And on the end of each of the ten-inches of brutally painful steel needle that had pierced the insides of my lovely breasts, were the “propellers”, my nipple-propellers.

“You got tit propellers because you tried to seduce a girl on an aeroplane you fucking shite”, my overseer yelled. “The punishment has to fit the crime, bitch. I asked for the nipple propellers to be fitted to you my very own self. I insisted on the nipple propellers slag. You want to know why cunt? Why, is because you tried to seduce my sister you fucking dirty bitch. The girl on the plane: the stewardess, that was Melissa my kid sister, and you tried to seduce her you fucking whore!! You’re going to suffer whore. You’re going to fucking suffer you slag, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it for what you tried to do, you whore!!”

I was horrified to think that something so innocent, so natural, and so beautiful as the attraction of one pretty girl for another could lead to the torture that I was enduring at the hands of this girl, who quite clearly hated me for what she had been told by her own sister: a complete distortion of what I had tried to do.

“You’re going to do some forestry you fuck. I hope your good with trees cunt because Betsy and I don’t like no slacking by bitches”, my overseer sneered sarcastically.

“Move bitch” she barked and cracked her strap-whip at her side.

Her order for me to move was as easy for her to give, as it was difficult for me to obey. I fought to put one delicious leg forward and found myself having to lean forward such was the effort needed for my leg to drag the two-foot-diameter-huge steel ball to which that leg was anchored by chain.

“Get moving you filthy slag!” my overseer snapped.

I found myself now stopping and starting. I would stand on one tiptoed leg anchored to ground and use the other to pull the massive weight of the ball attached to its ankle forward, before taking a step with that thus freed leg.

“Walk properly you dirty slut!” my cruel overseer commanded shouting in my ear. “They did the right thing when they sewed your filthy cunt up. Nobody should be allowed to breed from fucking slags like you, you filthy cow!” she crowed in a loud whisper in my right ear.

Perspiration ran down my lovely face as I fought to drag myself along in the balls-and-chains I wore at my ankles, wiggling in the six-inch hobble

“Get moving you dirty shite whore!”

As she cursed me snarling in my ear, I momentarily felt and blessed the shade from the parasol my overseer had to keep her out of the blazing sun that seared down on my totally naked white body: a body that had not seen any sun in over a year enforcedly spent under a nunnifying shroud. I felt the cool contrast of the shadow of the parasol as the vicious negress leant over to torment me, and then the unrelenting power of the sun as she moved back having delivered another cruel taunt.

“Shift your fucking arse you useless cunt!”

With the power of my girlmuscular legs I fought to drag the huge balls behind my ankles along a path in an open edge-of-forest public amenity, where I could see pretty young mothers, pushing babies in perambulators on a distant path. Two other lovely young girls, in jeans filled by their very smacakable bottoms and firmly-well-filled tee-shirts, were exercising a dog nearer to me, throwing it a stick which in bounded after, even whilst the stick was still spinning in the air, with such abandoned puppyish freedom as made the girls double-up with joyous giggles.

On its return, the puppy-dog played with the girls, teenage schoolgirl delights, pretending to offer them the stick back, and then running away and twirling round and round when they tried to grasp it. The perfect angels giggled the more and cuddled and kissed the adorable dog when at last it let them have the stick back, before they threw the stick again.

All this sweet normality was taking place clearly in my view. And I was clearly in the view of these delightful fourteen-year-olds as I dragged the huge balls chained to my ankles behind me, and the chains in which I was so heavily helplessly bound, clinked and chinked as my tortured body girled along on its superbly shapely and strong long tiptoe-tensioned legs.

But to their eyes I was just the familiar sight of yet another prisoner from the workhouse, being punished, for what, they did not know or care, but no doubt thoroughly as she deserved. And my near-naked body with its cunt and its mouth sewn-up closed, bound in the cruel chains, and being driven along by an overseer with a vicious whip to use on me if I dared to slack, did not seem to cause them to turn even half-an-eye my way.

“Move it you filthy whore!” my overseer spat out as she cracked her whip to remind me that she had ample means to cause me more pain.

Then the ball, the huge steel ball I had chained to my right leg got caught behind a rock in the rough ground I was slowly traversing in my tip-of-tip-of-tiptoeing punishment booties, and I nearly stumbled and tumbled.

“Stupid filthy slag! Get it sorted whore! Get your fucking arse moving you filthy useless bitch! Get it sorted or I’ll fucking whip you, you filthy slag!!” my overseer shouted savagely.

We were near the girls who must have heard every word of my mistress’ curses. But all the girls did was, briefly, to refrain from throwing the stick for their dog and look on as I recovered my course.

As I finally dragged my brutally chained body along past them, the girls’ dog sat and looked at me, its head tilted querulously sideways its ears twitching momentarily, as my heavy chains chinked and chanked, and I sweated by in my imprisoning inescapable bondage.

“Good morning overseer” one of the pretty girls politely greeted my mistress as my mistress followed me with her parasol and strap-whip.

“A very hot day isn’t it?”, this same delightful girl ventured politely and shyly.

“Good morning young ladies” my overseer responded “It is very hot for the time of year and they say it will get hotter. I do hope your morning has not been spoiled by the whore…. sorry….I mean by your having to see the naughty girl in front.”

“No: not at all. I am sure she must have been very naughty indeed, and Sybil and I agree with the government that there is too much naughtiness with girls these days. So please make sure you punish her very much, so she will never ever be naughty again” the innocent lovely schoolgirl angel replied.

“Thank you ma’am. I will do my best to completely fulfil my orders”, my overseer responded respectfully.

I had dragged my huge-ball-and-chain bound body some little way ahead, obeying my instruction to walk where I was told to walk, and my overseer had to catch me up, leaving the girls and their dog behind.

“You fucking filthy cunt! Get your fucking legs moving slag or I’ll fucking whip your fucking arse till it fucking bleeds you filthy whore!” she tiraded me as I struggled along. Then she turned around in shock….

“Please miss?” it was Sybil, one of the two pretty fourteen-year-olds. She had trotted up on her pretty feet unseen and unheard to where I sweated and pulled my savagely chained body, struggling to walk as I had been ordered, to walk along in the searing heat of the rapidly rising sun beating blazingly down on my nakedness, as I enforcedly tiptoe-bootied enticingly wiggled along on the rough edge-of-forest ground in my balls-and-chains.

“Please miss: can Mandy and I help you punish the naughty girl? We’re both Girl-Scouts and have done our training and earned tassels for our skill with whips. I’ve got the gold: Mandy only has the silver, but she’s better than me really, I was just lucky because our Girl-Scout mistress wanted to kiss me and, though I know it’s not very nice, I let her…..” she gabbled, all girlish sweet innocence encapsulated.

We walked along at my slow pace. My eyes opened and closed in my distress. But even so, I could see from her face, that my overseer did not welcome this proposal. However, she knew better than to annoy schoolgirls who were clearly daughters from the ruling classes……..

…….“Of course you may”, my overseer replied; though something in the tone of her voice still said that she did not really want the interference.

“Thank you miss. We’ll run ‘Mister’, our doggy, home, and join you as soon as we are able; and thank you again miss!” she called as she wiggled her pretty little blue-jeaned bottom, trotting to join her friend to take the dog to some nearby houses where they all lived.

“Bring your strap-whips!” my overseer called after her, “Strap-whips for both of you: two strap-whips …!

“Yes miss!” the lovely angel called back in acknowledgement of the belated instruction.

As soon as she had gone, my overseer took the intervention she had not really welcomed out on me: “Don’t you even dream for one spilt second that I’m going to let you off lightly just because those little tarts want to come and play at prison wardens, you fucking whore!” she spat.

“You’re going to fucking get it, slag! You’re going to suffer bitch! You’ll wish you’d never been born the stupid lazy cunt you are!” Get moving you dirty shite whore!!”

The huge strain of dragging the massive balls-and-chains attached to both of my ankles was rapidly depleting my strength and, in the relentless heat of the sun, my thirst was beginning to exhaust me, as I continued to struggle on tip-of-tiptoe in my en-pointe-punishment booties and in the heavily brutal chains to wherever I was being driven by my wardeness, tortured not least by the two ten-inch long knurled needles that were piercing my lovely breasts through my nipple milk-holes.

“Don’t you dare try to slack and slow on me you filthy slag! Get those fucking legs moving or Betsy’ll flog them for you, you filthy whore!” she screamed. “You’re a fucking useless tart: a whore: a cunt: a slag: you’re a fucking filthy useless idle bitch!!” she shouted in my ears as I wiggled along chained in my helpless agony.

I was nearing exhaustion merely from struggling to walk in my chains as I closed my eyes momentarily in the horror of what I was enduring, only to open them again and see two perfect angels.

“I hope you don’t mind us wearing our Girl-Scout bikinis” Sybil coaxed my cruel overseer. “We have used sun screen of course. Sybil and I got completely undressed and put sunscreen all over each other’s bodies to be sure we are protected. So we are safe in our little bikis and I hope you don’t mind us wearing them.”

She smiled so winsomely that even my mistress melted to her innocent charm. But I caught a sight of the blush on the face of the perfect Sybil, and wondered what she had discovered as she was either being stroked or had been stroking her friend Mandy to cover her with the sun-cream.

My overseer responded, with obvious relish of the bodies of these exquisite worldly innocent angel schoolgirls, “Of course not miss. You both look very pretty in them”.

Sybil blushed and lowered her head. As with Mandy, her fellow Girl-Scout, she wore a white cotton bikini, its top, heavily heavenly filled by her very firm virgin schoolgirl’s breasts, its panties fulsomely filled by her very firm very pert virgin schoolgirl’s bottom. On her feet she wore heelless balletic shoes that tiptoed her on very pretty, slim and shapely legs. On her head she wore a wide brimmed white cotton hat to protect her perfect complexion from the sun, but somehow I could not take my eyes of the soft golden down that sparkled in the sunbeams on her delectable forearms, so slim so shapely, so adorably lovely, and then the freckles on her innocent angelic face, a face completely without makeup and all the more heavenly for it.

I blinked the perspiration from my eyes as I continued to haul the heavy solid steel balls chained to my ankles, obediently continuing to walk as directed, and the angels danced on their sexy tiptoeing shoes before me, to giggle and point at me in my heavily chained nakedness and obscene nipple-propellers, my flesh being burned red by the unrelenting sun from which, unlike these angels in their wisdom, and my overseer with her parasol, I had no barrier shield or relief.

And I noted that each pretty schoolgirl wore her whipping-skill award tassel on her bikini, where her ripe virgin-hard pointy pink nipple would be behind it. One wore a gold tassel in the form of a mini cat o’ nine tails, the other silver, and both tassels dangled from their respective left bikini bra cups. And I looked at their superbly filled-out bikini panties and saw that Mandy’s were all white, denoting that she was a completely intact virgin, whilst Sybil’s had an almost invisible little red heart centrally, just above her mound of Venus, to confirm that, although otherwise completely virgo intacta, she had been given her first kiss. The kiss from her Girl-Scout mistress had won her this denoting award: and the little red heart was a confirmatory mark she must have on all her panties - all of her panties being otherwise white, in confirmation of her total virginity, the total virginity required for all under eighteen-year-old girls in the 2020s.

I continued to struggle on deeply humiliated before these Girl-Scout angels: girls nearly half my age.

“What has the naughty girl done miss?” Mandy enquired, her cultured and educated politeness clearly evident in her sweet voice.

“She’s been married, but has dared to appear in public without a wedding ring on her finger miss”, my chief torturer answered.

The two girls instantly looked at each other with genuine horror on their pretty faces: “Oh, that is so gross. She is such an ingrate!!” Sybil announced in genuine sincerity, “Is she, I mean, was she, a … you know… did she… did she… did she….. did she hang about on street corners…. you know?”

“You mean is she a prostitute? Well, not that I know of miss” my overseer replied. “I understand she was happily married to a very rich and influential husband-girl, who required her to be nunnified, as is a husband-girl’s right of course. But she was an ungrateful wife, so her husband-girl divorced her and sold her.”

The girls listened innocently aghast as I continued to struggle along in my tiptoed tortured painful humiliation.

“And what is more, on the flight back over to England, she tried to attract an air hostess……..”

The two girls gasped with horror.

“Oh that is so, so wicked!!” Sybil exclaimed.

“Yes”, Mandy responded, “I’ve already had my between-leg-lips and my nipple-holes sewn-up, in readiness for my future nunnification, and so that I will remain honoured as a completely intact virgin for evermore! And I won’t never ever behave like that: it is so gross!!”

The superbly slim but equally superbly shapely innocent schoolgirl angels trotted tiptoed on their supremely svelte slim legs before me, until, at long last, I had wiggled along to my overseer’s command to where we had come to a small tree uprooted and lying on the ground, having been blown over by strong winds during the previous month.

“Useless whore!” a pretty voice, that of Mandy, cursed me as she then blushed deep-pink divinely at having let her perfect lips pout such strong words.

“What is the naughty girl to do miss?” Mandy enquired of my overseer.

“This tree is of no more use, so the prisoner is to haul it back to the workhouse where she will chop it up for firewood to store for our winter stove”, my torturer-in-chief announced.

I stood still teetering on my tiptoes in my punishment booties, swaying with my tiredness from the effort of walking in my chains, a distance of no more than half-a-mile from the prison workhouse. My eyes opened and closed in the heat and I listened to the buzz of the flies before they settled on my sweat bathed body to lick my salt. I was physically and mentally exhausted.

As I stood still relieved by the shade of other trees from the searing heat of the sun on my naked flesh, already burned red with the sun’s searing its sweet softness, my torturer was unfastening a padlock that held the chain that went from my belly up between the demi-spheres of my divine deep dimpled derriere to the chain around my superbly hourglass-slim waist at my back.

A strong leather strap had been fixed around the fallen-over tree, and a chain attached to the strap lay on the floor of the wood for the moment.

I was turned now, so that I could see the arrangement on the end of the chain attached to the fallen tree. I was purposely made to see that, at the end of the chain to which I had no doubt I was going to be attached, there was a large round ring with a one-foot-long one-inch diameter shaft running from it. It looked for all the world like a huge door key.

“If you want to help girls, use your whips on the bitch’s legs to drive her, so as to make her pull on the tree with all her strength”, my overseer advised – she dare not try to order around these daughters of the upper classes.

The two delightful slim-legged leggy angels willingly and enthusiastically took hold of their two-foot long strap-whips, eager to put into practice on my bare body, what they had learned to earn their whipping skill tassels.

My overseer, guided me to turn my back to the tree and the chain attached to it, the “key” at the end of which the lovely negress, who had chief charge of me, had held in her hand in readiness for something.

The innocent schoolgirl angel white bikinied virgin Girl-Scouts, eyed my nipple propellers as they watched my tormentress, and I felt what was going to be done to me. I felt the long rod of the “key” at the end of the tree-tied chain being rested in the entrance to my anus.

And I was bent forward at my waist, and the one-foot-long rod was being slowly but inexorably pushed up my divine bum, tearing my soft inner skin as it pushed aside my pulsing sphincter which tried so hard to eject this raping intruder of my intimacy as it slid its one-inch-diameter cold solid steel unyielding hardness up and up and up and up me, as I howled as best I could with my mouth sewn shut at its delicious lips as it was. And I shook my head and I shed my tears with the horrible pain; until the shaft was all the way up my lovely arse and the chain that ran between my legs could be put through the round hoop of the “key” and the chain that ran between my legs could then be padlocked, tight-pulled tight, and padlocked to my waist chain at the back of me, to hold the cruel dildo hard up and permanently up my gorgeous bottom.

“Now you filthy whore, you’re going to pull with all your fucking power to drag this tree back to the prison, no matter what it takes to make you, you fucking slag!”

I could not beg with my mouth so I begged with my eyes for the mercy that I knew was not going to be shown me, as I watched the two schoolgirls take off their bikini brassieres to bare their divine firm titties, the better to keep themselves cool as they helped with my torture. And I saw Sybil’s pert strawberry nipples, so virgin hard kissable and lickable, and little Mandy’s nipples so cruelly plugged up and closed and completely covered with gold nipple-protectors inserted irremovably through a piercing of her nipple to preserve her complete virginity: to de-sensitise her nipples so that she would never be able to feel any joy from their being touched stroked licked or sucked.

And I was ordered to pull on the tree to pull it back to the prison. This was to be the beginning of the hard labour to which I had been sentenced……..

“Pull you fucking whore!! PULL!!”

And I obeyed the order I was given, I was as good as my command and pulled on the chain that ran to my bum, with all the strength of my superb tiptoe-toe-stretched sexually compellingly orgasmic legs. And the dildo in my bottom was pulled out of me and then shot back hard into my bumhole as I could pull no more and relaxed.

“PULL you fucking slag!! Do as you are fucking well told you filthy whore!!”

I began to pull again: I know not from whence I got the strength, but I began to pull again and the dildo was eased millimetres out of my bum as I bent forward stretching and pulling with all my might on the tree that had no intention of ever being moved and would never ever yield to my puny tortured strength, and the dildo raped my bum, from its being pulled out as I pulled on the tree-tied chain and as it then shot back up my bumhole, fucking my bum as I tried to pull whilst being endlessly cursed and sworn at by the beautiful negress overseer.

“You useless fucking whore!! PULL you fucking slag!!” she swore.

And the lovely schoolgirls began to whip my naked thighs. With no gentleness to match their angelic beauty they flogged my gorgeous thighs with all the might of their lovely gold –downed arms and I yelped with the pain of their cruel lashes, and so they whipped me harder still to make be yelp louder with the pain they were enjoying giving this beautiful full-grown very sexual very very sexy woman: me.

“You useless fucking whore!! PULL you fucking slag!!”, they giggle-shouted in soprano chorus, blushing deep pink with the effort of whipping me with the full force they could muster with their exquisite slim arms and the embarrassment of enjoying using naughty language for the first time in their young lives.

And then they watched as I fought to pull the tree in my savage bondage and my overseer prepared to whip my nipple-propellers to drive me to greater effort.

And my overseer’s whip slashed hard down on the nipple-propeller on my right breast, and oh god the pain the dreadful dreadful unbearable pain, as the propeller blade was struck by her whip and it was driven around through 360 degrees spinning the needle driven through my milk-duct ten-inches deep into my poor titty to whisk around inside my lovely titty tearing my inner-titty flesh with its knurled shank, and burning my inner titty with the friction of its whisking around inside my tenderest of tender soft and sensitive beautiful breast flesh. I screamed with the horrendous pain only to have my overseer whip my left nipple-propeller harder still so that it too tore my inside breast flesh so that my breast was torn by the rotating needle to my absolute agony of howling pain. And the two schoolgirls held me as my nipple propellers were whipped turn and turn about to torture me and punish me for being so naughty as not to wear a ring on my finger when out in public, against the requirements of the girl-laws And I screamed and howled and hollered with the pain as the nipple-propellers were now being whipped around alternately so that they tore my soft girl innards such that blood was tickling down from my tortured seared and brutalised breasts. My gorgeous breasts were seared and torn inside as the needles within me ripped my soft girlflesh and I screamed and screamed and screamed with my mind-blown agony.

And now strange and year-since alien and all but forgotten feelings began to make my nipples, pierced and tortured by the brutal propellers being whipped around as they were, pulse and erect themselves, and moisture of the girlmost secretion variety was beginning to dampen the inner lining of my sewn up cunt and, despite the tight eternity-ring that was permanently and immovably wrapped cruelly around it, my clitoris began to throb. And I began to shake my head side-to-side and close my eyes, eyes that were rolling skywards behind my eyelids, as I began to feel pleasure that I had been forbidden and forgone for over a year of deprivation and degradation and enforced total denial of my charms.

“You totally useless filthy fucking slag PULL!! PULL you dirty whore!!” my mistress and both the pretty girls swore at me and cursed me to drive me to pull on the tree through the dildo up my sore raw anus, and the beautiful negress began to whip my naked sun-reddened bare skinned thighs once more as I bent over at my waist to pull tip-of-tiptoe leg stretched obediently as I was ordered.

And she whipped me and whipped me and whipped me and whipped me and whipped me, and I leapt involuntarily with every cruel lash on my lovely soft skin as she flogged my beautiful thighs to make me pull on the tree. Helplessly and hopelessly, even as she thrashed my bare thighs with all the strength she could muster, I could do nothing to get the tree to move even one scintilla of a millimetre.

“PULL you bloody useless dirty filthy whore, PULL!!” I was commanded by the contralto negress, echoed by the soprano schoolgirl virgin angels, as the contralto negress flogged my bare thighs as hard and as often as she could.

And I pulled with all my girlmight. And the pain from my eternity-ringed swollen clitoris seared me as the juice from my sexual arousal seeped from my sewn-up she-lips. Lips sewn closed a year since to forbid me heaven, were wet, as my cunt was whetted and keened, as my nipples were peaked so hard they hurt. And I was moaning not only with the pain of being unrelentingly brutally flogged and having my anus raped as I pulled on the chain up my bum till I could pull with my lovely powerful legs no more, and the dildo would shoot back up my bumhole, and I would be whipped and whipped on my thighs till I pulled again, and as the heavy pain from my nipple-propellers now being whipped around and around and around my the gorgeous slim slinky-legged schoolgirls to torture and drive and arouse me more.

“Whip her nipple-propellers round girls: give the whore pain so she’ll get the fucking message that she is to pull this tree no matter what it takes to drive the slag to do it.” my mistress commanded as she continued to whip my thighs.

