View Full Version : Sendara

Eve Adorer
11-04-2007, 04:09 PM
by Eve Adorer

Does a question mark their future?

by Eve Adorer

As Sendara read over her latest update, her breathtaking milk-white breasts, uplifted to outstanding magnificence within her low cut neckline, rose and fell in delightful duet and complete unison with her fragrant breaths.

Then next, with the act of her leaning forward confirming the fact of her gasp-making cleavage, grasped by gravity’s forgivable eagerness to grope her, they flowed outwards heavy parabolas: belle bell parallels, disappointing only in their undelivered promise to swing out of her dress.

To pout such pretty bee-stung lips so, was to propose a kiss. But the looks, the lips, the gentle heaving of her handsome bosom, and the sweet furrow on her brow, were only from concentration.

Working, standing in the corner of an airport departure lounge, leaning forward to shield the screen from the setting sun, this aided by the coincidental twin shadow of her exceptionally generous beasts, her bosom emboldened by her quarter-cup bra, Sendara had had a sudden thought, and was altering one short passage where she feared the case she had compiled was made obscure by her turn of phrase.

She’d heard it called ‘death by Slidepoint’; Sendara didn’t want that. Sendara wanted the lecture she was flying out to deliver in Ntoli City, the lecture in and on her laptop computer, to not only be heard, but also clearly understood by the world.

She’d re-written it so often now that she could recite it by heart. Sendara would deliver it from the heart. That was for sure. Sendara was a very passionate girl.

She knew what she risked. The roundups had even started over there in Ntoli, ‘the heart of Africa’. The Republic of Ntoli had agreed to come back into the British Empire. Its new dictatorship, was, under Edith Amin: a puppet of the English government: the English government which was itself now a dictatorship.

Over here in England, a residue among the intellectual elite, the influential, and the wealthy had survived, Sendara among them; but their turn would come unless the tide was turned.

It was like in Germany. What was going on was just like Germany in the 1930s. Sendara knew what she risked. She knew where she stood and the chances she was taking; but someone had to speak out: someone had to call for tolerance.

All too aware of the two older women wondering if the long shapely legs of the five-eleven tall Sendara, started at her ears or still nearer heaven, Sendara, her update entered, closed her electronic notebook with long adept fingers, turned and smiled, her green-blue eyes glowing with high intelligence, vivacity, sensitivity, humour and, above all, love; but her eyes still cast down, as the sweetest kindest way to brush off the welcome but uninvited and highly dangerous admiration.

“You coming for a run or not?”, a sweet soprano sang.

“Mmm? Sorry. What was that?” Sendara’s distracted soft-whisper kissed the air.

The sound of a rattling keyboard had just now told of an unskilled typist, Sendara, in a rare purple patch of progress. That progress had been irrecoverably disrupted by the question half heard; but Sendara’s look still told of love.

“Are you still on that same project?” the same soprano enquired. And without waiting for Sendara’s answer, responded to itself: “Well, at least if I go for a run on my own, you won’t leave me dead in your tracks again. I don’t know where you got your legs from, Sendara, but jeese, they’re not only just so fucking beautiful, but so bloody strong too”.

As Sukie Lovemade complained about Sendara’s outstanding athleticism, and her emotional means of motion, Sendara smiled, blushing slightly.

“I’m no Olympic champion, Sukie”, she answered shyly: flattered by her lovely legs being ogled as she sat. But then Sendara always smiled. It was, not least, the charming way in which she punctuated her speech.

“I wouldn’t mind losing every time, if only once, just once Sendara, just frigging once, you got yourself out of breath!”

“Cripes, you did fifteen miles Sunday, and wanted to do fifteen more back again! And you bloody well did too: after I bet you that you couldn’t. And still you weren’t in the least bit done for!”

“That reminds me. You still owe me that twenty dollars!” Sendara giggled teasingly, as her lovely turquoise eyes sparkled champagne.