And the angel schoolgirl virgins with their pert firm lollipop breasts and the one with strawberry pink nipples and their long slim shapely tiptoed muscular legs, and their perfect pert firm smackable little bottoms and their freckled innocent angel’s faces, little schoolgirls almost half my age, innocent Girl-Scout intact virgins, flogged my nipple-propellers around and around and around torturing my lovely breasts unrelentingly, and unmercifully hard. And they thrashed my nipple-propellers helplessly around as they reached near orgasm with the joy of paining my wonderful full-gown-woman’s body. And then they whipped my nipple-propellers around and around and around so that they tore the insides of my tortured titties unmercifully endlessly tirelessly cruelly brutally. And my mistress whipped me and whipped me on my thighs, my gorgeous girlthighs as the dildo raped my anus raw. And my clitoris was so swollen by a year without sexual relief, and by the tightness of the eternity ring that bit its base, that it squeezed itself out between the stitches that sewed my she-lips together. And the stitches rubbed the skin of my clitoris sore and raw as it squeezed through a gap only its erect stiffness could force in my infibulating cunt stitches. And the pain of this aroused me even more. And my clitoris, shining with my sopping musk pulsed as it dripped my honey to the ground at my feet and I was coming!! I was beside myself, out of my head and out of my mind. I was coming!! After a year without sex and sexual pleasure: a year without relief of my natural pent-up charms I was coming!! And I was all girl as they whipped my nipple-propellers, viciously and violently torturing my breasts. And I was coming!! And my thighs were being constantly brutally whipped. And I was coming!! And my anus was being unrelentingly fucked by the dildo. And I was coming!! And I was coming!! And I was coming!! And I was coming!! And I was coming!! And I came with an inhuman scream, the sub-human banshee screech of a girl who had enforcedly endured a whole year denied her sexuality and her supremely driven need for sexual relief. The inhuman banshee scream of a girl whose pent-up deprivation of her sexualness was being relieved after so very very long: the animalistic screech of a girl who had been forbidden and denied orgasm for over a year. The wanton whore-cry war-cry of a girl who had been forbidden and denied her charms for twelve solid lonely frustrating pent-up months of brutally savage and cruelly enforced celibacy. And my stupendously explosively massive orgasm was so powerful it overwhelmed me, and I fainted and slumped to my knees on the ground. And I knelt over a pool of my musk, still dripping my cunt-nectar, as my clitoris throbbed and pulsed exposed to the open air where it had forced itself between my stitches and as my mistress continued to whip my unconscious reflex-jerking beautiful naked legs: this for my failure to wear a ring on my hand when in public: this for my being a naughty girl.

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 10:35 AM
Chapter 23 – Love At First Sight

“Hi Katterinna” Mi Li’s sweet voice whispered as she bent over to kiss me with her lovely Korean girlboy’s lips pressing gently on my forehead.

“Hi Katterinna” Mi Li breathed as she pulled away from where I lay, sitting up waking up in a sweet smelling bed.

“Hi” I answered, and immediately broke into tears as I realised that I had spoken, my mouth being possible to open, my tongue to articulate, my lips no longer stitched closed.

A while later: “How is she?” Jackie’s voice recognisably enquired as her pretty face peered around the corner of the bedroom door.

“She come round,” Mi Li answered.

“I should hope so. You’ve cost me a fortune in surgery and dentistry young lady!” Jackie mock lectured me adorably gently.

Jackie had proved a friend indeed to me, her friend in need. Over the next few days, she scolded me sweetly for getting into trouble with Girl-Control. And she told me how she and Mi Li had been caught in traffic as they came by girl-pulled-omnibus to collect me from London Airport on my return from Moscow, only to find on their arrival that I was nowhere to be seen.

Many hours late, and frantic, they had at last been contacted by Girl-Control and told that I was enduring my sentence of twenty-four-hours hard labour under the girl-laws for foolishly appearing in public without a ring on my finger.

I had love and hatred to thank for my newfound freedom. Jackie wanted me tamed, but loved me as a friend sufficiently not to wish me to suffer to the extent I had been forced to endure at the hands of the divinely cruel Belinda. Indeed, because of what Belinda had done to me, hate had almost replaced Jackie’s former friendship for her business rival. It had been Jackie who had bought me from Belinda. It had been Jackie who had paid for me to be divorced by Belinda.

Over further time, I learned from Mi Li how Jackie had bribed a surgeon to operate on my sex and my mouth to remove the savage stitches that infibulated them. I still had my eternity-ring tight around the base of my clitoris as that had been irremovable, unless I were to have my clitoris itself surgically removed which, thank heaven, Jackie had forbidden.

My teeth had been “in dreadful mess” as Mi Li put it, and another bribe to a dentist had been necessary. The girl-laws were very harsh and the surgeon and dentist had been very expensive: their cost matching the risks they took in denunnifying me, completely against the state’s laws.

Once more I was in debt to my long-time friend Jackie, both as my saviour and in money terms, the latter more immensely than when my taming had begun, as the exchange demanded by Jackie for a loan to save me from penury and the loss of my home.

I now worked hard in Jackie’s gymnasium. She had got her lovely London home back. I got my lovely figure back. I must also work hard to repay my debt, in both forms it took, back to Jackie. To the latter end, I became ‘nine-to-five’.

Jackie’s business empire was beginning to recover since, a year back. She had satisfied the demands of the tax office. But Jackie’s businesses were not so well recovered as yet, for her to find employment for me, so I became nine-to-five, surprisingly enough, working as a clerk in a local Girl-Control office.

I say “surprisingly”, because I had been in trouble with Girl-Control twice already, and had a one-year criminal record that had not yet expired, even though it should have done. However, such was the state’s clampdown on the behaviour of girls in the 2020s, that I was far from being alone in that regard. No girl with a permanent criminal record would have been allowed my job. But my record would be expunged in time, if the computers ever got it right, and such short-term records did not count against a girl, unless one with a clean record also wanted the job.

My task was the extremely enjoyable one for me; of being in the office deciding which girls would be allowed to marry each other.

By the 2020s, no girl was allowed to marry without state approval. The Marital Approval Office (Girl-Girl) had been set up by the Assembly to handle applications. My job was to file these applications, and refer the files for decisions, before filling out a “yes” or “no” letter to be signed by one of my seniors and thereafter posted by me, to the lucky, or unlucky, couples.

The only horrible side to the job was having to send out a “no”. But, even then, there were couples one half of which I could not understand the other half wishing to wed. Young girls wishing to marry very much older women were always suspected of being gold-diggers, for example.

Of course, in such a dreary undemanding job, I was not earning anything like enough to pay Jackie what I owed her for my surgery and dentistry, let alone what she had paid Belinda to buy me out of my horrible marriage. But this was the only job I could find, and Jackie proved very patient with me.

Of course, I made very very sure that I never went out of Jackie’s London apartment for my day at the office, or for any other reason, without wearing a ring on my finger. I chose to wear a ring on my left wedding finger to show that I was girl-girl, and I delighted in the pretence that I was now married to Jackie, though that was not in fact the case. Jackie in actuality merely owned me, having bought me from Belinda. On the technicality that I had not become a fully convicted lifelong-criminal-record very naughty girl, I was not Jackie’s slave though.

A dull public servant, I had taken to wearing a “uniform” as one might call it, though it did not have that status in fact. Dark grey skirt and jacket top, with lighter grey pinstripes plus, most days, an opaque white blouse.

A white bra white panties and white suspenders supporting light-brown stockings, marked my unoriginality in dress. These days too, I rarely wore heels over one-inch, and never heels as high as two-inches.

The hair had re-grown on my hitherto bald-shaven head, and was down to the base of my neck. I fully intended to grow it to the fullest length I could, as it was the present fashion. Whilst it was re-growing, I had taken to wearing soft wide-brimmed hats and had fallen in love with such headwear to shelter my lovely skin from the sun of summer.

I commuted each day from London, where the mainline station was a ten-minute walk from Jackie’s home, to ******, still in the 2020s a university town. I had, of course, no memory of them the first time around, but shortage of oil by the 2020s, or at least the desire to conserve what remained possible to secure, had seen the return of coal mining to England, and coal-fired steam driven locomotives hauled the trains I rode each day, twice per day, to and from work at the day’s start and at the office-day’s end.

And, it was on a very hot and humid day on the platform of ****** Station that I first saw her. She must be a schoolgirl, I quickly concluded. I was awaiting the arrival of the 17.12 to my home station in London and so; though I did not then know it, so was she.

She was a girl. Every single square micro-micro-micro-millimetre of her was girl.

She sat with her back to the glass window of a shop built at the back of the station platform to sell Chinese-style food to would-be passengers as they awaited their trains. The glass front of this shop came down to a stone step, and on that stone step she squatted on her toes in her six-inch heeled shoes, with her legs tucked up and with her back to the window. And her micro-miniskirt ridden completely off her bare legs and bare thighs.

Her legs were unbelievably beautiful: I just could not keep my eyes from looking at her bare legs and her bare thighs as she squatted with her dainty wrists on her knees, pretty hands gently dangling, unselfconsciously showing the full expanse of her glorious legs and perfect thighs, bare of any cover bar their wonderful soft smooth girlflesh: bare almost down to her bottom.

Then she turned. Her attention caught by movement or a sound I did not catch, she turned and looked past me, and my heart leaped as I saw her face, she was so exceedingly pretty. She had long blonde kinky curled hair and was naturally very pale. She wore no makeup, and her face, her divinely pretty face, with its cool grey innocent eyes, was bespeckled with gorgeous freckles. She was perfect.

A train pulled in on the opposite platform, and the girl driver and the girl coal-stoker caught sight of this exceptional wonderful creature as she squatted, all superb leg and exquisite face, across, directly across from where they waited, sweaty, coal dust caked and weary, as the carriages their steam engine hauled, disgorged old and then loaded fresh passengers.

And the beauty suddenly knew she was being admired and realised, as the driver and coal-stoker lent out of their cab and stared across from the opposite side, just how much incredible leg she was displaying.

But, after an initial blush, the beauty made no move to cover herself, and seemed to pretend she did not know that, from where they were ogling her, the girls driving and firing the engine could even see the gusset of her tight-stretched white panties.

Then the beauty looked around, before looking straight over at her admirers and smiling exquisitely. Then she looked around again, and then looked to one side seeming to pretend she was not doing it on purpose, as she parted her legs a little to show the train crew more white panty and the clear outline in her white panties of her mons veneris and the wonderful lips of her slit.

Suddenly, in my nervousness and guilt at staring at this lovely creature, I was made to jump by the echo of a crate or pallet being dropped somewhere behind me. Then I heard two girls’ voices from across on the other platform booing in a light-hearted very appreciative way, followed by loud wolf whistles and applause from them, and I turned to where the girl had been, and the girl was gone.

And I tried to get my mind back on the simple business of getting home, becoming refocused almost immediately by my train drawing in.

I took my usual seat on the half-empty train next a window to watch the world go by, as was my wont on this daily regular journey, putting my handbag and some bagged-up shopping on the empty seat next to me.

Then a sweet voice asked: “May I sit here?”

I looked up and I saw heaven: it was the divine girl: it was the divine girl from the platform.

“Yes, of course” I answered in my outer voice, trying my hardest not to give it away, as inside my head unspoken, with my heart pounding, I was screaming “oh god yes, yes please, oh yes please, please god, please, please!”

“Thank you” she said, not even looking at me as I moved my bags for her.

Then she was lowering herself into the seat. Her divinely slim all-girl body was lowering its sweet scented self to sit next to me. Her delectable firm derriere was filling her micro-skirt as she lowered herself and her skirt rose and rose and rose and rose and rose as my eyes were compelled and compelled and compelled and compelled to watch it slide smoothly up her smooth white bare skin till she was next me and her two heavenly bare thighs were gracing the world with their gorgeous beauty.

“Ehem” she coughed a little self-conscious cough, and I looked up to see that she was looking at me and blushing very deeply red, as if to beg that I not stare at her so.

I was suddenly overcome with shame that I had been so transfixed by her, and fought for the rest of the journey not to look at her. But I could not help but adore her freckled face and always moist and shiny lips, as she turned to look out of the window I looked out of too. Nor when I turned to see her pale freckled loveliness could I help but adore her stunning grey eyes.

My mind raced. What was she? This angel from highest heaven: what was she? She was fourteen or thereabouts. But she was all girl: fully developed and sexual girl. She must be a schoolgirl. School for girls did not cease till they were eighteen. And then I felt my cunt moisten as I realised that she must also be an intact virgin. Under the girl-laws of the 2020s, any girl who had any form of sex before she was eighteen was, unless it was rape, put in prison, after having her clitoris surgically removed and their cunt infibulated. So this girl, who was clearly free and really and unbelievably right here beside me, right here in the world of ordinary mortals, must be an intact virgin.

As we approached my station she rose, and her divine face was seemingly purposely thrust close to mine, and I turned to look into her kaleidoscopically mesmeric grey eyes, as she held her angel’s face too close to mine for seeming necessity, purposely to attract and haunt me with her beauty I thought, and merely said a totally unnecessary, “Thank you miss” in reference to the seat.

Then the angel was standing, turning her back to me as I too rose to follow behind her, knowing I had my eyes immovably riveted to her all feline feminine rear, and her long wonderful legs not least, as she glided before me to the station platform, and then disappeared without once turning to look at me again.

I had to see her again!

I just had to see her again!!

I just had to see this girl again!!


Two evenings went by and nothing.


Then, on the third evening a lovely voice said “Hi” and the angel sat lightly down beside me in a skirt so short that I could clearly see her white panties as it slid right-tight up off her bare thighs, and I turned to see her face even more pale and her eyes ringed under with tiredness, and my heart floated out to her as I realised she was having a heavy and painful period, and I smiled at her to tell her she was even more beautiful though she must feel so wretched, and I all but felt the extra heat of her menstruating body radiating her beauty all around her.

And again, a week later, as my heart raced in hope: “Hi” said a girl’s melodious voice as she was sitting beside me once more. Even though half the carriage was empty she sat beside me and her skirt was the one she had worn that showed her panties and her period was clearly over and she smiled as she said her ”Hi”, and I knew, I just knew I wanted this girl.

As she sat I looked at her thighs and she turned to smile at me.

As she turned to smile, I looked at her pale freckled lovely schoolgirl’s face, framed by her naturally curled and kinked blonde hair, and at her cool grey smiling eyes, and as I looked at her eyes she looked down at her thighs as if guiding me.

But I dare not touch her.

Then she put her own slim long graceful-fingered and wonderfully soft and femininely pretty hand on her thigh and ran it up toward her panties, pouting her delectable extremely kissable ever-moist and shiny lips and blowing her blonde fringe to cool her face, saying “Gosh it’s so hot!” as she stretched her arms high and thus lifted herself off the seat. And the hem of her skirt came right off her panties as she slid down in the seat again, right off her panties so that I could see her moist wanton-wanting-whetted and wetted sweet-sweaty slit.

But I dare not touch her. I was millimetres from her beautiful bare legs, but I dare not touch her.

She tutted and sighed as if to make clear that she had been inviting me, but I dare not touch her.


I did not see her for several days.

Then she was on the platform: one Friday evening she was on the platform. She wore a long skirt in cool flower-print-on-yellow cotton, down to her ankles. Her very firm schoolgirl breasts divinely filled her matching tight top, above the elasticated waistband of the skirt and the flat bare belly she displayed between skirt and top.

Her bare midriff could not help but show how incredibly gloriously slim this girl was. And I found myself wondering if she was wearing a brassiere. She had no need whatsoever for a brassiere, she was so very firm in her youthful virginal schoolcharms, she had no need whatsoever for a brassiere.

She noticed me, and her eyes lit up like heaven as she shyly whispered “Hi”

“Hello” I found myself at long last daring to say.

“You look very pretty” I blurted out.

“Oh!. ……Thank you!” she answered, blushing deep red, as she hung her head and turned away to hide that I had hit the right note with her, before turning to look at me, her eyes aglow with extreme supreme charms.

There was a silence. Here was I a grown woman reduced to complete tongue-tied silence by this literally breathtaking teenage all-girl girl.

“May I know your name?” I asked shyly.

“Angelin” she answered daintying a little closer to me, still on earth from the heaven in which she must surely dwell.

Standing, allowing for her six-inch heeled shoes, she was five-feet five of glorious slim schoolgirl angel, her kinky curly blonde hair down beyond the middle of her firm tight very curvy bottom hemispheres.

“That’s a lovely and unusual name. I’m Katrina by the way”

“Hi Katrina” Angelin smiled, and the world glowed with new hope and optimism born of the presence of such wonderful wonderful charms in it.

“Still at school Angelin?” I asked, it being the question long since at the forefront of my mind, and because she made me so shy I could think of no other to ask her.

“Fraid so. It’s so boring! I’m at Saint Innocent’s,” she answered, her pretty brow furrowing kissably as she spoke with a smile and almost a giggle in her voice.

Our train drew into the platform and wolf whistles greeted the sight of Angelin, as indeed they always must for this was a girl who was the apotheosis of girl.

To my surprise, Angelin seemed upset by the girls wolf-whistling her from the engine cab as they drove the steam engine in.

“May I sit next to you Katrina?”

“You don’t need to ask sweetheart”, I assured her.

Angelin was now a different girl on our hour-long journey back to London. She was the same girl, but she chatted away about her friends at school, her friends at home, how she loved keep-fit and skating, how she thought boys were stupid, and how one day she hoped to meet the right girl and marry her.

Somehow too, she seemed more distant from me, and I began to wonder if she had really been giving the girls on the train, over on the other platform when I had first seen her, the come-on, let alone me when she had all but brushed my face with hers as she had thanked me for the seat next to me. She seemed so innocent and vulnerable and touchingly naïf.

“Bye-bye Katrina!” she waved a pretty hand as we parted.

But oh the next night on the train station platform. How can or will I ever forget the next night on the train station platform?!. There she was again in something much much less than a micro-miniskirt squatting as I had first seen her, her legs completely bare and her skirt ridden up so far of her bare thighs as to show their full wonderful massively gloriously beautifully smooth nude-firm-girlshape-fleshed expanse.

As she stood to greet me, I saw that her skirt was so short that the taut crotch of her tight white panties was clearly visible, as was the divine heaven of her slit with its full twin lips clearly outlined by the tensed material to show that there could be absolutely no doubt whatsoever that she was a girl.

And the top she wore! A crop-top sleeveless vest that barely covered her heavenly breasts, self evidently naked beneath the slim thin nearly translucent white material, which her pert nipples poked out provocatively pointing, pure schoolgirl virgin firm. And her waist was so slim and her buttocks so full yet proportionate, solid and alluringly undulating as she walked in her six-inch heeled sandals.

Her hair tumbled, a wildly kinky curly blonde cascade of conspicuous corn-gold-wonder rippling down her back to below her bottom. And her pale freckled face, wore no makeup; as she needed no makeup she was by nature and heaven’s blessings both, so perfectly naturally beautiful.

And I wanted her. I had to have her. I needed her. I adored her. I was astonished and astounded by my lust and love for this outstandingly wonderful angelic virgin schoolgirl, and my voice almost trembled as I returned Angelin’s innocent “Hi”.

And we sat side by side once more on the train. And Angelin told me of her day and how Friday was dressing-down day at Saint Innocent’s School, but she preferred to wear the school’s summer uniform, which was what she was wearing.

And I could not keep my eyes of her thighs. I could not tear my eyes from Angelin’s naked thighs. Their enormous wonder filled by vision and their strong beauty took my breath away. Surely I must make my move. Surely she was enticing me. Surely she had been giving me the come-on dressing like this. Sure, she was just a girl being a girl and enjoying displaying her god given wonder to the world. But surely also as she had squatted flashing her panties to the engine driver and her companion when I had first seen her displaying her legs, her lovely legs totally bare for the universe to adore and worship, she was showing her availability and her need to be girl.

And Angelin seemed to move to cross her right leg over her left. Angelin seemed to about to cross her right thigh over her left. And I watched compelled to watch as Angelin lifted and shaped her right leg seeming to lift it to cross her totally bare right thigh over her totally bare left, and I reached my hand to touch the delectable wonder of her compelling beautiful and erotic body: her thigh, to touch her right thigh, to touch wonder, to touch beauty, to touch majesty, to touch magic, to touch heaven, to touch her erotic erogenous thigh, to touch girlthigh, to touch girl…

“No!!” Angelin shouted. “Get off me!! Get off me!! Get off me!! No!!!”

“Oh please Angelin!” I begged. I had not in fact touched her, but she was up and out of her seat and pointing at me accusingly.

“Oh please Angelin!” I begged.

And the conductor was called, and my name taken, and GirlContol radioed to meet the train and take me into custody at the next station: my home station.

“Oh please Angelin!”………….

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer
Chapter 24 – The Price of Love

I had never felt so vulnerable. I was totally naked. I had been made to walk into the main criminal court of London, the Girl-Court - Criminal Division, totally naked. I was more naked than nature had made me. I was more naked than nature because my head had been shaved completely and utterly shaved totally bald, and my sex was completely shaven nude to shame me.

I had been shaved to shame me. I had had my head shaven bald to shame me. I was shamed and duly ashamed and I felt terribly vulnerable and very frightened. My natural wiggle had brought jeers cheers wows and wolf-whistles as I had glided into the court, escorted by two beautiful redheads carrying three-foot long strap-whips to use on me if I showed the slightest indication I might resist.

My wrists were tied behind my back. The backs of my pretty hands rested on my divine bottom. I was in the dock of the court. I was on tiptoe in the dock of the court. With my totally naked body and my completely shaven-bald head, I stood on tiptoe in the stirrups that took me big toes pointed down to earth’s centre to force me tiptoed, and shape my legs so gloriously sensually sexily erotically. And I was being rotated on display to shame me the more. The dock in which I stood in the tiptoeing stirrups was rotating on a turntable slowly, to display me to the court.

I was on display. I was being humbled and humiliated and degraded by being on display tiptoed erotically leggilly rotating slowly completely naked, my hands tied with silk rope behind me, my head hanging down in shame, my head shining in the spotlight pointed down purposely at the dock in which the accused stood, in which I stood accused, the light, the spotlight, shining on my completely bald-shaven head, my head shaven-bald to shame me.