Sukie watched Sendara’s sweet eyes light up with her natural charm, and her soft bold lips kiss out every single syllable of even so brief a phrase, with contralto intonation that blessed the world by such a lovely presence.

Then, in a slow motion cause of commotion, Sendara swept a kiss of her kinked curls over her shoulder, to free the full view of her heartbreaking visage.

Sendara’s hair, conflagrational waves around the ghost white shores of her lightly freckled face, flowed, alike to flickering flames, all the way to her ankles when she stood.

Indeed her glorious hair would, had it been straight instead of in storm tossed waves, have trailed the floor behind this flawless temptation: Sendara: Sendara a living, walking, talking, sensual siren.

Overwhelmed once more by her former tutor’s beauty: “I still love you, you know Sendara”, Sukie whispered.

Sendara blushed. Sukie knew the signs. She knew that shade of blushing matched with a corresponding moistening of Sendara’s panties.

“Now look what you’ve done” Sendara teased blushing lovingly: not prompting resuscitation of the love affair Sukie longed should be revived; but simply knowing what Sukie knew was happening within her honeypot: within Sendara’s floridly fragrant cunt caressing the gusset of her exceptionally skimpy panties.

Sendara’s dampened gusset and her soft words confirmed to Sukie that she, Sukie, had lost none of her ability to turn another girl on, and the supremely feminine Sendara not least.

Sendara’s mind momented back to their first meeting.

Music had been Sendara’s major at St Hymenia’s College, University of Camford, and the subject of her doctoral thesis. That thesis: ‘The Harmonies in the Dissonance of Klara von Stchikhasen’s Quartets’ had won her the Scholar of the Century award, and offers of a university fellowship and professor’s post, when she was still only sixteen: offers Sendara had eagerly taken up.

Before their first chance meeting, where Sendara was concerned, Sukie had gone unnoticed on campus. However, it was far from being so the other way around.

The source of the fresh dew-dappled red rose Sendara began to find on her lectern each morning had been a complete mystery to Sendara.

Discrete enquiries by Sendara, blushing to outmatch the loveliness of the flower she held up as evidence, had found no solution.

Her own former tutor and present head of the University Music Department, had answered Sendara’s enquiry with a loving smile and: “Expect some girl in the fresh intake has got the hots for you Sendara. You can’t blame her sweetheart. There isn’t a woman on the campus who doesn’t long to strum your clit to Rachmaninov’s eighteenth Paganini variation, sweetheart, and, off the record, that includes me!”

Although this was the truth, it had been quite the most shy-making of the dozens of responses that conveyed the same, if, as is obviously non-too-difficult, in less blushing-rose faced and panty gusset moistness ensuring language.

Sendara had actually met Sukie at Herrod’s, the Queensbridge, Hondon department store. This: five years since by now, and therefore three years before the election: the election that had swept the Hetzis to power.

As a university professor, Sendara was among the elect of English society in the early 22nd century: not least in income.

By contrast, Sukie, from a less wealthy background, had had to take a summer vacation job to pay her way through college.

It was not as if she did not keep them corralled. She knew how wilfully wild they could be, if not rounded up and securely constrained.

It was also not as if she did not keep them covered; although it was as if she did not realise how head-turning even her buttoned-up containment of them made them.

Copiously cupped they might be, but underwiring and cantilevering could hardly compete, let alone completely cope, unless they combined to make them into comic-book balloons. So Sukie normally wore softer support: indeed only such as would lift and separate them, whilst restraining them from completely free spirited sport.

To say that, like Sendara too, Sukie was sumptuously appointed, would be to make an understatement. She was a little doll of no more than five-three, and had long been shy about the pert prominences that all eyes could not help but home in upon, even when she merely passed by in the street.

If they had been bigger they would have looked obscene: alike to a cartoon lampoon of a lusciously laden lady. It was a matter of proportionality. Although Sukie was very amply endowed, twice over; although she was a double-D-cup thirty-eight; Sukie’s simply sensational bosom loomed particularly large in the eyes of the world, only because she was so petite. Sukie was a very big little girl.

“Ah: Professor Angelskiss! Good morning ma’am!”, the floorwalker for Herrod’s had greeted the titian-tressed goddess that morning, as Sendara wandered her flame-haired wonder into the hallowed hallway of the famous Queensbridge store’s Camford subsidiary.

“We haven’t had the honour of a visitation from your good self for a little while now ma’am. I trust you are in the very best of health”, Miss Smith, the tall blonde straight-backed straight-laced supervisor ingratiated, with professional sincerity.

“I am very well thank you Mary”, Sendara smiled, and her glowing eyes made even the prissy Miss Mary Smith blush with love for this apparition among angels.

“May we offer you the services of one of our personal shoppers, ma’am?” Mary Smith enquired, even as she beckoned Sukie over, unseen behind Sendara’s back, in anticipation of Sendara confirming she did indeed desire such an escort.

“The young lady coming over will look after you. I’m afraid she’s only a summer vacation hire. A college student I believe. But, rest assured ma’am, that if she doesn’t do a good job, summer casual or not, we will have her whipped”, Miss Smith reassured, in the most confidentially conspiratorial of her obsequious tones.

Although Sendara had no wish to even think of a girl being beaten for any shortcomings, even she had had to accept that that was now society’s norm; with the rise and rise of the Hetzis leading to their recent election, and now the dictatorship. But, rather than try again to register her distress at such an idea, she chose to remain silent on the subject.

Instead of responding to Miss Smith as she might, hearing, even above the conversational hum of the busy store, the erotic ‘tip-tap’ on the polished white marble flooring, of what she took to be stiletto heels, Sendara turned toward the approaching would-be escort: ‘Sukie’ by name, though Sendara was yet to hear mention of it.

Sukie, all five-three of her little-doll’s frame filling out the store’s standard uniform in a delicious, almost wicked way, was in fact on the very tip-tops of her big toes, in her uniform-issue heelless ballet shoes, wiggling en-pointe, obediently toward Miss Smith and the lovely redhead.

Sukie’s dark-brown dreadlocks framed the astounding beauty of her negress’ face. Her dark-deep-dark shyly darting brown eyes were full of bubbling laughter. Her dainty nostrils lightly flared above her mouth. Oh goddess, those lips! The little round mouth with the bold upturned cupid bowed flat upper and succulently swollen lower, combined in the thrust of a must for a trusting kiss, when this little doll was not smiling, made Sendara’s heart leap and miss ten beats.

Sukie was a walking kiss, in cool cotton, with red and white - used-tampon-red and pristine Sistine white - vertical-candy-striped micro-skirt, so bereft of hem, that it displayed the gusset of her bright white cool cotton panties, and the bulge of her hot love-mound.

An expanse of mirror-black thigh, preceded white nylon stockings, which gold suspender clasps were fighting to ensure did not slide down her very shapely very smooth legs.

The brilliant red and white of Sukie’s uniform skirt and crisp blouse glowed halo in contrast to her heavenly Nubian black. The starched blouse, red and white upright candy-stripes like the skirt, was buttoned at wrists and up front to her neck.

Her spotless red and white attire, not least the plain white of her panties, would not be misread if taken as conveying the state of this negress dolly’s virginity and potency. She was intact, yet some years into losing-streak-weeks.

A charming little used-tampon-red bowtie completed Sukie’s smart display.

And Sendara’s loving eyes took all this in, as too the mesmerising rise and dive of Sukie’s magnificent two, riding the range together, side-by-side.

As Sendara gasped and gaped in admiration, the darling little negress tiptoed en-pointe, tapping her squared-off stainless-steel toecaps on the marble floor of the department’s store’s hallowed halls, walking her naturally seductive marvel to her appointment with Sendara: the customer Miss Smith, the floorwalker, was calling her attention toward.