It had all gone by so quickly and so slowly. My arrest by Girl-Control at the station where they had met my train. My plea to Angelin not to let this happen: Angelin’s tears as she nodded to confirm that it was indeed I who had tried to touch her: the gentleness of the Girl-Control constables. The sympathy of the sergeant at the Girl-Control Station. The sadistic girl who had cut off my hair, telling me I did not deserve hair and how mine would be used to make a wig for someone in need, and who consequently deserved hair on her head. How she had enjoyed lathering my head with soap and using the cutthroat razor to denude my head completely and then to shave off my pubic hair. Endless days and sleepless nights standing upright surrounded by the spikes front, behind, sides, above, and below me in a pitch-black dark soundproofed hellhole-cell in the prison until my trial.

And here I was, five days after my arrest, standing in the dock at the Girl-Court - Criminal Division (London) naked bound shaven completely and utterly bald, including bald of my pubic hair, and feeling extremely frightened and very vulnerable.

The crowd of women in the all-women and girls’ public gallery had read Angelin’s story in the newspapers of their choice. Pictures of Angelin’s face, showed a young girl as truly beautiful as she was innocent and virginal. That the publication of what had been headlined as: “Angelin’s Story” might prejudice my trial, was not a consideration in 2020s England. The women and the girls in the public gallery had already decided that I had been a naughty girl and deserved, fully deserved, whatever I had coming to me.

The court came to order and all there present stood, I being stood already of course, as the beautiful long-raven-black-haired English ethnically Asian-Indian judge glided in and took her seat.

“And the case before me is?”, the judge enquired of the court clerk.

The lovely slim shapely totally naked tiptoe-heelless-ballet-bootie-shod redheaded girl, whom I recognised as hitherto the clerk in the lower court where I had had my second trial, and who had obviously since gained promotion to the highest Girl-Court in the land, stood and curtseyed long leggilly to the judge, who acknowledged her curtsey and, no doubt, the redhead’s delicate ghostly-white-skinned startlingly-pink-nippled loveliness, with a nod of her head.

“May it please your ladyship?” the redhead’s sweet melodious voice sang out clearly.

The judge nodded once more to confirm the clerk had her attention, as indeed she had, as I could not help but notice the clerk blush as the judge eyed the clerk’s very darkly red-haired pubic mound.

“May it please your ladyship, the case before your ladyship is that of the State versus Katrina *****. The accused is to be found very guilty of the attempted rape of a virgin schoolgirl, Miss Angelin Heavenmade, your ladyship”

“Are there any witnesses for the prosecution?” the judge enquired.

“May it please your ladyship”, …….. the temptingly lovely clerk blushed as she realised the double-entendre she had just uttered since the whole court could clearly see that the judge could not take her eyes off the clerk’s wonderful red-haired slit, and was staring with evident high appreciation of the clerk’s charms.

She recovered her composure: “May it please your ladyship, there is but the one prosecution witness, that one prosecution witness being the said Miss Angelin Heavenmade”,

The gorgeously pale-skinned redhead curtseyed and the judge’s eyes lit up as she watched the clerk’s beautiful ghost-white bare bottom wiggle enticingly as she made her way back to the clerk’s seat, self-consciously, to record the upcoming proceedings.

“I thank the clerk twice” the judge announced “once for the clarity of her announcement of the case and once for her truly transparent loveliness”

“Call the witness, Miss Angelin Heavenmade please”, the judge clearly commanded, quietly ogling the gorgeous naked supremely palely-white-skinned red-haired clerk, still displayed to all who cared to admire her, sitting behind a glass desk.

The gorgeous redhead clerk rose in her tiptoeing booties and sweetly echoed: ‘Call Miss Angelin Heavenmade’” and this call echoed down the corridor to where the main witness against me awaited her summons before the court.

As I rotated naked, tiptoed humiliatingly bald-shaven and denuded of my pubic hair in the accused’s dock, I became aware of a rustle and murmur of excited interest, followed by a perfect silence, the silence of the all-women public gallery, being completely and utterly bowled over by the beauty of the girl that now walked into the court: Angelin.

Angelin wore her school summer uniform. She wore the summer uniform of Saint Innocent’s School for Chaste Girls. Her white blouse, she wore no jacket, was buttoned from her belly to her neck and its long sleeves at her wrists. This blouse, tailored to hug her softness, was too short to cover beyond the base of her ribcage, and her wonderfully slim flat-bellied concave-navelled midriff was completely bare.

Her white blouse was semi-translucent, and clearly beneath it could be seen that her divine virgin-schoolgirl-firm perky-pert non-pendulous breasts were completely naked. Her wild-rosebud diamond-hard ruby-red never-kissed schoolgirl nipples poked out the thin silk of her blouse mouth-wateringly deliciously innocently provocatively.

Half down her hips she wore a pleated grey skirt: her school uniform skirt. This skirt was no more than a pelmet. To call it a miniskirt or micro-mini-skirt or even a micro-skirt would be to extend its hemline in the mental picture so drawn, far beyond the limit of where the hem of Angelin’s skirt rested in the reality of the vision of her loveliness. The hem of this skirt kissed, and only just kissed the midpoint of her supremely smooth extremely rounded exceptional proud and delightfully protuberant bummy hemispheres.

And her bummy hemispheres were nude and naked but for the material of the snow-white bright white tanga-panties she wore to cover her slit. And this thin strip of snow-white, the strip that left her hemispheres nude, the strip that formed the back of her tanga-panties, was in the crack of her deliciously daringly semi-bare derriere.

The brilliant whiter than white of her tanga-panties drew the eye to her mystery and glory: Angelin’s slit. Her skirt did not cover the pouch her slit made in her panties. Her tanga-panties were pulled up hard and tight, and the outer lips of her girlmost wonder were clearly delineated, as her quite obviously nude-shaven heaven pouch, pouched her panties out. And the crease that marked the gateway to heaven within her inner-pinkness moistness and heat, was wonderfully visible and obvious, and eye-compellingly provocatively sweetly innocently displayed.

Her legs were bare. Angelin’s gloriously shapely girlmuscular but schoolgirly-slim legs were completely bare, other than for white ankle socks. Angelin wore white ankle socks, with turned-down frills at their tops, and heelless steel-soled foot-curving ballet-tiptoe-enforcing shoes, shoes that took her heavenly legs to heaven by the way they shaped her, stretching the soft muscle of her calves and firming the fore-muscle of her divine thighs, dimpling her knees and concaving the sides of the cheeks of her temptingly smackable bummy.

On her face, the face of a completely innocent angel, she wore no makeup. On Angelin’s face she wore only the paleness of her perfect schoolgirl complexion, her startling attractive grey eyes, and the deliciously abundant freckles that the summer sun had brought to the fore on her completely flawless skin.

Her mouth demanded a kiss. Angelin’s mouth was always moist, always her lips were moist, moist and shining, moist, shining and demanding for to be kissed.

At the back of her head, her loose blonde kinky-curled hair flowed a golden shining stream down beyond the very hem of her skirt, touching her half-naked bottom just beyond the hem of her skirt.

She walked proudly. Heaven on earth; Angelin walked as she had been trained to walk, like a catwalk model, putting one dainty tip-of-tiptoed-foot before the other, swivelling her hips, nearly rubbing her orgasmically erotic thighs together, thereby giving even greater emphasis to her natural gait as her bummy swayed and its hemispheres tensed and rose, and then relaxed and fell in turn with every sweet heavenly step of this angel on earth.

At the neck of her blouse, Angelin wore her school badge: a broach with the Saint Innocent’s School coat of arms upon it. This depicted a tightly closed dew-dappled pink rosebud, with a golden portcullis superimposed over it, and the school motto: “Noli Tangere Non Licet Mea” beneath it.

Angelin smiled, albeit nervously, Angelin smiled, and the world knew new hope and meaning to its hitherto miserable existence, for the world saw that there was beauty in life far beyond its wildest dreams and most feverishly desperate imagining: the incredible beauty of girl.

Angelin riveted the eyes of the court, the judge, the clerk, the orderlies, the Girl-Control officers, and the accused, me, as she graced her feline sway toward the witness stand, and climbed with her divine nude legs so sweetly smoothly softly curvilly muscular, and yet so definitely defiantly definingly femininely female, the three bare-bummy-flashing steps to the witness stand, then turned and curtseyed, arms by side, one divine leg extended momentarily behind, as the other gorgeous limb bent at its pretty knee, as Angelin curtsied well-filled-white-panty-gusset-flashingly at the judge, who stared at this vision of absolute heaven with astonishment indelibly evident upon her face.

The judge had clearly had her breath taken away by Angelin, and it was a long while before she spoke: long enough for a hot red blush to completely suffuse Angelin’s schoolgirl complexion, as she lowered her head knowing that through the transparent majesty of her beauty, she had the judge and the court in the sweet soft palms of her dainty exquisitely pretty hands.

“And pray what is you name sweet young lady?” the judge managed to croak as she continued to stare at Angelin, putting the poor girl completely and shyly out of countenance.

“Angelin Heavenmade your majesty” Angelin answered in a soft nervous whisper.

Gentle loving laughter, full of affection for this wonderfully beautiful girl, broke out in the court, and the judge smiled as she beckoned to the delectable redheaded clerk.

The clerk came up to Angelin, who looked down nervously, frightened that she had uttered an horrendous insult.

“It is quite sufficient to address the judge as ‘my lady’, ‘your ladyship’ or ‘your honour’ Angelin”, the lovely clerk told the schoolgirl sweetly.

“I’m so sorry your majes…, I mean, my lady” Angelin blushed deeply pinkly as she curtseyed flashing the teasingly pleasingly temptingly delightfully fascinatingly fully-pouched-out gusset of her pure white panties once more.

“Absolutely no offence taken sweet girl” the judge smiled. “And before we start the formal questioning, may I just say how very extremely pretty you are young lady?”

“Thank you your majes…, I mean, my lady” Angelin blushed the deepest delightful innocence-glowing bright red, and hung her head, her chin almost on her chest.

“You are Angelin Heavenmade” the judge began in framing her first question to this delightful creature…..“You are Angelin Heavenmade, and now we know your pretty name, please tell the court your occupation: I mean what you do: I mean day-by-day Angelin…..”

“I go to school. I am a schoolgirl my lady” Angelin’s soprano voice echoed with the clarity with which she was being trained to enunciate in her weekly elocution lessons.

“What school do you go to Angelin?”

“I attend Saint Innocent’s School for Chaste Girls, my lady”

“And you are wearing the uniform of Saint Innocent’s School right now are you not, Angelin?”

“Yes my lady. I am honoured to be wearing the Saint Innocent’s summer uniform my lady”.

“And on that very pretty broach at your neck Angelin, there is the school motto is there not?”

“Yes my lady” Angelin answered, with her lovely brow lightly sweetly furrowed by her completely intense sincerity.

“I too was once a Saint Innocent’s pupil Angelin”, the judge revealed: “Of course I remember the school motto very well, but will you please tell the court what it is, as many in the court will not know it as well as you and I do Angelin.”

“It is ‘Noli Tangere Non Licet Mea’ my lady”, Angelin responded brightly.

“And what does that mean: what does the motto of our school mean Angelin?”

“It means, ‘Do Not Touch It Is Not Allowed Me’ my lady”

“You answer your questions so prettily Angelin” the judge praised.

“Oh! ……: thank you my lady” Angelin blushed and smiled.

“Saint Innocent’s has living-in and day pupils as I recall Angelin: those who stay there and sleep there throughout the term, and those that travel there to-and-from home day-by-day.”

“Yes my lady” Angelin sweetly enthused. Angelin had completely and utterly captured and enraptured the judge’s heart, even though she, Angelin, herself did not realise it.

“Do you live-in, or do you go to-and-from Saint Innocent’s School day-by-day Angelin?”

“I go day-by-day my lady” Angelin’s delectable eyes flashed her aching sincerity and charm.

“How do you travel to and from school day-by-day Angelin?”

“By train my lady, but sometimes mummy drives my sister and me in her car”

“Of recent times. when you travelled by train, did another girl begin to talk to you and entice you to sit next to her?”

“Yes my lady, she was very nice and very pretty but she wasn’t a girl, she was very old” Angelin responded, all natural naïf charm. Once more affectionate gentle loving laughter radiated toward her, and even the judge, no older than I, at twenty-nine, was amused by this sweet girl’s definition of “very old” in reference to me.

The judge tapped her gavel very gently to remind the court that a serious matter was being decided, and all came immediately to order once more.

“I have to ask you a very difficult question sweet little miss. As we both know, it is an absolute requirement of all girls that go to Saint Innocent’s School for Chaste Girls, that they remain innocent and chaste. They must never ever be touched, let alone kissed, and certainly absolutely never ever experience anything stronger. They are totally forbidden girlfriends or boyfriends and, above all, they must never ever touch themselves in any naughty way……….”

Angelin was blushing to the base of her neck as she listened to this lead-in to the judge’s next question,

“Do you make your school proud of you Angelin? Are you a good girl Angelin?”

Angelin blushed even redder: “Of course my lady. I have always been a good girl my lady. I am going to stay a good girl until I am married my lady.”

The clerk stood on her beautiful long lithe ghost-white legs: “If I may make so bold your ladyship”

“Of course the clerk of the court may” the judge smiled.

“It will please your ladyship and the court to be informed, that Angelin has submitted to medical examination and her hymen remains as perfectly intact as one would wish, my lady”

Tears of embarrassment were prickling Angelin’s compelling grey eyes as she blushed once again and hung her head in modesty.

“I am sorry we are having to put you through this pretty young lady” the judge sympathised. “But please tell the court if you have ever at any time been touched by another girl, a boy, or even by you yourself Angelin and, I must warn you to be absolutely honest.”

“Of course not my lady. Nobody has ever touched me in a naughty way ever my lady absolutely honestly my lady really and truly not me neither I would never ever touch myself my lady honestly cross-my-heart and hope to die my lady, I am a good girl my lady really and truly……” Angelin almost burst into tears as she gabbled out the sincere absolute truth of her completely untouched, totally innocent, totally intact virgin state.

“Please do not upset yourself Angelin” the judge soothed

“Had you ever been touched, as you put it, ‘in a naughty way’, what would have happened to you at your school Angelin?”

“I would be caned and then expelled my lady.”

“And if you were expelled Angelin, what would happen to you next: if St Innocent’s would no longer have you because you had been a naughty girl and allowed yourself to be touched?”

Angelin lowered her head momentarily, and spoke with horror: “I would be sent to work in the coalmines my lady. I would have dig for coal in the coalmines for the rest of my life.”

“Just so, Angelin: just so”, the judge remarked to give emphasis to Angelin’s statement. “Just so” the judge agreed, “Just so”

The judge now sought to change the subject to give Angelin time to recover her composure: “What are you learning at school Angelin?” she asked.

“I am learning to be a good wife my lady”, Angelin sweetly enthused.

“And what do you hope to do when you leave school Angelin?”

Angelin’s eyes glowed with rapture as she answered: “I hope to marry a pretty girl and be a good wife to her for evermore my lady”

“Angelin, you are a very virtuous and wonderfully lovely girl, and someone tried to defile you: someone tried to touch you in a naughty way, did they not Angelin?” the judge’s voice indicated foreconcluded condemnation of me by the way it rose at the end of this patently leading question.

“Yes my lady” Angelin answered.

“And what did you say to this girl when she tried to touch you Angelin?”

“’No’ my lady, I shouted ‘no’ and ran away my lady!”

“Is that girl in the court and, if so, will you please point her out Angelin?”

“It is her standing on the rotating table. Her name’s Katrina, she told me”. Angelin pointed her lovely forefinger my way and I hung my head in the deepest of deep shame.

“The clerk will note that the sweet witness pointed out Katrina ******, the girl in the dock for the accused” the judge pronounced.

There was a momentary pause to allow the hubbub that broke out in the public gallery as Angelin’s accusing finger condemned me. The judge waited for this to die down. She allowed its continuation out of patience and experience: the experience that told her that a metaphorical safety-valve had just been opened and the tension needed to be allowed to escape naturally.

For its part, the public gallery understood the licence the judge was giving, and that that licence had a time limit they must respect; and so they gasped, and then chatted, and then went absolutely silent as if they were but one person rather than a gathering of five-hundred.

Having let the tongues in the court loosen themselves as they needed to do, the judge returned to the questions for sweet Angelin.

“How old are you Angelin?” the judge enquired as if by way of routine, and as if a gentle lead-in to more important and difficult questions, to follow once everyone had recovered their attention after the little audience outburst of relief.

“How old are you Angelin?” the judge repeated as the final ripples of conversation silenced themselves.

“fourteen my lady”, came the sweet innocent’s answer.

A five-hundred-voice loud gasp instantly rocked the courtroom, and a hubbub broke out once more, and the clear intonation of this hubbub was that I was despicably vile to have taken advantage of this delectable girl when I must have known she was so young. And meanwhile, with the totally unexpected completely surprising and breathtaking shock of this revelation, I felt as if a knife had stabbed straight through my heart.

The noise abated, and high-octane expectation and extreme tension replaced it, as the all-female public gallery awaited the judge’s next question…..

“And when were you fourteen: when was your fourteenth birthday Angelin?”

Angelin’s moist shining kissable lips whispered just audibly, “Three days ago my lady".

A shout of horror went up from the court and pandemonium broke out, as another shattering knife blow ran my heart right through, and I gasped audibly, so audibly that, for one brief moment, Angelin’s consummate beauty ceased to be the epicentre of the attention of the whole court.

She was only just fourteen! Angelin was only just fourteen!! What had I done?! She must only have been thirteen when I had first seen her and tried to touch her heavenly wonder! What had I done?!

The judge was tapping her gavel but, for a long while it was inaudible above the noise of five-hundred female voices expressing shock and horror and utter condemnation of me.

The lovely naked redhead clerk rose to her toes, and was clearly calling out: “The court must come to order!” As she called this a third time, the deafening noise subsided.

The judge now waited patiently for the last of the chatter to disappear. She then paused a little longer, before turning to Angelin who still stood on her supremely pretty tiptoed legs in the witness box.

“Angelin Heavenmade, you may sit down in the witness box, your questioning is over. And may I say what an absolute delight it has been for me to talk to a girl as heavenly as her name. You have given your evidence most sweetly, and upheld the honour of your school in everything you have done here today”, the judge glowed, as much in love with the innocent angel Angelin as I was.

Angelin sat prettily, the erotically pouched gusset of her snow-white pure white panties drawing the eye as she perched with her legs together at the knees. She would always sit with her legs together as taught by her school: no girl at Saint Innocent’s School for Chaste Girls would ever cross one of her legs over the other: it is so vulgar.

The judge now turned, all slow burning fury and smouldering hatred toward me.

“Prisoner in the dock, there is nothing I can say as judge that is more condemnatory of your wholly despicable and vile behaviour toward this lovely creature. Her completely transparent all-but holy wholly innocence is so in contrast with your vileness that it condemns you without need of my addition to its perfect summation of your horrendously dirty filthy and criminal behaviour.” The judge was clearly outraged and only just beginning to warm to her task of upbraiding me.

“Girls like you are predators: dangerous predators. You prey upon the innocent. You seek to deflower and destroy the beauty of girlhood to satisfy your filthy lust. And then you discard the girls whose innocence you have forever despoiled.“

“You are a grown woman, a very beautiful grown woman of twenty-nine, and yet you have sought to deflower an angel of just fourteen-years-of-age! You sought to use the evident charms of your lovely face and your exquisite body, those glorious legs of yours not least no doubt, as bate for poor Miss Heavenmade, a girl almost half your age!”

“You madam, are a rapist in waiting. You have not yet, but you will rape. I must save you from yourself it seems, as you are self-evidently unable to save yourself from the slippery slope that leads from the enticement of wholly innocent girls in situations of trust, to wanton uncontrolled and uncontrollable rapine.”

“Have the prisoner taken down and put in thoroughly well fully deserved pain. Then bring her back before me for public witness that she has been duly punished.” the judge ordered.

Boos and hisses followed me out of the courtroom. I was taken into a neighbouring room: a torture chamber in all but name. In the court, those who had been there before when such a case had been tried, encouraged the interval of silence in the courtroom that followed my departure. The girls who had been there before knew what was coming for me; though I myself had not been told.


Then, in the courtroom from the room I was in next door, could be heard my cries of: “Oh please god no, no, no, no, no noooooooooo and a vicious pitiless whistling noise of the air being savagely whisked by some agent of terrible pain, was followed by a horrible “THWICK!!” and my pitiful inhuman scream of extreme and excruciating enduring agony, and then followed by the shout of: “ONE!”

My gasps and panting were then clearly audible, along with some chatter among the girls torturing me. The court listened intently, Angelin not least. The courtroom was so silent, the noise of the metaphorical pin dropped would have echoed like thunder.

Then, from next door again: “Oh please please please please no, no, no, no, no noooooooooo, no, no, no, no, no noooooooooo I screamed hoarsely and then the whistle of air being sliced and the horrible horrible “THWICK!!!” and I screamed and hollered like an animal once more. “TWO” came the shout.

“Oh god it hurts it hurts it hurts oh god it hurts please please please please” I was heard to moan and gasp.

Then, for all the listeners in the courtroom neighbouring where I was being punished, there was the sound of a girl running in very high-heels. This sound had been there the first two times I had screamed, but this time it was heard as if it had not been audible before.

The sound of a girl trotting and then running at gathering speed on what must be very high very sexy high-heels preceded my repeated cries of: “Mercy oh god mercy please, please please please please no, no, no, no, no noooooooooo, no, no, no, no, no noooooooooo!!” followed by the obvious sound of a whip slicing the air, followed by the brutal “THWICK” and my scream from the unbearable pain: “THREE!”

“Oh god it hurts it hurts it hurts oh god it hurts. Have mercy oh please god have mercy. No more please please no more!!”, the courtroom listened silently, each individual intent on every sound from next-door, nobody looking at anybody else.

Then once more came the trotting of the sexy high-heels and the gathering speed of the steps matched my gathering helpless hopeless pleas: “No, no, no, no, no noooooooooo, no, no, no, no, no noooooooooo!!!” the whistle so brutally crisply clear, the “THWICK!!” so evidently on the nude naked soft flesh of nude naked girl helplessly bound, my screams from horrible pain and: “FOUR!”

“Oh god I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding, you’re cutting me, and your cutting me I’m bleeding your cutting your cutting me!! Oh it hurts it hurts oh god please have mercy it hurts it hurts I’m bleeding I’m bleeding I’m bleeding!!!!!”

The trotting of the sexy high-heels gathered speed once more, as I begged and begged for mercy: “No, no, no, no, no noooooooooo, noooooooooo, noooooooooo!!” the whistle louder still, the “THWICK!!!” crueller still, my scream more hoarse still, and: “FIVE!”

In the silence of the court, the lovely Asian-Indian judge glanced over at the sweet angel Angelin, and saw immediately that the gusset of Angelin’s white panties was soaked through with Angelin’s sweet virgin schoolgirl’s naughty-honey. Angelin’s nude-shaven slit could now be clearly seen, through the white silk of her tanga-panties having become totally soused by her delectable seepings, and Angelin was biting her pretty lower-lip in the struggle with her urges, the urges she felt in her honeypot; the overwhelming urge to touch herself.

The judge caught Angelin’s helpless begging eyes. Angelin’s nipples were peaked clearly painfully hard, and pointy pointed pushing out her semi-translucent white blouse in her aroused unsated erosticity.

“Fight the good fight Angelin. Fight the good fight my angel” the judge coaxed, as she watched Angelin’s hands tremble on her bare thighs, struggling to overcome her longing to masturbate to my cries of terrible pain.

From next door sounded curses and then: “Salt the whore” came a contralto command in the neighbouring room where I was being tortured and, moments later, my screams rent the air once more.

Thereafter, my audible heavy breathing and gasps for air and relief from the terrible pain I was in, were alike with the heavy breathing and gasps of a girl in the ecstasy of approaching orgasm, as there was an interval in my cries of pain and for mercy, whilst a snipping sound, as if metal were being cut could be heard.

“No you can’t you can’t it’s horrible oh please have mercy!” I began to cry.

“Not my leg, oh please not my leg!” I was heard to shout in agony and horror. And then I screamed and begged for mercy, “I’m bleeding, oh god I’m bleeding! My leg oh please not my leg!” I cried unheeded.

There was another interval of silence punctuated only by my gasping breath and moans of continued waves of pain then: “Mercy oh god mercy please, please please please please no, no, no, no, no noooooooooo!!!” I screamed, “It hurts, it hurts, oh god it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, oh god it hurts, it hurts, please please please!!!!!”

I now cried out continuously with extreme pain from whatever had just been done to me. And whatever had just been done to me was manifestly manifoldly more brutal and painful than whatever had been previously done to my leg.

“Shut the whore up!” came the vicious command, and then my scream, and then a gargled horrible scream from me and my voice was changed “Ahhh grod ahhh grrod ahhh nlo nlo ahhh, then I screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed then I uttered torn mouth sounding “Nlo nlo nlooo ogh grod glod nlo nlo nlo nlo nlo…….mrercly, mrercly, olh grod oh grod oh grod mrercrly…….” I garble-shout-moaned with pain.

Another spell of the nearest that the neighbouring room would ever get now to silence as my breathing filled the air with horrendous gargled wheezes.

“Walk bitch” was shouted at me.

A garbled cry of resistance from agony was heard followed by the whistle and “SLAP!!” of a strap-whip on naked flesh: mine, and my cry of pain and I began to appear in the doorway of the court once more, and all eyes, Angelin’s not least, turned to feast on my agony for agony it was and could only be.

Two extremely white supremely white redheads in seven-inch high heels followed my progress with their strap-whips unfurled to use on me, and I walked in slow agony back into the court.

I was walking with my hands bound by silk rope in front of me. I was walking very very slowly because of the agonising unbearable pain that walking caused me.

Angelin gasped sexily as she saw my mouth. Barbed wire was around my face. A single strand of barbed wire had been fixed around my face like a gag through my delicious mouth, and a huge barb was above my bleeding tongue, my tongue the barb had torn into as a consequence of my screams.

Half down my supreme left thigh, I wore a barbed wire garter. My lovely skin was torn and bleeding as I wore the sexiest symbol that could adorn a beautiful leg in the cruellest of cruel material that a mockery of that symbol, intended to torture and pain, could be manufactured from. A single strand of barbed wire was around my hugely beautiful left thigh, pulled tight so that the barbs had dug into my supremely soft skin and wounded me, as evidenced by the trickles of blood that ran from where the barbs penetrated by thigh.

And my screams: my latter screams before being gagged by barbed wire? Why would I not scream even when about to be gagged by barbed wire if I did so, when I was being force-fitted with barbed wire panties?

Barbed wire was tight around my waist and a single strand, tighter still, was drawn up hard between the cheeks, the half moons of my bare bottom and harder still, yes yet harder still, between the sensitive lips of my cunt. My cunt lips were divided by barbed wire and barbs were even now tearing my bleeding inner and outer she-lips as I walked.

Below my garter I wore, rolled-up onto my lower thighs, a pair of nominally white cotton panties. These were just above my knees and only put on me as a convenience to catch the blood that trickled and dripped in unstoppable unstaunchable streams from my savage mocking mock garter, my horrendously cruel barbed wire panties, and my viciously and cruelly whipped buttocks.

An audible gasp of deep pity could be heard as I passed the public gallery and the public could see my beautiful bottom. I had been whipped without mercy and with the maximum harshness hardness and brutality of forcefulness that the strength of a very fit girl could apply by running up and whipping me with a wire whip. A single strand of pliable wire had been used to whip me, as hard as it was possible for a fit and strong girl to whip me, on my bare bottom. My poor bottom was slit-slash-sliced my five horizontal livid crimson red bleeding stripes of terrible pain. My blood ran down my bummy and onto the back of my thighs and then down my thighs in rivulets, as I sobbed in my excruciating lonely excruciating agony.

“Some lessons are very painful Katrina” the judge pronounced. “Some lessons are very painful, but equally necessary Katrina” she continued.

The judge then turned to Angelin……..

“I am afraid, lovely little lady, that I must insist that you witness close-up, that Katrina has been satisfactorily punished for trying to touch you when you sat next to her on the train.

Angelin rose on her heavenly legs and ran, literally ran in her tippy-toe leggy-legged loveliness her kinky curly angel’s golden hair flying out behind her and then falling back to flick the bare cheeks of her gorgeous bummy, flash-wiggling bare beyond and below the hem of her mockery of a skirt. Her bare legs, her beautiful bare legs, flashing-fascinatingly girlmuscularly as she used them to run toward me. She ran toward me using motion provided by the most beautiful means of movement and motion the world has the honour of being permitted to witness, a girl’s legs, her legs.

From the sweet look on her perfect face, Angelin longed to comfort me in my pain. But then I saw how wet Angelin’s panties were with arousal, sexual arousal, which must have come from her enjoyment of the sound and now the sight of my pain. So wet was the gusset of her pure white panties that I could see clearly the lovely lips of her slit, shaven totally nude to mark her as the total virgin that she was. And I watched the heavenly sight of a heavenly girl run toward me, with compassion and passion combined and opposed in the contradictions of girl: the contradictions of a girl’s body the contradictions of a girl’s minds.

One of Angelin’s minds told of the tenderness and comfort she must but must provide me in my suffering, and Angelin’s face reflected this: and no more gentle caring look was possible than that Angelin’s angel face wore as she wiggle-trotted running toward me. But yet Angelin’s cunt-mind was enjoying my pain and my suffering, and the soaking wet slit in her now transparent panties reflected this, and no more aroused callous cruelty was possible than that reflected by the wetness of Angelin’s angel slit.

And suddenly Angelin was in front of me and gazing with gorgeous grey eyes and ever moist ever shining ever soft ever gentle ever kissable lips, at my cruelly tortured mouth. And Angelin’s angel tears were starting at the corners of her eyes as her own lips parted to offer me the kiss that would deliver my mouth from pain, the kiss that would deliver me from pain and suffering: the kiss of a perfect virgin a fully intact virgin schoolgirl who had never before been touched or kissed: an angel, a virgin angel, an intact virgin angel, an untouched virgin angel from heaven.

Angelin’s mouth came close to mine and then, fell short as if, in her virgin’s untouched innocence, she did not even know how to kiss another girl. Her sweet soft moist shining lips closed and her eyes registered that she had failed me, and the pain that failure caused her, and she began to whisper in her sweet scented breath. She began to whisper to me, the zephyrs of an untouched intact virgin angel’s sweet breath caressing my cheek, as she spoke in her confused mix of cool girl compassion and heated girl passion, offering her soft moist never ever before kissed lips to my savagely barbed wire gagged bleeding mouth…..

“Please be the first girl ever to kiss me!” she whispered

“Please be the first girl ever to kiss me!”

“Please be the first girl ever to kiss me!”

“Please be the first girl ever to kiss me!”

“Please be the first girl ever to kiss me miss!”

“Please be the first girl ever miss!”

“Kiss me miss!”

“Kiss me miss!”

“Kiss me miss!”





“Are you alright miss?”

“Are you alright miss?”


“Miss!!? You’ve fallen asleep miss, are you alright?”

I found my self suddenly looking into the eyes of a heavenly angel. The schoolgirl who had been sitting next to me on my train journey home from my work, was standing in the corridor between the two rows of seats having risen to get off at what she knew to be also my station. A lock of her wild kink-curly blonde hair, hair so long it was down below her gorgeous bottom when she stood, was over one lovely grey eye as she stood in her heelless-tiptoe-ballet shoes with her right forefinger lightly tapping me on my shoulder.

I looked at her perfect face with its pale complexion kissed all over with gorgeous freckles. The look in her eyes was of gentle genuine loving concern for me, turning to a smile as I slowly awoke from the sleep and the strange dream another boring day at the office had cast me into.

“Angelin?” I enquired, in a dazed sleepy slur.

“Angelin?” I repeated.

“Angelin?” the angel responded with a delightful querulous hint of a giggle.

“Angelin?” she puzzled momentarily………

………“Oh. I see!” she gently laugh-smiled, “My names Heatherhoney, miss……. Heatherhoney, not Angelin”.

I rose and grabbed my handbag and shopping, still in the heavy headachy stupor caused by my having fallen asleep at the wrong time of day, and my being necessarily awoken from that sleep before it had nourished me.

Heatherhoney was directly in front of me as we queued to alight from the train. She was wearing the summer uniform of the National School for Highly Intelligent Girls. My eyes could not help but delight over her supremely lovely body in the extremely short skirt she wore, and the hemispheres of her bare bottom, and the way her purse pouched out the gusset of her pure-white tanga-panties, and her bare legs, her beautiful bare legs, totally bare but for white ankle-socks, her wonderful bare legs steepled in her steel-soled-ballet-tiptoeing-shoes……….

Heatherhoney must have instinctively felt my admiring eyes on her loveliness, and turned to smile, radiating the wonder of the sun and all the other stars in the universe at me from her stunning grey eyes…..

…….And I knew I must ensure I never ever saw Heatherhoney again……….

Eve Adorer
07-15-2007, 10:36 AM
Chapter 25 – A Loan Alone

It was an unpleasant present to receive for my thirtieth birthday. Jackie had been kind and gentle but equally insistent about it. It had to come out some day soon, she had said, she was sorry it had had to be on my birthday of all days, but it had to be said because time was pressing.

And what was the news that spoilt my thirtieth birthday? Only the word that Jackie could no longer afford to keep me and needed me to repay my debt within the month if we were not all to be paupers out on the street: that was all!

Okay, I am being more than a little unfair on Jackie here. She had bought me out of my marriage to Belinda and my cruel nunnification at Belinda’s hands. She had also paid for surgery and dentistry to recover me from the horrible infibulation of my slit and my mouth. She had teased me that this had cost her a fortune. In truth it had indeed cost her a great deal of money.

To de-infibulate a girl once she had been sewn-up was totally illegal. A doctor who would break the law was hard to find, and costly when found. A husband-girl could have her wife de-infibulated legally. But I was, of course, no longer married to Belinda and had not remarried. Under the girl-laws of the 2020s, Jackie virtually owned me, but we were not girl and wife.

I was in a state of limbo where the law was concerned. Even so, I had learned, painfully, that it was wise for girls in my situation to carry on the pretence they were in fact married or a court approved slave, by always wearing a ring on one of their wedding-ring fingers.

I was virtually Jackie’s slave, even though she had never applied to the courts to get it formalised. My status was often referred to as being that of a common-law wife or common-law slave; but the law did not in fact recognise such a status. I often wondered why Jackie had not gone to court to get me made her slave. Bur I knew it would have been touch and go whether the ruling would have gone in her favour of course.

Had either of my two trials in the girl-courts resulted in my being declared a very naughty girl, and thus given me a life-long criminal record, Jackie’s application would have sailed through the court, because I was in such heavy financial debt to her. As it was, I had been declared only a naughty girl by the court for my first offence, having resisted the persuasion torture, and my second offence, not wearing a ring in public, had only been a misdemeanour, for which I had been duly punished.

Perhaps, then, it had been her loving friendship for me that had stopped Jackie taking court proceedings to enslave me formally. I preferred not to think that it might be because Jackie did not gamble, and would have regarded a court case as a risk she was not prepared to take. It was also obvious that whether Jackie owned me as a technicality or fully legally, did not lessen my monetary debt to her by one penny so, on reflection, why should Jackie risk court and thereby increase what she had already expended on me, at the risk of gaining nothing?

Nonetheless, Jackie risked prosecution for not clearing up my status and taking me as her wife or her slave. The state would know that I was living with her. At any time there could have been a check made by Girl-Control. If such a check had found me not married or legally bonded as a slave to Jackie or someone in Jackie’s household, I could have been taken away and offered up as a wife. If nobody wanted me as a wife, I could then be offered as a slave to the highest bidder. If nobody took me then either, I would have been made a state slave: there was always a shortage of girls to work the coalmines. I was thirty now. Under the girl-laws, all girls had to be either married or enslaved by the time they were twenty, let alone thirty.

In another way, I was glad that there was no court order. Had there been, to prove its existence, I would have had Jackie’s name and the reference-number of the court order indelibly tattooed on the top-side of the right cheek of my bottom.

I owed it to Jackie to do something to help her out of yet another of the periodic financial crises her businesses were prone to. The Assembly had decided to have another of its clampdowns on pornography and pornographers: Jackie’s general business in a nutshell. This particular round of prudent prudery was, completely cynically, because there was an election upcoming. It was aimed solely at pornography made for girls: Jackie’s precise business encapsulated.

The governing party’s election manifesto included a diatribe against the evils of female masturbation, and promised draconian penalties would be introduced to stamp it out, if only the governing party were to be re-elected to continue in government.

They could not stamp on pornography produced outside England of course, but they promised that English produced pornography for girls would be abolished within six months of their being re-elected. Jackie was therefore very vulnerable to future criminal action in the courts against her and was busy, once more, looking for ways to take her business overseas: this time she swore, permanently.

My job in the Marital Approval Office (Girl-Girl) brought in an income that was only a pittance. Jackie even referred to it as “lipstick money” as that, she said, after I had paid even a small sum to her for my board and lodging, was all it would buy.

As Jackie explained it, and I am no financial genius, even though I took a first at C******, the answer was a transfer of debt. It needed to be arranged that Jackie got what I owed her repaid. To achieve that, I needed to get a loan from someone else, and thereafter owe that someone else and thus no longer owe Jackie.

Jackie’s bank would lend her no more. In the current political climate, with yet another clampdown on the like of Jackie’s companies, where based in England, Jackie was not a good investment, as a business or as an individual, for them. Accordingly, I was to get a loan and repay Jackie with that loan, whilst continuing thereafter to repay my monetary debt to the company I got the loan from, rather than Jackie herself. It was a simple debt transference transaction.

Although I am a highly intelligent girl, if university degrees are proof of anything, I am a complete numb and dumb-skull when it comes to money. I would have had no idea where to turn to find out where to get a loan. I would just have spent the money whether I had it or not and tried to lose the repayment demands from the bank thereafter, forever after.

Fortunately, Jackie was really astute. She knew me well enough to know I was hopeless with money and had already located a financial institution for me. It was a finance house that advertised that it was run by girls for girls. It only ever loaned out money to girls.

And, so it was agreed, on my thirtieth birthday of all days, that the next day I would visit the Guaranteed Investment and Reliable Loans Society at their London headquarters, about three miles from Jackie’s apartment.

It was a desperate step, but the circumstances were desperate. Of course I telephoned the Guaranteed Investment and Reliable Loans Society, or “GIRLS”, as their acronym inevitably had it, and a very sweet sounding teenager, whose voice I seemed half to recognise from somewhere, talked to me about a loan in principle, before inviting me to the GIRLS’ south London office for an interview.


I knew I had a lot of persuading to do and must not fail my dear friend Jackie. After all, this loan was to save Jackie from bankruptcy, and my future fate was so tied up with Jackie’s that, if she sank so too did I.

Being a former model, I at least knew how to dress for the occasion. I had always been told that image was very important. “Strike the right note with your appearance and you are a long way toward getting what you want from people” was the message in the magazines I used to read. It was obviously a good idea to try it. The articles must have some truth behind them, probably originating from positive experiences.

I decided to try it, and I decided on dark grey – slate grey sobriety: in fact, just the kind of clothing I wore in my daily job these days. “Sensible shoes” with one-inch heels, dark-grey stockings, with black suspenders, and black lace tanga-panties. A black bra: a girl with a 36D figure must always wear a bra if she does not want to be too provocative. An opaque white blouse buttoned up to the neck and at my wrists. A light grey mini-skirt half down my strong thighs: not too short. And, to finish, a dark grey pinstriped jacket matching the mini-skirt and thus making up a business suit. I brushed-out my light-brown hair, now re-grown such that it reached beyond my shoulder-blades, till in crackled and shone with health and delight.

I felt sexy. I was a young woman in the full bloom of her beauty. I was no longer merely budding; I was a rose in full womanly flower. I was a very beautiful rose, though I say so myself: indeed an English Rose. I was one-hundred-percent girl. My physical and facial attributes had been such that I had been snapped up to be snapped by the camera as a model not a while since. I had looked after my body, and my figure and face could still turn any other girl’s head as I walked by, even at a half-mile distance, to exaggerate only a little.

It was a warm June London summer day as I rode on the subway looking to avoid eye contact with the other girls as I felt their eyes following the thousand miles up my beautiful legs, or spotting the evident bulges in my jacket and blouse, and the size of the assets that must be the causes of them.

I was long used to being ogled of course. In my modelling days I could go nowhere without it happening. It was usually accompanied by a whistle of amazement, or a soft wolf whistle when my back was turned. I liked it really: I liked it sometimes. I had certainly had to learn to live with such things: my facial and physical beauty had their price.

I arrived at the Guaranteed Investment and Reliable Loans Society - GIRLS - where my loan had been arranged in principle over the telephone, a good five-minutes before my appointed time, and felt relaxed as I was called over an intercom from a room where I waited with three other pretty girls, alone into an interview room. In the interview room, I sat myself down on a chair before a huge oak desk.

Apart from the desk, I immediately noticed that, curiously, although it was June and thus English-summer-warm outside, the office was really hot because of an open coal-fire blazing brightly in an open hearth. It seemed so strange to have a fire burning on a warm day in the English midsummer.

The room itself was empty, till in walked a very pretty five-foot-five height teenage girl, with kinky-curled blonde hair framing a pale, freckled, overwhelmingly pretty face, and tumbling down to well beyond her buttocks. It was Heatherhoney! It was Heatherhoney, the simply wonderfully sexy and beautiful girl from the train. The girl who had been sitting next to me when I had had the horrible dream about being tortured with barbed wire.

It was Heatherhoney, but it seemed as if she had either forgotten me, or that I had not registered with her sufficiently for her to greet me with more than a professional smile.

She glided into the room from a door behind the desk, with grace to the fore. She wore a red-based chequered shirt, with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows, off her delectably slim golden-downed forearms. It was unbuttoned at the neck and open down to the cleavage of her supremely firm young-girl’s breasts. This shirt clung close to her upper body showing her delightful contours. Its “hem” stopped short of covering her midriff, as she had fastened it to her by taking its excess length and tying it in a knot at the base of her ribcage, just above her bare belly and bellybutton.

Around her hips, clinging to her derriere just where her bottom turned into her back, was the “waistband” of a blue-denim micro-micro-miniskirt, which fell short of hiding her pure white panties: dazzlingly white school-issue knickers, which her vulva pouched out very provocatively.

On her feet she wore black leather front-heeled tiptoeing booties, that skyscrapered her slim very shapely and very pretty schoolgirl’s legs: her very bare, very lovely legs.

Her gorgeous grey eyes shone compellingly. And, just as I had admired on the train in our shared journey home from ****** to London, her pale face, exceedingly lovely, was blessed with a mouth whose lips were always a little parted as if about to impart a kiss, and which shone from being forever teasingly pleasingly naturally moist.

What caught my eye particularly at this undreamt of further chance to delight in Heatherhoney’s loveliness, was that in her bellybutton she wore a sparkling diamond-shaped ruby-red stud, that in fact over-spilled her navel. It was completely sexy middling her supremely slim waist. This was no accidental or frivolous choice of decoration for a beautiful young girl either. It was a formal award from her school for maintaining her absolute chastity. Along with her pure white panties, it confirmed that she was a completely intact and never ever even touched virgin.