As Sukie approached her, to Sendara’s loving eyes, the fact that Herrod’s store uniform did not include or allow the wearing of brassieres, was four-foldly evident. For not only were Sukie’s breasts cavorting wild-child under her blouse, but her defiantly bold nipples were showing they would be no disappointment to those many, who speculated that her teats must be proportionately as huge as her astonishing bosom.

“Right Number 69, this is Professor Sendara Angelskiss, a very valued customer”, Miss Smith confirmed, addressing the adorable Sukie, just after Sukie had arrived in Sendara’s presence.

“69 will escort you and carry any burdens for you ma’am. Is there a particular department you would wish to visit first?”

Sendara blushed to the base of her slim neck as, unavoidably captivated by the blouse-button-testing bosom of the devastating little doll standing on heelless tiptop tiptoe before her, she answered: “Soft furnishings please”.

“Make due note please 69”, the crisp Miss Smith commanded tartly, not noticing the twinkle of lovely laughter in Sukie’s darkest-deep-brownest-dark eyes, or the darling doll’s near collapse into helpless giggles, as the scarlet blushing Sendara was next asked by the tart Miss Smith enquiring crisply….:

“And any other departments after soft furnishings ma’am?”

…..and answered: “Bed… N’no! I mean bedrooms… I…I mean beds please….”

Only as Sendara at the airport walked away from the pillar that half hid her, did her admirers see the pink garter.

Thus made to recall themselves, they pretended they had not been admiring Sendara’s immensely long and equally strong legs.

“Go for your run only within the campus please Sukie!” Sendara begged. “You know how it’s getting”, she concerned.

“Come with me then” Sukie sighed, longing for her one-time long-time-past love and lover once more by her side.

“Two girls together?!” Sendara reminded, as if she needed to.

“I suppose you think you’re brave making that speech to the gathering of Terrestrial Women Against Terror. Yet you’re scared even to come out and have a jog with me!” Sukie complained, uncharacteristically bitterly.

Sendara was hurt. She knew she was challenged to turn her intellectual arguments into physical reality. Here was a chance to demonstrate. But her fear caused her, yet once more, to defer. For Sendara it was ‘bravery tomorrow’ and always ‘tomorrow’ it seemed.

As she watched Sukie check the pink garter just above her left knee, and admired Sukie’s pretty legs when she flexed and stretched her calves in preparation for her run, Sendara, knowing she was being cowardly, answered: “I just must finish this speech Sukie….maybe tomorrow…..”

Sendara knew she was being cowardly. But, after all, she had known the practical implications of the current situation.

That morning, two years ago, the week after the election, the day when she had arrived home in that dreadful state, had seen the first crack in their relationship: the relationship with Sukie that had since drifted apart and ended.

Waiting on the train station platform that morning, three girls had noticed Sendara’s pink garter, and begun nudging each other, and urging themselves on.

Pink was not Sendara’s colour and yet the colour she must wear. The blue denim microskirt her fulsome bottom rounded out to double-half-mooned perfection, the matching jacket her very challenging bosom had successfully buffeted aside from the royal blue shirt her breasts and nipples doubly emboldened: the blue of her clothes, in contrast with the cascade of her conflagrational hair, and her ghost white complexion, were more suited to her than the pink garter.

It was a very hot summer. Amid the humidity, Sendara had chosen not to wear tights or stockings, and her billion-mile-long legs were bare: bare except for the pretty, and yet petty and cruel regulation one-inch wide pink garter she wore just above her left knee.

She had also opted to give her breasts their right to roam. Thus, under her shirt, her nipples were playing the flirt, catching the eye as if they too were eyes, as they puckered the silk of her blouse, its softness caressing theirs, and even that gentle caress being answered by their obvious stiffening, so sensitive were Sendara’s teats to touch.