I had been studying the girl-laws since my return to England. I needed to: I had been so much in trouble with them that I could not afford to risk another breach. The award represented by the ruby-red bellybutton stud such as Heatherhoney wore, were not strictly under the girl-laws. They were peripheral, but encouraging of behaviour among schoolgirls that the Assembly sought to ensure though carrot and stick. The awards were the carrot: ultimately, the coalmines were the stick.

The Assembly, through the girl-laws, sought for all girls to remain untouched until they married. A girl might be taught to kiss, but then only by a woman with a licence to teach kissing and only then with the consent of the girl’s mother. It depended if the mother wanted a dominant daughter: a daughter who would become a husband-girl rather than a wife. This girl was clearly destined to be a wife, and oh how incredibly lucky the girl she would one day marry would be!

Not daring to greet Heatherhoney, because she did not seem to recognise me, I eased my incredible nervousness by starting straight in with my story, and chatted away not really looking for a response from the teenaged angel, as I told her who I was, what I did now, how well known I been when I had been a model, my former expensive lifestyle, its glamour, the people I had needed to keep pace with, the stars I had met, my one-time hope to break into movies, the offer from magazines I had turned down because they would keep insisting on full nudity, my once-upon-a-time fan club and website, my one-time beautiful and famous friends, the ******, the airports, the calendar I was once to be “Miss December” in, and how that would have meant being photographed in the snow if they could find any with this global warming, the different countries I had been to……. and on and on and on. I was seeking to impress Heatherhoney by talking about the Katrina that had been in the less recent past and, of course, not mentioning that I had been twice in trouble with Girl-Control, or that I had recently been married and that my husband-girl had divorced me, and that I owed thousands of dollars to Jackie.….

There was a sudden and long silence as I pulled up in my chatter realising I was not really being listened to.

The silence echoed. It was so in contrast with my rattling prattling that I grew nervous, fearing I had blown the interview with a vengeance. Then the silence was split by a pretty voice from behind me…….

………“Ah, said a delightful soprano voice from over my shoulder, “It’s Katrina, the girl from the train” and to my complete and absolute shock and delight, from behind to in front of me glided another stupendously lovely young schoolgirl, dressed identically. It was Heatherhoney, it must be Heatherhoney. But how could it be Heatherhoney, when Heatherhoney had just been listening to me?

I was absolutely completely and utterly as stunned as I was astonished and delighted. There were two of them. I gaped like a fool. I was blown off my feet. I was as ecstatic as I was astounded! I realised that I was in the presence of identical twins!! These girls were beautiful beautiful twins: heavenly twins! For one of these girls to delight the world by her presence in it was surely more than enough. For there to be two perfectly identical versions of the same incredibly sexy and lovely girls was manna from the highest of highest gods.

“We’re on our summer vacation” said Heatherhoney, the girl who had just walked in. “This is my kid-sister Angelin. We were born fifteen minutes apart. We’re Heatherhoney and Angelin Heavenmade”, she smiled with her irresistible constantly moist-lipped mouth.

Could this be true? Had I dreamed of Angelin when asleep on the train next to Heatherhoney? Had I in fact sat next to them both at different times without realising it was not the same girl? How had the name “Angelin” entered my dreams? Were these girls really only fourteen? They looked older.

I must have dreamt Angelin’s court declaration she was only just fourteen! I hoped I had. Of course I had, silly fool! The whole thing, court case and barbed wire punishment, had been a dream: a nightmare!

Perhaps I had heard Heatherhoney on her mobile phone to her sister when I had been asleep alongside her on the train. That would be how the name “Angelin” and even the surname “Heavenmade” would, or at least could, have entered my head.

I was jumping to conclusions of course. There was no way of substantiating this. I had reached for the first possible explanation that had entered my head. That explanation might be totally wrong. But I needed an explanation to cling to, and the first one to come to mind would have to suffice to calm my nerves.

Having concluded it, I would assume it to be right, and look for evidence that supported it, and dismiss altogether the possibility that the real explanation could be entirely different. That is the approach of most humans to problems. That was certainly my approach on this occasion. These thoughts, if not the reason for these thoughts, rattled around my brain as my lovely dark-brown eyes worshipped over the wonderful youthful twins, so aptly surnamed, before me.

My mind was thus distracted when Heatherhoney suddenly asked, in an entirely matter-of-fact and unemotional voice: “By the way, who said you could sit?”

Stunned out of my reverie, and a little shocked by the way this young girl, perhaps only half my age, had spoken to me, my innate good manners caused me to stand by reflex. Heatherhoney then took the chair away so I must remain standing.

Then Heatherhoney slinked sexily leggilly back alongside her perfectly identical twin-sister. Two pairs of gorgeous grey eyes now looked at me with what I sensed was pleasure: delight in my beauty. Both then began to talk to me, taking alternate sentences, their two minds seeming to be one.

“Katrina, you are in serious trouble. I hope you have got the money for Jackie, because it has been decided you are too great a risk, and GIRLS is not going to give you a loan.”

Heatherhoney and Angelin’s moist mouths told me this so sweetly, it was the sweetest deadly poison a girl could be administered. But, to make an understatement, this was by no means the way I had expected the interview to go.

I stood with my mouth agape about to utter a question but unable to form the words, or even one word, I was sunk even before my hopes had begun to blossom. Jackie had not fixed this up in the way I thought she must have. I had assumed the interview I was there for, was just a formality. The loan was in fact surely essentially already arranged by Jackie. The metaphorical door was thus already open without need of any effort on my part to have to open it, let alone unlock it in the first place.

“We need to do some serious talking Katrina”, the pretty little angels continued, now standing behind the desk sorting out papers. They were exchanging papers and looking at these papers rather than at me.

“You are not going to get a loan from GIRLS on ordinary terms. You have criminal background. You have been a naughty girl. Girl-Control has had you in custody twice. You are not going to get a loan on ordinary terms from us…..”

“……..We are in a position to offer you a deal though, provided you have the assets needed and are prepared to hand them over as indemnity”, they next said, now looking up and both giving my face a momentary glance.

“If you are prepared to hand over your assets, assuming they are a match for the debt, your debt will be totally repaid”, Angelin concluded, looking very seriously, straight at me.

I felt a flood of relief go through me. This is what I had come here wanting and hoping to hear wasn’t it? I forgot for the moment, being incompetent as ever in my thinking about money, that I owned no assets that were not already, technically at least, owned by Jackie.

Even without this realisation, my relief was short lived.

“Are you wearing panties?” Heatherhoney suddenly enquired, as if she did not really want to know the answer, but giving a wicked conspiratorial look at her equally delicious sister

My mouth dropped open, but I nodded with a “why are you asking that, and what on earth is it to do with this interview?” look on my face. I could not understand why the question had been asked, but I nodded confirmation as if I were stupefied by the question, because I was.

“Take the panties off, lift the hem of the skirt clear of the full length of your legs, thighs, and bottom.” Angelin ordered. “We need to see the legs the thighs and your bum. Come on: jump to it” Heatherhoney snapped.

I stood frozen.

“You want a deal don’t you? You were a model once weren’t you? Angelin sneered as if she was bored and I was stupid.

Now I realised! Odd as this way of proceeding might be, and even though I had thought my modelling career was long since over, I was being assessed for another photographic assignment. Presumably it would be something I would have to do for free, or rather to cover the loan. Perhaps, since it would need more than one modelling session to cover my debts, a whole new career was dawning.

That would be alright by me, as long as my debt was repaid to Jackie and Jackie thus saved from bankruptcy. I’d be a more experienced model now of course. In fact, I’d even forego my scruples about being photographed without my panties if it would get Jackie, and consequently me, out of debt.

So, after a little more hesitation, I reached under my skirt to grasp my panties: and then I stopped. Why should I do this? Why should I, a thirty-year-old grown woman, undress in this humiliating way in front of these schoolgirls?

Angelin noticed my momentary hesitation.

“You had better do as we tell you, Katrina, or any chance of a deal is off”, she announced, saying out loud what Heatherhoney’s face showed she too was thinking

Blushingly, I lowered my black lace tanga-briefs all down my stupendous legs, stepped out of them, and handed them to Heatherhoney who snapped, “I don’t want them you stupid bitch!”

I dropped my still warm panties on the floor to one side and turning, deep scarlet, slowly lifted the hem of my skirt up and up until it was clear of my legs my bum and my slit. The twin-girls then walked schoolgirl-slim-leggilly around me uttering pleased words:

“Excellent legs…superb thighs…first rate bum, very firm…cunt appears to be in perfect order. Good….very good”.

Perspiration was beading on my forehead I was so embarrassed.

“Lower the skirt, off the jacket, undo the blouse, we need to see the tits”, Angelin commanded

I was a mass of fumbling nerves. What kind of modelling assignment was this to be? Of course, I had a right to a contract and would engage a lawyer to make sure the deal was really in my favour, financially……..

In my nervous state I struggled helplessly with the few simple buttons of my jacket. These girls had completely thrown me out of confidence and competence.

….… Suddenly Heatherhoney became angry at my nervousness and hesitation. She and Angelin now almost tore the jacket off me. Then, with her impatience very evident, as I was all fingers and thumbs, Heatherhoney took over from me in undoing the buttons of my blouse and pulling it completely off me, buttons pinging in all directions.

My blouse pulled off me so that I stood only in my brassiere above my waist, the heavenly twins stood in front of me with a look of amusement on their lovely faces as I struggled to unhook my brassiere.

I struggled in nerves of surprisingly high pitched state of tension, till finally Heatherhoney and Angelin’s impatience was rewarded by their very evident delight, as my incredible 36D breasts flowed from the cups of my bra, swung momentarily and settled for them to feast their wonderful grey eyes upon.

“That will be fine. Superb udders with first-rate nipples”, they muttered head down to each other.

They seemed to be thinking out loud; but then I noticed for the first time that they each appeared to have a mini-microphone in the cleavage of their pert firm virgin’s breasts.

Next Angelin insisted upon inspecting my teeth lifting my top lip and pulling down my lower, and then making me open my mouth fully. “Yes, yes….excellent, and confirmatory of the written record”, I heard her say.

Why this strange inspection? And why had Angelin turned to a mirror on the far wall and stood aside from me as she carried that inspection out?

The knowledge that that was a two-way mirror and that my humiliating strip and interview was being filmed would have totally freaked me out if I had realised it then. As it was, I was already assuming that, for some reason, the girls had some kind of dictation machine they were recording notes into, even if those notes were rude and crude to my way of thinking.

“Stand there: we need to feed your data into the computer”, Heatherhoney instructed.

I stood there in my dishevelled state, naked to the waist, my firm bountiful breasts bare, my stockings twisted, my panties thrown on the floor, feeling deeply humiliated as I heard the keys of the computer referred to being tapped by Angelin, with the occasional intervention from Heatherhoney.

Then I quietly gathered my blouse from the floor, and began struggling to re-dress and straighten my clothing. As I did so, I was blushing bright pink to the base of my neck.

“Looks good” said Heatherhoney, as she came away from her twin-sister and casually swept up my tiny black lace tanga-panties from the floor and threw them into the blazing fire, where they instantly flared up and disappeared into wisps of smoke.

I was aghast, and about to say something when Angelin snapped: “What are you looking at!?

My panties, tiny though they were, were something that I was going to feel very vulnerable to be without on my journey home. This must have been some kind of psychological test. Why would my panties have been thrown on the fire to burn? My will was being challenged by these young girls: girls half my age, or very nearly. I was not going to let them get the better of me and, panties or no panties, I determined I would straighten my clothing ready for home.

This was a set-up. I had no doubt this was a set-up and that Jackie had arranged it. She would want the realism. Her porno films were hallmarked by realism. Given the need for realism, she could hardly have forewarned me of this event, or else I might not have reacted as I had. I might have tried to play a part instead of being the real me, and completely ruined the video. The best thing for realism is the real thing. It was a set-up: this was a set-up and Jackie was behind it for sure!

In this realisation I began to relax. It seemed odd that Jackie must be behind this, even though she was currently in trouble for making such videos, but she knew the state of her businesses best. Historically, I was her best friend. I knew Jackie all-too-well. I also knew, and blushed at the thought, of how much Jackie would enjoy seeing me strip at the command of these schoolgirls, and my panties being burnt to humiliate me.

My mind and body were a turn-on for Jackie. She wanted to tame me. To shame me on this way would remind me of my debt to her, and humble me and recall to me that I was destined to be tame-girl. I was being taught a lesson by Jackie. Now that I had recovered from the attentions paid to me by the cruel Belinda, Jackie had returned to reminding me of my place in the world of girls. She wanted me tamed and this was part of my taming. Some day soon she would ask me to marry her. When Jackie had tamed me to her satisfaction we would be married. I was born to marry Jackie. Jackie was the love of my life. I was Jackie’s girl and she could do with me what she pleased as long as I could dream that one day I would be in her arms forever.

In the process of re-dressing, as I turned what was happening over and over in my mind, I reached my lovely long bendy-back fingers up to brush my long light-brown hair back over my shoulders. It was surely done. The loan was fixed. All I wanted to know now was whether I had passed the screen test, and what film I was being engaged for, in the revival of a modelling career I had no doubt whatsoever I was about to re-embark upon.

As I lowered my lovely arms, my hair arranged to my satisfaction as best it could be without a mirror, I had an innocent smile on my lovely face; but I looked up only to see that the delectable twins now had three-foot-long strap whips coiled at their superbly hourglass waists. Their whips hung from belts loosely slanted, sexily slanted, across their bare midriffs.

“You will strip naked Katrina, and you will strip now!” Angelin commanded quietly.

I smiled. This was part of the pretence. I would call their bluff. I crossed my arms and smiled at them, challenging their bluff. They were going a little too far now, but I would humour them. I was a grown woman; they were mere slips of girls. I could walk out of that office right there and then. What challenge were two schoolgirls to a grown woman?

I began to straighten my clothing in readiness to walk out.

In a trice, the girls had each grabbed one of my wrists and forced an arm apiece in a hammer lock up my back, bending me forward and making me get down on my knees on the office floor.

“Please! You’re hurting me!” I cried out in my shock.

“You don’t appear to understand Katrina” Heatherhoney hissed in my ear as she bent over me “You no longer need clothes.”

“That’s right”, mocked Angelin “You no longer need clothes, and if you won’t get rid of them yourself, we will strip you.

I fought one of my wrists out of their grip only to find that what I thought was a victory for my grown-woman’s strength was only in fact the result of Angelin easing her hold whilst she grasped a pair of girlacles. A familiar series of well-organised clicks and the wrist I thought I had freed was captured by one cuff of the girlacles, and soon joined by the wrist that Heatherhoney had hammered hard and painfully up my back.

It was perhaps a blessing for me that I could not see the looks of pleasure at my pain exchanged between these girls as they twisted my arms with surprising strength for such pretty little early-teenagers.

They raised me to my feet. I was shamed humiliated and imprisoned. Then, as if to emphasise my helplessness, a second pair of girlacles was used to fasten my arms to each other above my elbows. One pair of girlacles would have been plenty strong enough to hold my arms helpless, two could only be psychological: two was to show me that I was defeated.

“Please girls…..” I began.

I did not know what I needed to say. I did not know what was going on.

My lovely light-brown hair was scattered across my gorgeous face as I stood bent forward with my arms firmly double-girlacled behind my back. My clothing was in complete disarray once more, and one of my shoes had come off in the struggle.

This shoe, Angelin swiftly swept up and threw on the fire to join the ashes of my skimpy tiny panties. The fire shot up and made spitting noises as blue and yellow flames danced up from the smouldering leather of my shoe.

My jacket and blouse had already been pulled off me when I had been made to strip for examination. I had fitted my bra back on, and managed to put my blouse back on me too, when I was preparing to leave, even though several buttons were missing.

But now, as I watched my jacket joining the still burning shoe on the yellow-hot fire, I listened to the sound of, and felt in parallel, the sleeves of my blouse being torn from my shoulders and off my arms in strips.

Then the front of my now sleeveless blouse was being ripped open at its few remaining buttons, before also being ripped into shreds, and the shreds torn off my body by the insistent girls.

My skirt was then un-belted so that it fell around my ankles.

Heatherhoney was stripping me, Angelin ensuring the fire was not smothered by the abundant new fuel my clothing was providing for it.

As Heatherhoney undid my suspenders and tossed my suspender-belt for Angelin to put on the fire when the fire was ready for more fuel, my stockings began to creep down my glorious thighs.

My brassiere was soon unhitched and pulled off my stupendous breasts.

Heatherhoney then purposely stepped on the heel of my one remaining shoe as she gently pushed me off balance backwards and thereby forced that solitary shoe off my foot.

My stockings were then pulled down my lovely legs and torn from me.

I was naked but for my unfastened brassiere and the stubborn cuffs of my blouse, which had not come away when my sleeves were torn. My cuffs were now pulled so their buttons gave way. A knife was used to cut the shoulder straps of my bra, and I finally stood nude as the day I was born, being ogled by these lovely young girls, who clearly delighted in my full-grown woman’s beautiful body and the fact they had me at their entire command.

I stood horrified and frightened and silent as I watched the fire being fed my clothes until the very last stitch of what I had worn, my lovely black lace brassiere, the brassiere I had overfilled so over-fulsomely, was thrown into the flames.

There could be no doubt whatsoever that these girls had thoroughly enjoyed ripping my clothes off, and were even more enjoying watching me watching my clothes being burnt.

I was helplessly and painfully bound at the wrists and above my elbows. I could do as little to ease the pain of this as I could to fight the girls off from stripping me naked. They had me defeated. They had me in their power. I did not know what their purpose was for doing what they were doing, but it was entirely clear I would have to abide, willing or not, by whatever their purpose was. I was the prisoner of these schoolgirls. I was theirs to command: it was for me to obey.

“We know how to beat a girl so it really hurts though it doesn’t show” Angelin suddenly warned me, as if to emphasise my defeat.

“If you try to resist in any way, we’ll whip you Katrina, so you had best do as you are bid” Heatherhoney hissed threateningly.

“You are a very beautiful woman and we don’t want to hurt you, but we will if your resist” Angelin averred.

“You will stand obediently, and let us prepare you”, Heatherhoney instructed.

“Please, please!” I begged “What are you going to do to me?”

“We’ll pretend we did no hear you ask that question” Angelin sneered.

“You have no right to ask, and no right to know” Heatherhoney confirmed.

In truth I took a delight in having these wonderfully girl girls girlhandle me.

It began with Heatherhoney sweeping my hair up to the back of my head, and applying an elasticated band to bunch it together out of the way of my neck.

“The udders must be left free and unencumbered” Angelin began, “So it has to be the full length arm-binding glove.”

And this was how my bondage began. Heatherhoney and Angelin already knew what was to be fitted to me; the announcement was for the DVD that was being secretly recorded of my being forcibly stripped and bound in strange new bondage: the DVD I had suspected was being filmed.

The girls took a bag from behind the desk and from that bag a long black-coloured lace-up arm length, fingertips to armpits, leather, single glove in which to imprison my lovely arms.

I gave no resistance as Heatherhoney unfastened the girlacles at my wrists, and made me put my hands in the glove

Then my upper arms were freed from the second pair of girlacles that had been used to initially restrain me, and I made no attempt to resist my fate at the hands of these pretty angels, whatever that fate was to be, as they wrapped the whole length of my arms held behind me, in the long shiny-leather glove and began to pull its imprisoning laces tighter, and tighter, and tighter.

“What lovely arms and such pretty hands” whispered Heatherhoney.

I now stood with my arms imprisoned painfully tightly. From my shoulder height to my hands held prayer-like behind, me resting on my bountiful bare bottom, I was encased in a tapering single laced-up leather glove, helplessly, hopelessly, held hard.

I was not without stress either. My tightly bound arms were aching unmercifully, and I must needs keep working my fingers to avoid them going numb, or at least to stop experiencing constant pins and needles.

I still had no idea what these girls were doing to me or what they were doing it for. Obviously I knew they were binding me, but there was a purpose to the bondage I was being put in: a purpose a pattern and a meaning, none of which I could decide or decipher.

Angelin now placed two of the strangest looking objects on the floor and the as yet hidden cameras, hidden from me that is, panned in to study my lovely puzzled face as I studied them.

They were clogs. They were clogs: circular clogs: circular, that is, as seen by me looking down. Each clog was of some form of strong hardwood. It had tapering sides. Its sides tapered up such that it had a greater circumference where it stood on the floor, than where its flat top was. In depth these clogs would be a little shorter than three-quarters of my foot.

Around the base circumference of each clog, there ran a tight metal band, that must have been fitted by heating the band till it expanded to be bigger than the base of the clog was round, and then allowing it to shrink tight onto the wood of the clog as it cooled. That was the way they fitted the iron tyres on wooden wagon wheels I recalled. In this case the iron band compacted the sole of the clog presumably to give it longer wear. I say the sole of the clog, as if there was a heel to contrast the sole with, but in fact there was solely a sole on the clogs: they were flat on the floor: flat on the floor that is, other than for the fact that there was a central groove through, to cleave the base: to make the base cloven.

At the top of the clog, on its horizontally flat top, there were some black-leather fittings clearly intended to fasten the wooden clog my foot. I could also see that there was a hole, the width of my foot, within the top of each clog.

Angelin now held me steady by grasping my horribly bound arms, single-gloved behind me, whilst Heatherhoney readied my right foot for its clog. At this I emitted a little girly fart of fear, which the girls ignored.

Heatherhoney now slid my toes in the clog, and I became aware that my toes were not going forwards in the recess made for them in the clog, as they would in even the highest of high-heeled shoes, but being taken more than straight down vertically, even slightly back from vertical, into some kind of soft springy sheath for my big-toe.

Indeed each of my toes were going into individual cushioned sheaths within the clog, as if into a foot glove. I could not understand this. I had, so far, not uttered a word, but now nearly forgot myself, beginning to give voice to the question in my mind, before wondering, were I to speak, what they might do to me, and, concluding that I would surely be punished, catching myself in time.

The toes of my dainty right foot were in the glove-like recess within the clog leaving just my heel out of the clog, and Heatherhoney was tightening the clog’s leather upper, which fitted over my heel and buckled around my ankle at the Achilles’ tendon, to hold the clog firmly on me. Heatherhoney then busied herself with padlocks to hold the ankle strap and thus my clog irremovably in place on my right foot. Then Angelin held me upright and steady as Heatherhoney eased my left foot into my left clog, strapped it and padlocked it

I uttered a girly gasp as I was lifted by my clogs up to and beyond tiptoe. I rose to my full five-feet-seven height and some four-inches beyond , the four inches of wooden clog still between the tips of the big toes on which I stood within my clogs and the ground beneath the clogs.

As I found myself with the terrible strain of standing on the very tips of my bare toes within those unmerciful clogs, I cried out with the shock, “Oh no, please……..no, please…I…!”

But I was ignored as the eyes of the hidden cameras and the grey beauties of the incredibly sexy schoolgirls who were torturing me, drank in the fantastic shape of my superbly strong legs, forced onto tiptoe in permanent en-pointe, my calves muscularly stretched strong, my knees locked back and deep dimpled, my stupendous thighs muscularly panther powerful, my bottom’s cheeks side-dimpled deeply concave.

Whistles of amazement at my erotic beauty echoed around the room as the girls’ eyes switched from my wonderfully fully stretched legs, to my free swinging and swaying bountiful bare breasts, and back again.

The whistles were not in the script of the video that was being made of my very real torment. What was in the script was my torture, and here I was now standing clogged: a beautiful thirty-year-old girl bound with her arms helpless behind, and now tiptoed, heavenly legs stretched heavenwards by the clogs she had just been forced into.

My lovely face with my deep dark brown eyes was contorted with fear, but then a strange but familiar feeling hit my belly and lower. My erotic bondage was not only sexually exciting to my captors: it was arousing me. I was being made helpless and my enforced surrender to my captors frightened but yet sexually excited me in equal measure.

It was incredibly difficult to stand in this way, on the very tips of my big toes, with my arms tied back at wrist up to and beyond elbow, but I knew that I must, and I wanted now to take my punishment like a girl.

The strain on my legs was from my being unused, by now for some time past, to having them permanently skyscrapered. Now that they were, it felt wonderful. It felt sexy. I felt sexy, very, very, sexy. And my bondage was not over yet.

“Gag”, Angelin prompted.

The thought of being gagged horrified me, but I knew from all my previous taming experiences that it was useless to protest. This was undoubtedly a continuation of my taming and I must endure my fate whatever it might be.

Heatherhoney and Angelin duly produced my gag.

What a strange device this was.

As Angelin brought the gag to fit to me, I noticed that it had a single straight round profile steel bar to go in my mouth, and could see that the middle of the round profile steel bar, was of larger diameter and had a rectangular hole in its centre. Furthermore, the enlarged centre section with rectangular hole had semi-circular flanges above and below the hole and running forward from the hole.

I momentarily wondered why this should be. Then it dawned on me. I realised what was to happen. The hole and the flanges were for my tongue. The flanges were for my tongue. I was to have my tongue imprisoned within the gag that was going to go into my mouth whether I willed it or not!

I closed my eyes in horror as this demeaning implement was put in my mouth. I made no resistance as I was forced to open my mouth. I lowered my gorgeous brown eyes submissively as I stuck out my pretty pink tongue as far as I could, and had the rigid half-inch-diameter-ended hard steel bar slid over my poor tongue and to the back of my mouth between my back teeth.

My tongue would not be squeezed, but when this gag was tied hard back in my mouth, I would have my lovely mouth forcibly held permanently agape, and my pretty pink tongue helplessly imprisoned. It was an act of shear cruelty. It was a deliberate act of shear cruelty. It had its horrible purpose. It would ensure I was totally, but totally, unable to talk anymore.

Not to be able to talk would be a cruel blow for any human, particularly a communicative girl such as I. This was indeed a carefully calculated and fully intentional cruelty.

My tongue being satisfactorily through the flanges and gap in the middle of the cruel gag, the hideous gag was fastened at the back of my neck by means of leather straps with eyelets and answering buckle. The end of my tongue flicked helplessly and lewdly within my agape mouth.

Despite my distress at having my tongue imprisoned, I had noticed that the gag extended wide of my mouth clear of my face on either side. My mouth was now forced wide agape with my tongue sticking out obscenely, but the gag went beyond my face cheeks either side and ended in a vertical round hoop at either end. I wondered what purpose these hoops or rings in my gag could serve, or if they were merely decoration.

My psychological make-up being pure girl, my mood next swung one-hundred-and-eighty degrees from my feeling intrigued and very sexy, to my feeling fear and distress, and tears rolled down my lovely face as despair overwhelmed me. What was being done to me was so horrible, so terribly horrible. And yet there was worse to come yet.

Tears from horror and the frustration of knowing that I was already so heavily in bondage that I could make no physical protest to support the oral protest I longed to but did not dare and could not now make, prickled my eyes. What they were doing to me, presumably in Jackie’s full knowledge, was totally and utterly humiliating and degrading.

I was a highly intelligent highly educated beautiful sexy grown woman of thirty, being bound by two schoolgirls, girls probably half my age, to torture and humiliate me, and I must take it: I must take my humiliation, my humiliation and my degradation, like a sub-human moron slave. This was my fate. This was what I was reduced to for my failure to be able to pay a debt by any other means than to surrender to being tamed, and to be bound up like this was the latest and, for all I knew, the final fate I must, but must, endure.

I must wear my glove. I must wear my gag. To have cold steel pressing my tongue down as the ultimate insult to my human charms were so degrading.

And now I was to find out the use, or at least one of the uses, to which the hoops standing proud of the side of my pretty face, the steel hoops at the ends of my mouth gag were to be put to.

Angelin and Heatherhoney had opened the door of the office, the door through which I had entered for my interview, and then clipped a short length of rope to one end-ring of my gag.

Heatherhoney went ahead of us to clear the way, as Angelin grasped the rope attached to my gag, and pulled it gently to make me move to her bidding. I had never before realised the sensitivity of one’s mouth to such treatment, and was easily persuaded that my choice was no choice at all and I must go where I was being bid to go by the tug on my gag.

I clumped on the carpeted floor in my steeple-leg clogs as I wiggled girlilly at the end of the rope compelling me to follow.

I had to be guided through the door between office and waiting room, and I was concentrating on that, when I heard the gasps of horror from the three girls still in the waiting room queuing for their turn to be interviewed for a loan.

Aware this might be my last chance to call for rescue, I quickly signalled what I could with my beautiful brown eyes to urge them to call for help for me, but all I saw was three pretty girls looking at me and then at each other and heard one of them say: “They’re taking her to a girl-farm!” as my passage was forced clear and I reached the door that would take me into the public street and to my fate, whatever that fate was to be.

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer
Chapter 26 – An Uncomfortable Journey

Outside to greet me was an all-girl camera crew and an eager sadistic crowd of girls speedily gathering around me, quickly joined by the three girls from the waiting room. Obviously I was some kind of spectacle. A totally naked girl bound in a movement-restraining arm glove, tiptoed in round wooden clogs and gagged, is, I suppose, always going to be a spectacle in the public streets and I was now in the public streets bound in just that cruel and demeaning way.

This was part of the deal I had been forced to come to, and such were my debts it was necessary. I was being taken to my fate, whatever that fate was to be, and I had no idea what my fate was in fact to be.

I had no idea at that split-second what my fate was in fact to be, until I listened with the fascination of horror to a voice-over being recorded by Angelin, as Heatherhoney led me toward a trailer at the back of a four-wheel-drive sports utility vehicle. I listened with the fascination of horror to the voice-over being recorded by Angelin, as I had never ever before heard of the subject she was talking about. A whoreox? What in goodness’ name was or is a whoreox?

“A whoreox is a humanoid trying to hide that it is really cattle. In modern society we are surrounded by whoreoxen dressed and behaving as if they were just another girl among us. Unfortunately, as all keen hunters and lovers of blood-sports will know, wild whoreoxen have been hunted almost to extinction. The hunting, stalking and shooting of whoreoxen, though superb sport, forced those creatures to adapt and adopt human ways and mix with humans so as to hide themselves among, and thereby best protect themselves from their one and only predator. It takes a keen eye to spot the whoreoxen among us. They have adapted cunningly. They have even learned to speak human languages. They had to adapt to survive. We humans have to weed them out from among us if we are not to have our bloodlines diluted and polluted.”

This was clearly a fantasy being laid down as the foundation and theme of the film in which I was the central attraction; the victim; the eponymous whoreox, plucked from her disguised life among civilised humans. I was truly amazed at this formulation of sadism. I had never ever before heard of such a thing. I was about to find out in the most direct of ways, what it involved.

Angelin continued her commentary: “A whoreox has no belongings, no right to belongings, including no right to a home. It may be left to roam in the wild to mature to puberty whereafter it is fair game for the huntsgirl; or be taken and tamed. If it is tamed successfully, it may be given shelter on a farm. But it can be turned out at any time. It has no rights to a roof.” Angelin announced all this to camera, continuing the beginning of the second tape of my torture and what the fantasy that was happening to me for real was being founded upon.

Heatherhoney tugged gently on the lead rope attached to one of the rings at either side of my steel mouth gag. “Twum on ickle worwox, twum on now, we have got to gwet ickle worwox in that nice warmy cwattle-twuck haven’t we den? Twum on now ickle worwox….”

I began to move. It was a relief to do so. I picked up my clogs and clomped forward on the hard concrete slabs of the outside pavement. At every step my skyscrapered legs made me swing my hips girlilly, and my beautiful bum swished gently wide side-to-side, as did my big unencumbered breasts in opposite motion to my bottom.

I had already experienced walking skyscrapered en-pointe legged in my clogs inside, my feet arched back painfully and cruelly within them, to maximise the steepling of my super-erotic long legs. I was now made to wiggle and waggle my provocative bountiful bottom, clomping in my clogs, through the very attentive crowd of whistling and jeering girls on the sidewalk.

A swathe had to be forced in the crowd in front of me: a crowd of my fellow girls clearly enjoying my humiliation and thus further humiliating me.

I lifted my gorgeous tiptoed legs and planted my clogs swinging my rolling rump as I moved, and, for the first time as they hit the hard paving stones, I really heard the full clomp, clomp, clomp, of my clogs and realised its significance.

My pretty pink tongue flickered sexily through the gag in my agape mouth as I fought to concentrate on walking in my humiliating bondage.

“Twum on now Ickle worwox. Twum on now…” coaxed Heatherhoney.

Oh god no! Oh god, I was to become, a whoreox!! Now I knew that the clogs on my feet were my cloven-hooves. Oh god no! Oh god I was about to become, a whoreox!! I was bound in this way because I was about to become a human ox. I had no knowledge of what I would be subjected to in this latest manifestation of my taming, and that only added to the tingling of fear that shuddered down my superbly arched spine.

As we progressed and I clomp, clomp, clomped my clogs on the pavement in the open air, the humiliation of my bondage and of the dreadful fact of the act of my being exposed to all the world totally naked and bound so cruelly as a human ox, suddenly hit me between my legs, and I emitted a helpless sexy little squeal, made strange and low like a “moo” because of my imprisoned tongue, as my nectar oozed inside my slit. I was momentarily astounded by the weird animalistic noise that the clamping of my tongue by the flanged bit in my mouth had caused me to utter.

This was a strange, strange feeling. I had never thought like this before. Why did I want these strangers on the street to see me nude, to see me enslaved, to witness me being cruelly punished, strangely bound, and being forced against my will to perform like an ox for two schoolgirls, girls who carried whips to use on me were I to disobey them or try and challenge their total mistressy over me?

I found it deeply sexually arousing to be so humiliated, so forced to behave sub-humanly, to be forced to strip totally nude and have no further right to clothes, to have to remain totally nude at all times like an animal.

I emitted another little contralto moo of sexual arousal. I had no choice but to go where they were leading me. No choice but to expose myself totally nude and bound prisoner for the pleasure of my tormentors who could take me where they pleased and do with me what they wanted.

I had a human’s mind. I was an intelligent girl. But I was also girl in body. I was a girl. A girl has a cunt between her legs: her cunt can take charge of and completely overrule her head.

I was sexually aroused by what was happening. Very aroused. My head-brain was screaming that this must not be allowed to happen: what was being done to me was cruel and unnatural. But my cunt told me that I was a bitch who deserved all she was getting and more. And my head resigned, accepting that I must repay my debts as I had agreed to, through being tortured this way.

My progress was inexorable, clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp went my cloven-clogs on the hard concrete paving slabs with my lovely breasts swung wildly to and fro and bounced and flounced, bumping softly into each other as they swung wide out and back in on my chest. It was inevitable I would go to my fate exposed naked as the day I was born and humiliatingly bound imprisoned. I felt the breeze on my totally nude body as I was made to clomp along on my divine long legs with my unencumbered breasts swinging wildly side-to-side, wide-to-wide, wildly wholly free. I gave another little contralto moo as we approached the four-wheel-drive and trailer.

And what was this I could hear. Someone I knew was there. A friend was there!

“Here she come!!” I heard a young woman’s voice cry. It was Mi Li, the lovely Korean girl-boy shouting to ensure all eyes were on me, as if she needed to.

I had not expected this. Fear once more hit the pit of my stomach followed by a silly flashed false assumption Mi Li would get me freed. Stupidly I found it sexy to think of being so exposed to strangers. I had not realised it was likely I would be displayed this way before people that knew me. The one girl there that knew me had seen be tensioned torsioned and tortured many times before, but crazily illogically, I felt more exposed, more naked, more humiliated to have my friend Mi Li see me this way than complete strangers, and my sexual arousal momentarily doused itself.

“Twum on Ickle worwox, twum on now, there’s a gwood ickle worwox….” coaxed Heatherhoney humiliating me on camera and microphone and before the live crowd of pretty girls that had surrounded us.

I was outside in the open air in the open and free world, bound as a whoreox, being forced to go to a girl-farm wherever that might be, and whatever that was for real or for fantasy. I was outside and my clogs were clomp, clomp, clomp, on the concrete of the sidewalk. As I was urged along, my gorgeous bum swung from side-to-side forced to do so by the tiptoeing of my glorious legs in the cruel cloven-clog-hooves I wore, and my glorious udders swayed and swung and juddered and flowed divinely.

As I walked along at full stretched height on my divine legs, my arms cruelly tied hard behind me, my 36-inch D-cup breasts swayed out wide of my body and then back toward each other, or in the same direction, or flounced up and down, or knocked soundlessly wonderfully beautifully into each other, they were so wild and so free as I super-wiggled along, my natural gate multiplied many-fold by my tiptoeing.

And I could hear all the women and girls I had thought were the equal of my friends and neighbours calling out as I wiggled along clomp, clomp, clomp on my cloven-clogs. And none of it was complimentary. All of it was extremely cruel.

The girls and women seemed to hate me. They were jealous of my lovely face and my stunning body, and they hated me. My torture seemed to be bringing out the worst in the sweetest natured people, especially the younger girls.

As they watched the exciting enticing inviting undulations of my dimple-sided bottom there was a rising chorus of cries that I was meant to hear but could not make out completely as they were so intermingled: “slag”, and “bitch” featured most often. “cunt” was a favourite of the women. “slag” and “bitch” of the girls.

“Little miss high and mighty” and “taken down a peg or two” were phrases I caught from the girls, along with the invocation “whip the slag”, or “whip her fucking arse”

This was so horrible and yet now once again it was turning me on, such was the deep contrary power of my cunt-mind. This response to the sight of my helplessly bound body was turning me on wondrously, my nectar was oozing from the closed lips of my completely publicly exposed slit as I clomp, clomp, clomped gracefully along.

“Whip slag” I heard a familiar voice cry.

The stunningly pretty girlboy Mi Li was following me close behind and shouting and screaming in her broken English that I was: “fucking slag” that I “deserve what got coming” that she “hope fucking hurt” that she “all ways me hate”, that she “have bought DVD” and how she was “want see suffer”, and then returning to “whip slag, make suffer, give fucking hard whipping, whip tits off and tell from Mi Li wanted done her. Whip till bleed fucking slag………”

I could detect the sexual desire in her voice. And, above the cruel cacophony my own sexual moans could not be heard. My total helplessness and this utterly extreme abuse of me as I wiggled by, were turning me on, overwhelmingly powerfully and my clit had escaped its hiding-hood and was pulsing madly within my nectar filled slit.

As she would see in the DVD later, Mi Li’s horrible betrayal of me caused what would, but for my tongue being imprisoned by my mouth gag, have been a particularly loud sexual, girly sexual, arousal cry, and that my nipples were engorged and hard and, she would guess right that, though hidden, my clitoris was hard and throbbing even though it was being cruelly bitten by my eternal torment ring.

I girly-wiggle walked through this torrent of terrible tormenting taunts helpless to do anything other than obey the gentle tug on my lead-rope as I clomp, clomp, clomped on my clogs to the awaiting four-wheel drive station-wagon with the cattle-cart trailer attached behind it. The ramp of the trailer I was to be put in was already down.

Were the debts I owed worth this horrible torture?

To be honest I must tell you that by this stage I had all but forgotten what I was being punished for. My mind was rather more filled by my present physical predicament, my total helplessness, my complete and utter degradation, and my strange sexual arousal, rather than on why I was being tortured.

I heard a few more cries of, “whip slag” and Mi Li’s shout of, “suffer bitch” as my clogs clomped on the ramp and I was coaxed into the sweet smelling sawdust and straw strewn floored interior of the windowless cattle-cart.

“Suffer bitch”, came Mi Li’s sexually charged shout one last time.

My lead-rope was removed, and Heatherhoney tethered me by both end rings of my mouth gag to a bar that ran all around the three sides of the box other than the door-ramp side.

She then patted me lightly on my bottom saying, “Ickle worwox has been wewy gwood. Ickle worwox mustn’t be fwighty-wightened. We are gwowing to take ickle worwox to its nwice new homewomey”.

With that she got out of the cattle-cart, the door ramp was raised, and I found myself in what seemed like total darkness.

I could hear talking outside my cattle-cart. I could see nothing at first; but then my eyes got used to the semi-dark. But what use were my eyes, when my rigidly held body could not turn and I could not move my eyes to either side to see other than but one of the metal walls of the trailer I was in.

I was tethered by my mouth gag, both the tether and the way my arms were tied, meant I could not turn my body. I could only look straight in front of me, and straight in front of me was only the bare steel or aluminium or whatever, side of my cattle-cart.

The sweet smell of fresh straw filled my nostrils, and I sneezed. I moved my clog-shod feet in the straw and sawdust below me to try and find a comfortable stance, and I sneezed once more.

Then my trailer gave a lurch and I was taken off-balance momentarily: we were moving. We were moving and I was being taken, bound a helpless prisoner, to a girl-farm, wherever it might be and whatever it might be.

As my cattle-cart lurched and swung and tilted over at corners for seeming hours on end, the events of my torture so far were replaying in my mind. And I so wanted to keep them replaying, as that seemed the only way to stop myself thinking of the horrors of what could be coming next.

I was bondaged as a whoreox. What were they going to do to me?

My sexual abandonment had completely subsided once more. But then a new determination came over me, and disappeared and reappeared as my brain went around and around in circles.

At that very moment a new desire came over me. It was not the sexual wantonness that had hit me during the humiliation of walking the gauntlet of the crowd’s taunts. It was a new and far more distressing desire given my circumstances.

I needed to urinate. I needed to release my pee, and I needed to release my pee badly.

Had my tormenters not considered this need?

Of course they had. I was now a whoreox. I was no longer a human being. I was an animal. I could not expect the luxury of a proper place to do what nature demanded I must do. I had the proper place for a whoreox. I was in the proper place for a whoreox. A whoreox is an animal. It is to be expected that a whoreox will release its pee or droppings whenever and wherever. Humans must therefore take minimal precautions to make it easier to clean up after the animals. Why else was there straw and sawdust on the floor of my cattle-cart?

I fought like a human to control the desire.

How long was this journey? We must have been travelling for hours. I had heard the main highway. At least I thought it must be the main highway. But, if it was the highway, which highway was it anyway?

I still fought to control the desire to urinate; though it was stronger still. What were the chances I would be allowed to release my pee privately and comfortably: normally: normally for a human being that is?

And then, how could I tell them of what I needed with my mouth gagged and my tongue imprisoned by my gag anyway? I knew the answers to all these questions, but I still fought to retain my urine and my dignity.

The need to pee receded for a time. Then, once more I felt my face hot with the effort of controlling the one desire that was now obsessing me, the desire to empty my bladder. The need came back all too soon and with a vengeance.

I fought and fought, quite literally crossing my gorgeous legs and squeezing my powerful thighs together in the effort to keep from releasing my piss, and by fighting to control my ever eager bladder, I was performing a lewdly super-erotically deeply sexually enticing dance before the hidden infrared cameras in the tow-cart I was in.

I was with my wonderful thighs crossed as my cattle-cart went round a particularly tight corner, albeit slowly. I had to stand and part my lovely legs to brace myself lest I be hurt by a fall…… …and my pee suddenly, shockingly, irretrievably, and inevitably, gushed out of me.

I stood divine legs parted and my pee poured like a mountain stream, running down the wall of my cattle-cart and splashing onto my bare legs and my clogs.

My physical relief as I emptied my bladder, was nothing to my mental torment as I realised that I would always have to perform this act this way henceforth. I was now a whoreox. This is what whoreoxen had to do.

As the rising smell of my thick strong yellow pee filled the cattle-cart, I closed my lovely dark brown eyes and thought of the shame I must endure: the shame and the utter degradation and felt the stinging acidic golden droplets of my pee on my glorious legs.

We had come to a stop. There were voices. The ramp of my cattle-cart was being lowered. Heatherhoney came into my box and untethered me.

I wanted to apologise for having urinated in the cattle-cart, but Heatherhoney did not pay any heed to the smell or the sodden straw. She was dealing with a whoreox after all. Whoreoxen have to release their pee. All animals have to urinate. What was so surprising in finding a cattle-cart in need of cleaning-out because the whoreox had sprayed its pee or pooped its droppings during its journey?

The other blonde beauty ranch-hand, Angelin, moved into the box with a brush and shovel as I clomp, clomp, clomp clomped down the ramp led by Heatherhoney who used the rope that had hitherto tethered me within my cattle-cart.

“If it’s shit or peed in there, put the soiled hay in its stall” called Nina, who was suddenly back on the scene and seemed to be running this show.

I clomped in my cloven-clog-hooves down the ramp of the cattle-cart into an open courtyard. Nina took one look at me and ordered: “Hose its legs down”.

As I was tethered by Heatherhoney to have the cold water of a hose played on my lovely legs to wash off the pee that was burning my skin, I tried to look around, realising that this must be the girl-farm, but all I could see was a small single-story brick building with double doors. By double doors I mean doors above and below each other as is more usual with stables. I squeaked as the cold water hit me and at the realisation I was looking at a cattle-barn.

And I realised for sure that I was looking at a cattle-barn, when Heatherhoney went past me with a wheelbarrow full of the straw from the cattle-cart trailer I had been in, still stinking and wet with my pee, over the cobbles of the yard, opened the top and bottom doors of the barn, and ladled the soiled straw on its already thickly straw-strewn floor, scattering it with a pitchfork.

My heart sank. This was to be my roof. This stark barn was to be where I must live from now onwards. This is what I had come to through being unable to pay my debts. This former international model renowned throughout the world for her incredible beauty was to spend the rest of her days as a whoreox in a straw floored cattle-barn.

I was untethered, still with droplets of the cold water with which I had just had my pee washed off, pearly glistenings on the divinely soft skin of my wondrously wonderful legs.

The cameras continued to hum, as Angelin announced: “Since we sold Daisy last week to a farmer who desperately needed another whoreox to put to plough, this new whoreox is to have Daisy’s stall.”

Was that to be my fate too? Was I to be made to pull a plough in the open field all day and maybe, who knows, whipped to drive me?

I clomp clomped at the end of the tether in one of my mouth gag rings, obediently from where I had been tied to hose me down, onto the cobbled yard in front of the barn where my clog-hooves made a particularly loud clatter as their sexy sound echoed from the building’s walls.

I was being taken toward the open barn. It was presently empty, but I was indeed to be put in that barn: I was indeed to be put in the barn with its doors open and Angelin scattering the soiled straw from the cattle-cart within it.

My progress toward the barn was halted momentarily for Nina to order that I be fed and watered and then tethered for the night. That last phrase was strange to me. I suddenly realised that I had no idea whatsoever what time of day it was. Yes, of course I knew it was the afternoon; late afternoon even, we had been travelling all day, but was it 4.00 or 6.00?

I moved to lift my lovely left arm to look at my watch. Stupid girl! What watch? I wore no watch!! I did not know, and I had no right to know what time it was. I could be put in a barn or taken out whenever and wherever they pleased. I had no say in the matter whatsoever. I was a whoreox now. Time has no meaning to a whoreox.

I now looked at the barn. I could see that the straw was perhaps approaching one-foot deep. There was a threshold at the bottom of the doorframe to allow this build-up.

I was next made to wiggle-walk, clomp, clomp, my sexy way toward the barn to enter it and, for the first time, caught its strange smell. It came from the straw. There could be no doubt of that. It was a strong earthy odour. I could also see the waves of warmth rising from it, as if from a fermenting garden waste-tip.

As we got closer still, I could see that the straw was dark and damp looking, and that it had only been further covered a little by a thinly scattered top layer for me, the straw on which I had urinated in my cattle-cart had been scattered in the barn along with some unsoiled fresh straw as that top layer.

Then I heard, as I was of course meant to hear, Angelin’s astonishing announcement to camera:

“There is a premium price on girlnure, especially if it’s rich in whoreox droppings”, Angelin stated cooly.

I closed my lovely dark brown eyes at the full horror of what she was saying and what it could only mean for me and where I would be housed.

“A whoreox barn is only cleaned out once every couple of months. There is usually a good harvest by then. We advertise the girlnure locally. The demand far outstrips the supply, which means a very handsome profit for the farm as the price can be set high. Girlnure bought from this farm is sold world-wide” Angelin told one of the cameras, the other being on my gorgeous face to take in my reaction to this new cruelty.

“Our new whoreox will be finishing off where Daisy started. There is some four week’s worth of girlnure in its stall already.”

“As I have said, girlnure is so sought after, that it can bring a higher price than a whoreox itself”, Angelin continued.

“I realise it must seem a strange distortion in the price balance in the market for commodities, but market forces are market forces, and even twelve-months-worth of our new whoreox’s droppings will be worth several times more than the whoreox itself is at market.” Angelin announced.

“Whoreoxen in captivity are plentiful. But, even so, their girlnure takes time to accumulate and ferment. So, when you think about it, it is perhaps little wonder that a whoreox can soon be worth less than its own accumulated dung.” Angelin concluded.

I did not know what to think about this calculatedly demeaning and humiliating statement, but somehow I knew that this was no game: no pretence. I had entered a new world. I had entered the world of animals. I was become a whoreox and was being treated as a whoreox. I was become an animal and was being treated as an animal.

I was also being told that I at least had worth for one thing. I was being told that the something I was of worth for, but worth less than, was my own droppings: my shit. I hung my head, insofar as I could, I hung my head in drowning-deep utter shame.

I was now so close that I could hear the flies buzzing around and in at out of the barn, loving my humiliating barn, as I was led in to where I would from now on spend my nights and, I assumed, any other time I was not required in the day.

I was led toward the barn, Nina herself having taken over the tether attached to my mouth gag, whilst Heatherhoney and Angelin went ahead.

Every pressure had been put on me now to think as a whoreox, my new status in the world. But I was, as yet, still thinking humanly, and therefore feeling the depth of humiliation to which I was being reduced. That was good from the standpoint of my tormentors. I was torturing myself, lowering my own self-esteem, breaking my own spirit.

I clomped over the barn yard cobbles on my gorgeous en-pointed legs, and up the gentle ramp that would take me for the first time into the barn.

The walls of the barn were stark and cold looking. They were painted white, but the paint was beginning to flake off. A metal bar ran across its front at above my head-height, even tiptoed as I was. My eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside to see Heatherhoney and Angelin at the rear of the barn:

“We’ve filled its water manger and it will have the warm bran raw oats and fresh grass mix”, said the lovely Heatherhoney addressing Nina.

“I would have preferred it only had grass”, said Nina in a slightly tetchy voice.

“Sorry Heatherhoney”, she went on, “You are right to think of cleansing its system of any residue of human food. The bran will help with that. But I have tablets from the vet for it. I suppose we could give it both the bran and the tablets. But I don’t want it to shit the tablets straight out again though...”

I felt sorry for the truly gorgeous Heatherhoney, who blushed with her upset at getting something wrong, as she was removing my dreadful mouth gag.

If you think that I was horrified at what I was expected to eat and how I was expected to eat and drink you would, of course, be absolutely right. But I was dreadfully thirsty, and found myself bending over into the water trough to suck up such as I could with my pretty lips, even before I had really thought about the indignity.

I heard Angelin giggle. “Gosh, it is keen!” she mocked.

“If it tries to talk like a human, whip it and whip it good and damned hard”, Nina reminded Angelin and Heatherhoney, my two very leggy ranch-hands.

I refused the bran and oats mix. If I held out, I thought, they will not treat me so cruelly; they would not want me to starve.

As I turned from the troughs my exciting mouth still wet with water, enticing and kissably seductive, the two ranch-hands took a grip of my bound arms above the elbow: Angelin was suddenly also pinching my nose tight so as to close my nostrils. What the hell was going on?

I had, of course, to open my mouth to breath and Nina grabbed her chance. From behind her back she produced a straight hollow tube, which she pushed into my open mouth over my tongue and part down my throat.

I was gagging and gasping for air, as I saw her puff her cheeks out and blow into the end of the tube that was now in her mouth also. She blew as hard as she could, and I felt a lump of something solid come out of the end of the tube in my mouth and down my throat.

“Hold it still” she commanded as she, I could see, was putting a lump of something into the tube again. Once more she put her own lovely lips over her end of the tube, and once again she blew into it, and the lump of whatever she had put into it, went down my throat.

It all happened so quickly.

Then I recalled something I had seen on television. It was about a vet giving cattle a pill. I had been dosed with medicine. I had been dosed in the manner used by a vet to give pills to cattle. I had been given the medicine prescribed by the girl-farm’s vet. Further deep and hurtful humiliation had just been heaped upon me before the gleefully recording cameras.

My tongue-imprisoning gag was then being put back between my teeth. I was led forward and tethered by my gag to the bar across the ceiling standing tip-of-tiptoed in my cloven-clogs in the barn. They were leaving me and closing the barn’s top and bottom doors. I looked pitifully after them with my gorgeous eyes tear-filled, but nobody even looked around at me.

“Didn’t we ought to let it lie down so it can sleep” asked Heatherhoney in a prompted question for the benefit of the cameras and, of course, also purposely for my hearing.

“Don’t be such a naïf booby”, Nina responded with charming laugher in her voice, “Have you never seen them in a field?” she asked, not expecting an answer: “Horses and whoreoxen sleep standing up, you silly girl”.

Katrina’s Taming
by Eve Adorer
Chapter 27 – Economic Production

The length of the night had never seemed so black: the darkness ever so long. By the way I was tethered I was forced to stand, and standing I could not sleep.

In the English summer dawn comes early. For me it could not come soon enough. As Heatherhoney and Angelin opened the top and bottom doors of my barn at the crack of daylight, they immediately saw that I had urinated and defecated down my gorgeous legs. In the particular interest of securing my faeces for the girlnure my bodily functions were contributing toward, Angelin used a bucket of cold water to wash my legs of my pee and my shit, as I still stood tethered in the straw of the barn.

I was then untethered and clomp, clomp, clomped in my tiptoe cloven clogs out into the open yard, where I was tied-up once more by a rope from my gag to a hoop in the wall of the barn. There I was hosed down more thoroughly all over with bitterly cold goose-pimpling water.

My gag having been removed, I was again surprised by having my nose held so that I opened my mouth and was made the enforced recipient of two more pills from the farm’s vet.

For the joy of having my mouth free from the gag, I held my silence as my legs were foamed and shaved, and my teeth thoroughly brushed clean.

Nina appeared on the scene to check my progress, progress that was being filmed and thus necessitated, it seemed, strange stray announcements that would inform the future viewers of the DVD of the developing plot in what was to them, or at least could just as well be, a work of complete fantastical fiction, but was to me very real reality in the very real world.

“The pills will take two weeks or more to work, but she’s to go in today,” Nina announced to the twin angelic schoolgirls shaving the curvaceous contours of my legs.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” Nina concluded.

I thought no more of this, I was so terribly tired. Then I heard an electro-mechanical buzzing noise. My gag had been refitted, and I was not only tied by a rope from my gag to a ring in the outside wall of the barn, but was also having my head held fast by Heatherhoney grasping the rope next to my gag.

The buzzing grew louder and closer, and closer and louder, and more insistent, and suddenly electrical shears were being run crudely over my head and I mooed out from my gagged mouth with all the horror I could express, which was no less than the horror I felt, as I became fully aware that my head was being shaved of all its lovely long light-brown hair: the hair I had only so recently re-grown.

I wiggled my sexy body as I tried unavailingly to fight off my head being shorn. My bottom swung and swayed and its deep-dimpled half-moons undulated, enticed, waggled, wiggled and seduced in my sexy fight. My body was all girl and anything it did was unavoidably deeply sexual: girl is deeply sexual.

I wiggled my sexy body as I tried unavailingly to fight off my head being shorn. My breasts swung swayed and silently bounced into and softly rebounded off each other in my sexy fight. My body was all girl and anything it did was unavoidably deeply sexy: girl is deeply sexy.

I wiggled my sexy body as I tried unavailingly to fight off my head being shorn. My lithe legs twisted and re-shaped from one fantastically curvy girlmuscular pose to another breathtaking orgasmically lovely pose, I was so leggy and girl in my sexy fight. My body was all girl and anything it did was unavoidably deeply girl: girl is girl.

I fought and fought in my unavoidably sexy way but finally stood with my hair cut down to short stubble, my tears dripping as my locks dropped to my shoulders and clung on my sweat sweaty breasts.

The hose was played over me again to wash off my loose hair and coincidentally the sweat I had built up in my frightened fight, and I found myself being returned to the barn, but there was something different about the barn.

There was something different about the barn, and I returned to my sexy wiggling enticing sexual struggle when all the horrors of my truly terrible twenty-four hours in the girl-cage flashed in front of my eyes, as I found myself standing in my tiptoe cloven-hooves in front of a transparent plastic box.

“You will step into and fold yourself fully into the crate and you will do it now, or we will whip you” Angelin ordered in a completely emotionless monotone.

What choice had I got? I lifted a lovely right leg and stepped its exquisite shapely sexiness into the square transparent plastic box, to join it with my other very lovely leg.

I lowered myself down slowly, my arms behind where they were still in the single glove that wrapped them and laced them immovably tightly, I bent at my knees and jacknifed my body into the square-profile tube of strong plastic, horrified by the return of the memory of the girl-cage that this treatment seemed so much to parallel.

But this was different. This was to be different.

As soon as I was folded into the box, Heatherhoney and Angelin rolled in a large rubber-wheeled trolley and, assisted by Nina, lifted me in my plastic square-profiled box, onto the trolley, all three girls showing surprising strength, turning the box in which I squatted, so that what had been its bottom on the ground, became its back once sat on the trolley, and so that I now knelt on what had been its side, but was now its base: a base with a grid of holes in it.

Once I was on the trolley, the former base of the square-ended box was removed. Now the lace in my glove, the glove that held my hands and arms tied, was being cut, and the glove taken off me. My wrists were then girlacled behind me, and the girlacle’s linking chain hooked to the top of the now open rear end of the box. Straw was pushed into where I knelt on the grid-holed floor of the box.

The box was locked down to the trolley and the trolley wheels locked so they could not roll the trolley and me anywhere.

I watched thereafter in a dazed gaze as an inverted bottle was wheeled over on a frame like that used in old films when the heroine needs a blood transfusion. But the tube from this bottle was fed between my kissy lips through a hole in my mouth gag.

Then the delightful Angelin took my lovely right breast and inserted something into my nipple hole before letting go the opened mouth of a clip that squeezed my nipple and held the uncomfortable little insert plugging my nipple hole. This she repeated with my left nipple, and I was presumably ready: but ready for what?

With my wrists tied and my legs folded double, forced to crouch down because of the size of the box, escape was impossible, so that you will need little imagination to feel as I felt as I heard Heatherhoney’s sweet soft moist mouthed schoolgirl lispy breathy-sexy announcement to camera.

“Practices on girlfarms must move with the times. The totally uneconomic and impractical ‘organic’ and ‘free range’ eras went out with the 2010s. Profitable productivity can only be ensured by intensive farming. As you will see, the whoreox is snug warm and happy in its crate, the crate in which it will spend the rest of its productive life. It will be fed a measured all-day meal that will enable it to produce its contribution to the girlnure, as its urine and droppings fall from the back of its box. The trolley will enable us to wheel the whoreox out once per day and hose it clean. It will therefore want of and for absolutely nothing. Indeed, what more could a whoreox ask for than fresh straw, food and shelter?”

All I heard of this speech was “…the cage in which it will spend the rest of its productive life……..……..the crate in which it will spend the rest of its productive life……..……..” as my head spun and I screamed in my head heart and soul at what I now knew was to be done with me.

The tube was being forced over my gag: the tube with which I had twice before been force-fed pills from the vet, and two more pills were forced down my throat by Angelin’s sweet breath.

The cameras lingered on my delectable face as the absolute horror of what I was to endure registered fully with me.

My life as a whoreox on an intensive farm, cooped permanently in my battery cell had begun.


Thank heaven I had more room to move within my battery cell than I had in the girl-cage, but there was no generosity behind that. The movement I was allowed was not to show any humanity, but to keep the animal I had become in a healthy and productive state.

I managed to work the straw under my tight folded legs and to keep myself moving only just enough to avoid the cramps. I was hungry and thirsty, and drew on the tube that ran to my mouth to suck in the not disagreeable goo, with which I was being fed. I had no idea what it contained, but it satisfied my hunger, and to eat was my only comfort.

Of course I tried to escape: what girl wouldn’t? But my wrists being chained up to the back of crate, and the tightness of the box I was in, prevented me from straightening my gorgeous legs and without being able to straighten my legs I was helplessly and hopelessly held hard.

Tears were torrential. I was so lonely and helpless. It was not that my crate was not visited though. Four times per day now they pushed the tube into my mouth and shot two pills down my throat. But there was no conversation. I longed for the human contact that conversation confirms.

I say that there was no conversation. There was, but not with me. I was ignored. I was just an animal. The two exquisitely sexy schoolgirls, twin sisters Heatherhoney and Angelin, came into the barn in their heelless tiptoeing shoes, flashing there lovely lithe lissom legs before my longing delighted eyes, to change my food bottle or to shoot the two pills into me. And they giggled and chatted musically sweetly and so sexily prettily to each other as they tossed their down-to-their-smackable-bottoms length kinky curled hair, acutely cutely, carelessly, excitingly enticingly, whilst paying no attention to me as a fellow girl.

And after they had carried out the tasks that farming me required, they would close the top and bottom doors of the barn and leave me bitterly lonely once again. My only entertainment was watching the daylight in the cracks between the top and bottom barn door, and at the bottom of the lower door, as day turned to dusk, then dark, then dawn, then day once again.

Once per day, extremely early, I was wheeled out in my crate onto the cobbled forecourt. There they would hose me down, trim my head hair, change the straw on which I knelt, check my hooves, my girlacles, remove my gag, clean my teeth, check the plugs in my nipples, replace the tongue-imprisoning gag, and wheel me back into the barn for yet another twenty-four hours of extremely lonely hell.

Inevitably I must give way to my natural needs. As a girl in human society I would, of course, have been decorous and discrete about the functions that nobody discusses in polite company. In my crate I had become, though I did not realise it, I had become careless. I could pee or defecate at whim, and whim had replaced will. I no longer needed to retain and restrain my pee and my faeces, so I eased my beautiful body as far as I could to get my bottom out of the rear of my crate and shit unrestrainedly, or peed on the straw over the grill in the floor of my box and corresponding holes in the trolley my box was secured to. I was like an untrained animal, ashamed at the humiliation and degradation and disgusted at my smelly sweaty state.

I was, in some part, being farmed for my excretions. Accordingly, whilst one of either Heatherhoney or Angelin was hosing me out within my confining crate in the yard of a morning, I could see one of either Angelin or Heatherhoney in the barn with a pitch fork, mixing the turds of my latest droppings, into the top layer of straw, and laying down fresh straw for me to defecate onto, to produce the rich girlnure that the farm was famed for.

Those exceptionally outstanding very expensive roses in your local florist, the ones you long to buy for your girlfriend, almost certainly flourished and flowered in girlnure.

My thoughts, and I had endless time to think thoughts in my crate, went repeatedly back to my body and the shape I would be in, given endless confinement without exercise whilst they farmed me. But I did not seem to be gaining weight, so there must have been considerable science behind the food I was fed.

I say that I was not gaining weight. That is not strictly true. I was at the end of my third week of my horrible confinement. I had knelt doubled in my battery cage, being fed in the front so that my shit and piss could be farmed for girlnure at the back, for fully twenty-one or twenty-two days, when I first noticed it for sure.

I had expected to bleed during this time. A girl expects to bleed once per month, but I had not come on. I had not menstruated. I had not even felt the slightest sign of the beginning of that supremely feminine function. I knew I was due. I knew my cycle. I knew I was due to come on, even overdue my monthly bleed, but it did not happen.

I wondered if I were pregnant. Imprisoned as I was, my mind had endless hours days and even weeks on which to dwell on such considerations. In truth though, I had only been had by girls in the past few years. The only cock I had been penetrated with was Mi Li’s, and Mi Li had used my mouth and not my slit in which to jerk and spurt her seed. I confess that the fantastical notion that my dog-shagging had made me pregnant flashed through my dreams, even though I had only had my bum and my mouth used by the huskies, and that had been well over a year ago.

There was something else too. I was gaining weight in two parts of my body. I had a new sensitivity and even a soreness about my breasts. My gorgeous breasts felt not only sore and sensitive but also decidedly heavier.

Within twenty-four-hours of my noticing the weight, only a little weight, but still some weight gained by my breasts, I began to have the strangest feelings within them. It came in my right breast first, but my left was not far behind. It was a feeling I had never ever felt before and for which therefore I could not account.

The feeling came on, on the eighteenth or nineteenth day. It lasted all day, and kept me awake all night. My breasts hurt. They really hurt.

It was the next morning that I found the horror of what the cause of my pain was. My whoreox coop had been rolled out of the barn so that it and I in it could be hosed out, and my contributions to the girlnure spread on the barn floor and mixed with fresh straw, when Nina had touched my right breast, and I had, because it was the noise my tongue-imprisoning gag forced me to make, mooed with the pain.

“I think we’re there at last”, Nina had pronounced to the camera and the curious Heatherhoney and Angelin.

At that, Nina had opened the clip holding the stud in my left nipple, removed the stud, put the palm of her pretty had below my nipple and gently squeezed the middle of my breast.

I gasped as I felt liquid squirt from me. I was horrified beyond horror. What was it? What was happening? What had they done to me? And then I realised what it must be: the only thing it could possible be. It surely it must be milk! It must be milk! I was producing milk!! It was milk! I was full of milk!! My breasts were full of milk!!! I was in lactation!!!!

The sealing plug was returned into my nipple and the clip squeezed it irremovably into place.

“Excellent!” Nina declared. “Keep giving it the pills the vet supplied. It’ll be another week before we can milk it. Increase the grass content of its feed”

I mooed a cry of horror at the realisation that the pills I was having shot into me must have altered my hormonal balance to the extent that I was now effectively a post-natal girl. Even without the nine months of a pregnancy my bodily balance had been adjusted to make me lactate. This was so, so, so, so horrible!!

My fourth week crouched double in my confining coop had begun with pain in my now lactating breasts. It was the pain inevitable from the consequence of my nipples being blocked so my milk could find no way out of me.

If I had thought my breasts were painful on the first day of that week, that was as nothing to the agony they were causing me by the third and fourth day, as my breasts seemed to become stretched and enlarged by the huge pressure of milk building up behind my blocked nipples.

I was mooing with pain twenty-four-hours per completely sleepless day now, as they forced the pills down my throat but would do nothing to relieve me by letting my milk leave my hugely horrendously painfully breasts.

My breasts seemed to be swelling: it felt as if they must surely be swelling. In my mind, if not in reality, no longer was I a thirty-six-inch D-cup, I had gone through thirty-eight, forty, and was fast approaching forty-two EE-cup. My heavenly soft girl’s foremost forefront protuberances were, in my tortured mind, massive hard balloons.

In fact I was just as beautifully proportioned as heaven had made me now that I was a grown-up girl. Even so, my poor bosoms were very hard, and a filigree of divine delicate blue veins showed within my distorted and stretched breasts, adding to the erotically supercharged beauty of my agony.

By the sixth day I was in so much pain that I was my breasts and my breasts were me!

I had ceased to eat on the fifth day. I merely nodded my head constantly and mooed and moaned feeling nothing but my pain, and my pain was my breasts, and my breasts were my pain, as I listened to the sweet kissable constantly moist lisping lips of Angelin explaining to the recording cameras as I was having my coop hosed through in the courtyard of the a barn that:

“The pain of the whoreox is extreme at this juncture. We share your distress at the horrible pain it suffers. However, the expression about ‘being cruel to be kind’ finds meet in what is happening here. For it to be a useful animal on the farm, the whoreox must be productive. In dairying, productivity means yield. The whoreox has been gradually transferred back from the meat-based diet it indulged when it hid itself among we humans. Its diet is now ninety-percent and will soon be one-hundred percent the grass that whoreoxen naturally feed upon in their wild state. But this whoreox is being provided shelter and must pay its passage. It may seem cruel to block its teats as we have. But if the whoreox is to pay its way, the ducts in its udders must be expanded so that it will produce the litreage of milk that will see it make profit for the farm. The quantity of milk the whoreox would produce without expansion of its normal productive capability and volume, would not be enough to balance the cost of its shelter and food. Accordingly, we must keep its teats blocked till we triple its productive yield so that it will pay its way on the girlfarm”.

The seventh day dawned with Heatherhoney and Angelin bringing two small, bright shining, aluminium buckets into the barn, in which I had squatted tied by my wrists to keep me kneeling double within the horrendously cruel coop crate in which I had now knelt for approaching five whole weeks.

And the cameras were moving close in upon my tortured body. And Angelin’s sweet soft exceptionally pretty hands were cleaning my hugely hard hugely beautiful breasts with antiseptic wipes. And then a broad leather strap was rested over my shoulders as I knelt bent double. And then the buckets were fastened to the ends of the strap and put, one apiece, under my superbly hard hellishly hurting breasts, and the buckets linked together with a chain to hold the buckets with my breasts just inside them. And then Angelin, sweet schoolgirl Angelin, put her perfect pretty fingers next my nipples. And then she squeezed and opened the clips that held the plugs in the milk-holes in my nipples, and they shot out of me: the plugs in my nipples damming my milk and damning me to agony shot out of me. And then I cried out with pain and the relief of pain in the longest inhuman gagged moo of complete and utter agony and relief from agony, as my milk poured from me into the buckets. And Angelin was joined by her identical twin Heatherhoney, and the two virgin schoolgirls with their oh-so-very-very-kissable but never-ever-kissed moist, ever moist mouths, licking their luscious lovely wet, ever wet lips, with their long lingering languorous pink pointed tongues as they concentrated on what they had to do, caressed my breasts.

And the hands of these girls, the hands of these schoolgirls, the hands of these innocents, the hands of these virgins, the hands of these unkissed untouched heavenmade angels were gripping the middle of my breasts. The gentle virgin never-ever-even-touched never-ever-even-kissed virgin schoolgirls, their sweet hands, their gentle hands were pressing my breasts and pulling my breasts down toward the buckets, the buckets I was filling with my milk. They were squeezing my breasts. They were squeezing and pulling my breasts. They were milking me. I was being milked.

I was being milked by the heavenly schoolgirls Heatherhoney and Angelin Heavenmade. I was being milked, and my milk was squirting into the buckets, as my titties were being pulled and squeezed, and squeezed and pulled, as they milked me, these schoolgirls milked me. And in my shock and pleasured excitement my pee shot from me and trickled to the cobbled floor behind my battery coop and turds of my droppings squeezed out of my anus and flopped stinkingly to the ground as I was milked and milked, and my breasts alternately squeezed and pulled and pulled and squeezed rhythmically, left and then right and then left and then right, and my milk spurted and squirted from my nipples, left and then right and then left and then right, bubbling the milk already in the buckets, as the schoolgirls milked me with both their perfectly pretty hands around the middle of one each of my tits, squeezing my tit firmly, and then pulling down on it to urge my milk to spurt from my nipple……. I was being milked. I was being farmed for my milk!

And this deepest of deep degradation and my helpless hopeless kneeling imprisonment in my confining battery-farm coop, my hands tied behind so I must live like an animal on a battery farm, was turning me wildly on. And my milk was squirted from my titties by the innocent schoolgirls pulling and squeezing my titties in turn: left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, as the schoolgirls rhythmically milked me… And I came, I gasped, and moaned, and groaned, and mooed, and screamed, and hollered, and mooed, and bit down on my unyielding gag with my joy and my come of comes, as they milked me… left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt… as these unblemished blameless schoolgirls milked me into the buckets… left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, …….and I orgasmed hugely heavenly heavily a second and a third time……. left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt…. as I was being milked by the innocent schoolgirls pulling and squeezing my beautiful breasts with both their dainty hands around the centre of one of my breasts, squeezing my tit and pulling down on it at the same time to force my milk from me…… left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt…… my milk shooting into the buckets from my nipples………

And I must live in my coop, kneeling in my coop, confined in my crate, being intensively farmed, being battery farmed for my milk. I was to remain in my battery cell eating and sleeping. I would live in my cruelly completely confining coop being hand milked twice per day. Twice per day having my breasts pulled and squeezed to squirt the girlmilk from me into buckets, so the produce of my breasts could be sold at market.

And twice per day, once in the morning before school, and again in the evening after school, Angelin and Heatherhoney would come to the farm to perform the irksome chore of milking the whoreox, to squeeze its titties for the abundant creamy milk. And twice per day I was milked: and twice per day I orgasmed as I was milked…a girl in heaven and hell: in the heaven of hell and the hell of heaven, as the tetchy impatient schoolgirls milked me, roughly, crudely, impatiently, but oh so rythmically…… left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt….. to squeeze my milk through my nipples into the buckets yet again, before closing the doors of the barn to leave me once more back in the dark crouched in my coop, kneeling bound in my cell, my nipples again blocked to store the milk that would build up in me, as the intact virgin schoolgirls Heatherhoney and Angelin wiggled naturally sexily, sexily naturally, away to school for the day or to their house to do their home studies………


To use the term “rescue” to describe my release from the crate at the girlfarm would be to exaggerate. Understandably, dear reader, you will have found the description of the horror I was submitted to at the girlfarm, being farmed for girlnure and my milk, deeply upsetting. You may therefore consider the term “rescue” wholly appropriate to define my move from there. However, to call my transfer from the girlfarm “a rescue” assumes both that I welcomed it, and that what I went to next was freedom, when neither was in fact quite the case.

My imprisonment, there is no other word, as a human girl tied by her wrists to keep her helplessly crouched endlessly on her knees within a tiny coop in which she could barely move, so as to ensure that all her energies were concentrated upon the yield of her breasts, breasts transformed by daily hormonal dosing, now reduced to twice daily, to lactate fulsomely, was cruel, inhumane, vile even. But I was prepared to suffer it for the debts I still owed Jackie and the indescribable pleasure of being milked by the exquisitely lovely young schoolgirls: girls so adorably gentle with me, despite their clearly finding the task of milking me twice per day very bothersome.

These schoolgirls, though fifteen by the time my year in the coop came to an end, seemed so innocent that they did not appear to realise the unconfined joy I had at their touch, and that I would orgasm twice per day without fail as they squirted the milk from my nipples into the buckets they dangled my swollen breasts into.

The filming of my torture and humiliation had stopped with my first milking. Thereafter, I had simply been farmed. I crouched on the straw at the bottom of my confining coop for a whole year, sucking in the grass-based feed I was continuously provided with, with my milk building up behind my plugged-up nipples, and my pee and faeces dropping to ground on the straw strewn floor to produce, over the months, abundant girlnure.

I had resigned myself to the fact, the seeming fact, that I was now a whoreox and would be farmed as a whoreox for the remainder of my milk producing days. I cared not to think, I dared not to think, about what might happen if ever my milk production began to fall-off.

We were in the 2020s now, and the discipline of girls could be and was savage. Society had lost the very end of its tether where naughty girls were concerned. Whether they willed it or not, girls were being disciplined in all manner of ways.

The need for population control: birth control: had encouraged the encouragement of girls to practice lesbianism. Girl-girl marriage had been made legal as early as 2010. Only wealthy and influential men had wives now. All other men had to be content with the brothels, and many a pretty girl underwent training on the use of her three orifices to satisfy men in the minimum time necessary to keep the turnover of the “hen-houses”, as they were known, lucrative for the owners.

And that was just for the better class brothels. In the cheaper ones, the girls spent all of their days bent over so that men could use their three orifices. Quite often their mouths and their bottoms or their cunts would be being used my two men at once, as if the girls were a production line, for indeed they were.

Because the world’s oil supplies must be rationed, the famous London cabs had long since been replaced by girl-gigs. The prettier the girl the more custom she would attract of course, but to spend one’s day, every day all day and late into the night, all seasons of the year, pulling a rickshaw was exceedingly hard work for these poor creatures.

And the rickshaw girls had only committed misdemeanours. For really naughty girls, girls who indulged any sexual practice before they were eighteen for example, and when married if they indulged solo sex, or sex outside marriage, the sentence was often the coalmines. Naked, sweating, exhausted, and black with coal-dust in the terrible heat, these girls swung a pick or wielded a shovel for their twelve-hour shifts, under constant threat of the overseer’s whip.

Nor was the countryside any escape for naughty girls. My situation bound and confined for a whole year as a dairy whoreox for my debts was by no means exceptional. The employment of naughty girls as whoreoxen, to pull ploughs, or rotate corn grindstones, or to endlessly pedal generators, was also entirely commonplace.

Girls were damned this way, because upon girls had been heaped the supposed responsibility, indeed the entire responsibility for the world’s overpopulation. To re-deploy girls in ways that would keep them from breeding, whilst making use of their other productive capabilities had been the aim of successive legislatures, and matters were getting ever tougher for the girls of the world, or at least those lacking money, power, or influence.

You can therefore imagine my fear at one morning overhearing talk of “restaurant” and “meat” in clear reference to me, or “it” as I was now referred to without exception.

Fortunately, with this, I also heard Nina say, for it was Nina’s side of a conversation I was overhearing, “I know it’s done, but we are strictly a dairy concern. I am vegetarian myself, and have no wish ever to taste it, though some friends who have dined on it, say it is absolutely delicious”.

Nonetheless my fear festered and feasted on itself, and grew to massive magnitude in my mind as I crouched in my coop praying that my lovely breasts would continue forever to produce a satisfactory milk yield.

My fear mounted as a week later, the farm’s vet, a stunning blonde girl, with the dreamiest creamiest complexion and huge natural ringlets in her sweet-scented hair, opened the door of the barn in which I was crouched in my coop, and with no concern for me whatsoever as a fellow girl, held my neck so as to paralyse me, and then pushed a tool up my nostrils to punch a hole through my septum, the division in my nose between my nostrils. It hurt dreadfully, and I bled, but she still ignored me, as she fed a stainless steel ring through my septum and proceeded to squeeze the open ends of the ring together, so as to secure it permanently through my nose.

A week later still, two lovely black haired, straight black haired, Chinese girls were being shown me as I obediently knelt in my crate.

“She’s very pretty”, said one of these girls, and my heart melted. Had she really called me “she” and not “it”? Had she really and truly looked at me and smiled at me as if I were a girl, albeit a girl who must behave and perform as a whoreox?

“It’s very hairy too!” Nina cruelly interjected. It hasn’t had its legs or armpits shaved for a year now.”

“We’ll take it” the Chinese girl who had called me “she”, inadvertently it now seemed, concluded.

And so I was delivered, still crouched in my coop, to the restaurant in a very expensive quarter of London, owned by these gorgeous Chinese women.

After a year of kneeling, even though I had done all I could to exercise whilst confined in my crate, it was hell itself to get my legs straight once these girls had released me. It was all of a month before I could stand and walk for any length of time or distance.

During that time, I was treated with all kindness and gentleness by these restaurateurs. My hair began to re-grow more fully on my head, and I had my legs and armpits shaved. But I was not free. I was still a whoreox and I must still wear my tiptoeing cloven-hoof clogs, and the ring through my nose, though I no longer wore a gag.

I was also still being fed my hormone pills and consequently needing to be milked twice per day. But I was on trust now, and during my milking, as I bent over so that my breasts dangled over the buckets, I was under threat that if I ever showed the slightest sign of sexual arousal as a result, the girls would, however unpleasant it would be for them, whip me.

When I was not wanted for a milking, I roamed, with my hands girlackled behind my back. I roamed freely in a large warm barn (actually a former automobile garage), choosing when to eat the grass from my manger, or to lap up water.

I was also able to choose a spot for defecation and urination, rather than be forced to go wherever I was located. Even so, I was still a whoreox, and I pissed and shit as a whoreox must, on the straw of its barn; I was not suddenly back in the luxury of lavatories and running water to wash with.

I was still being farmed for the girlnure my faeces and urine mixed with straw on the floor of my barn so richly provided. My straw would be turned over daily. Once per month or two, a local market gardener took it in wheelbarrows at night. So highly prized is girlnure, she wished to make sure she moved it under cover of darkness.

Not only highly prized but highly priced, having paid what she had for it, she had no wish to risk being robbed of it. I heard, in fact, that she got it at a discount in exchange for supply to the restaurant of the superb potatoes, carrots, and parsnips she grew in soil enriched by it: a truly symbiotic relationship had sprung up there.

I knew that my milk was being served in the restaurant as milk itself, as well as being made into cheeses of the finest aroma and delicacy by the restaurateurs themselves.

And I knew that I was on trust that night, the first night that I was led-in, my hands girlackled behind my back, led-in by a chain attached to the ring through my nose, through my septum, freshly washed with soap and water for the first time in many weeks, rather than merely hosed down, and on trust not to urinate or defecate in the restaurant as I was led around among the customers, the naked animal, the whoreox I had been made and had become.

For this now was what the Chinese restaurateurs had purchased me for. By the 2020s, fresh girl-milk and aromatic girl-cheese were nothing unusual at London restaurants. After all, mass-produced girl-cheeses, girl-butter, and cartons of girl-milk, were on the shelves of every superstore.

What these enterprising Chinese restaurant owners wanted me for, was to offer their extremely wealthy and very discerning customers, milk fresh from the girl.

When a woman really wanted to impress some pretty girlfriend, I would be led to their table by my nose ring, and tethered there whilst I was milked by the waitress into a silver cup so that her customers at table could finish their meal by drinking milk straight from, and still warm from the whoreox’s body: my body: my breasts.

For an extra fee, they would be allowed to suck milk directly from my breasts. I had grown used to, and secretly enjoyed, having my milk sucked directly from my breasts: my nipples being licked and sucked by girls and women who were complete strangers to me.

I had been providing these services for six-months, as well, of course, as milk to make the cheese my owners were to become world famous for. I had been providing these services for about six-months, when one night as I stood in my cloven clogs steeple-high on my beautiful legs: I was in a corner of the restaurant tethered by my nose ring, when I espied in a darkened corner something I could hardly believe.

In that darkened corner I thought I could make out, when I dared to look with my soulfully lovely dark-brown eyes, a gathering.

“We’ve got a surprise wedding party” I heard my mistress inform my waitress as my mistress wiggled hurriedly busily by us.

And I tried to look over and I could see, in the dull candlelight of the restaurant, I could see gathered around the one table: Mina, Nina, Mi Li, Belinda, Jackie, and Norna. I was sure it was they.

As time went by, a wave of their happy laughter drifted over: I was certain it was they.

And as time went further by, my waitress unfastened the further end of my nose-chain and began to lead me to their table. And, as I obediently wiggled over on my divine legs, a whoreox being led by its nose chain, I took in that the little schoolgirl, now a former-schoolgirl, Norna, was sitting next to Jackie and taking every opportunity to kiss Jackie adoringly, and that something gold was twinkling in the candlelight, the light from the candle on the table.

Something gold, a band, a ring, a wedding ring on Norna’s left hand was catching the candle glow as Norna used that hand, newly adorned, self-consciously, being unused to the heavy band of gold around her girl-girl wedding-ring finger.

And I knew for sure from the happiness radiating from that table, that gathering, that Norna and Jackie were now girl and wife, that Jackie and Norna had married: that Norna was now Jackie’s wife.

And I wiggled submissively to the table and stood obediently lovely legged, steeple legged, en-pointe legged in my tiptoeing whoreox cloven-clog-hooves, held by my nose chain.

“Milk straight from the whoreox?” my waitress offered.

“Speciality of the house” my waitress smiled in gentle promotion of her wares.

Nobody responded. Jackie and Norna were lost to kisses, fully the happy newlyweds. Mina, Nina, and Mi Li were telling jokes as they quaffed wine copiously. And Belinda had one forefinger pressing in an ear, with her mobile phone held against her other ear, trying to make herself heard on her mobile phone, whilst also trying to block out the din of the laughter from Mi Li, Nina, and Mina, and the general hubbub in the restaurant.

They chatted joked and laughed among themselves without troubling to turn around, to see me on the end of the chain from the ring in my nose, obediently following where the waitress led me.

Then Norna kissed Jackie full on Jackie’s gorgeous lips for perhaps the thousandth time that day.

“Milk straight from the whoreox? It’s the speciality of the house. The manager says you can have our speciality for free as our humble contribution to your joyous celebration!” my waitress coaxed once again.

“You may suck the milk straight from her lovely breasts at no extra charge. It’s on the house!!” my waitress smiled, with all the politeness learned by that hardworking breed.

“Thank you, but no thank you”, Norna’s sweet and lovely voice then answered charmingly disarmingly, without her even turning away from kissing Jackie full on her willing mouth yet once again.

And I was led away, ignored, unrecognised: unrecognised and ignored, I was led away from that table, feeling no upset whatsoever at my rejection, because I fully and absolutely accepted my subjugation and was now a tame girl.

I had no recognition in myself of my arrival at long last at tame girl status. My lack of consciousness of it confirmed it. Had I had the slightest thought about my arrival at tameness, it would have proved of course that in fact it was not true. If I could think I was tame I was not tame. A girl who could think herself to be tame could resist her quasi-tameness and become unruly once more.

I had no thought as I wiggled away: no thought that the lack of concern I felt at my rejection by my former friends was the final evidence of my having been tamed. I just wiggled divinely girlilly supremely superbly femininely away from their table, and by doing so, by my doing so, so unconcernedly, I showed that I had arrived at long last at tameness.

I was now tame girl. I had been thoroughly and for all time tamed. I was tame girl. Katrina had been tamed.


Epilogue - Katrina is still a dairy whoreox being farmed for her milk and girlnure. Jackie’s recovered fortunes have enabled her long-time friend to buy her.

In reflection of the near lifelong friendship between Jackie and Katrina, Katrina now roams freely in green fields and can return to a warm cosy barn whenever she pleases. Of course she still wears her cloven-clog-hooves; but she is trusted to have her lovely arms free, and not compelled to wear a gag.

Her superlative body all-over bronze-brown like an autumn leaf, from long days in the sun, Katrina strolls around her field with her lovely light-brown hair fluttering in the summer breeze.

Unusually for a whoreox, Katrina also enjoys being fed an occasional sugar lump: pupils passing on their way to and from a nearby girls’ school cannot resist her restful beauty.

Jackie has plans for targeted artificial insemination in due course, so that Katrina will produce a heifer. Such is her comparative freedom for now though, that Katrina has been allowed to dictate her story in her own words to Mi Li and Jackie’s delightful young wife, Norna. The lovely Korean girlboy, and Norna, taped Katrina’s story day-by-day in Jackie’s dairy whilst Katrina was dutifully bent forward to dangle her breasts over the buckets for her twice-per-day milking.

The tapes have been published world-wide to make money for Jackie, and thus defray a mite, Katrina’s continuously mounting monetary debts.

A faithful transcript of the tapes has been published here at Katrina’s express request, as a dire warning about the perils of being a wild wilful and naughty girl.

09-30-2007, 02:24 PM