Sendara’s legs were the wonderful products of nature sculpted by her love of art and sport. She swam, she danced, she cycled, she skated, she ran, she trained ballet: above all, and in more ways than one, she saw good players fall to love from her on the tennis court, and, in their superbly toned muscular smoothness, the beauty of her legs showed this honey-babe’s active life.

Today they were at the pinnacle of their lissom loveliness. She was wearing baby-blue front-heeled ballet shoes with squared-off silver toecaps. She was standing in permanent pirouette on her tiptoed big toes like a ballet dancer, but resting her heels – the stiletto heels at the front of her shoes - on the ground she blessed by her merely standing upon it.

She was at the highest extremity of en-pointe in her fashionable shoes, and her legs thus captured in captivating curvature, with the slimness of her ankles, the high-risen highly visible tautness of her strong calf-muscles, her knees dimpled and locked back as her legs bowed slightly back to hold her steady in stance, and her enormous thighs, two momentously massive monuments to graceful power.

And yet these dual steeples, leading from the ground she made holy, to the undivided divide between their stride: her pink lined crevice with its sensitive trigger and sheath, must have their perfect line broken by the tight elasticated circle, of a one-inch wide pink garter, just above her left knee.

Sendara had been visiting her parents in Hondon and was making the journey back to the home she still dared to share, back then, with Sukie, up at Camford.

In the clampdown, when the Hetzi Police had visited the university, both she and Sukie had agreed to wear the garter that labelled them publicly. The alternative was prosecution trial and the farms. Only the bravest or most foolish opted not to be open.

The price of being open was the humiliation of being ostracised: the acceptance that you were less than human in the eyes of the rest of society. In effect you were a prisoner albeit that you were free to roam. The reputation of the farms was so dreadful; that to be labelled a pariah was preferable, even though that was becoming increasingly a living hell.

The gang of girls on the station platform drew near Sendara’s lovely figure.

In the micro-micro-skirts they wore, which, in combination with their kneesocks and shirts, were all in fawn: in their brown heelless en-pointe ballet-boots, and above all, in the visible circular logo on the exposed crutches of their white panties, Sendara recognised members of the Hetzi Youth League.

Sendara hung her head in fear as the girls sidled closer to her.

“You’re a bleeding lezzy then?” the bravest of the girls, all aged around sixteen or seventeen, had sneered at the twenty-four-year-old flame-tressed angel.

Sendara not knowing how to answer, lowered her head in the hope they would go away.

“Me and my mates: we don’t like lezzies: do we?” the ‘brave’ girl added, looking to increase her courage through adding her two companions as support to the insults.

“Girls doing all those filthy things with other girls: I mean it ain’t natural is it lezzy?” she taunted.

Sendara almost began to cry.

As two policewomen strolled down the platform, her soulful turquoise eyes glanced their way in hope they would help, or at least in hope that the taunting girls would follow her eyeline, and desist when they saw the cops.

“Let’s hear you say it lezzy. Let’s hear you say: ‘I’m a filthy lezzy’” the taunting girl sneered threateningly, even despite the two bored cops dawdling into earshot.

At that point, an announcement came over the station’s public address:

“The train now arriving at platform two, is the nine-O-six to Cunnilingham, calling at Holdem, Handon, Caressall, Wetnow, Fingerin, Kissnow, Lickit, Camford, and Cunnilingham Central.”

“This train is due to arrive at Cunnilingham Central, in sixty-nine minutes. Will passengers wishing to board the train please note that the first and standard class compartments will be found at the front, and that for under-girls at the rear.”

“Leave her alone. She ain’t doing no harm” the most timid of the three taunters added at the end of the announcement.

“Alright I’ll leave her. As long as she knows she’s a fucking lezzy slag, and that all lezzies slags should be hung!” the lead girl concluded, as she spat at Sendara, before joining her companions to board the train.

Bravely fighting her tears, Sendara wiggled her lovely figure toward the rear of the train, seeking the roped off area in the end coach, where such as herself now had to travel.

As she walked in her tiptop-of-tiptoe enforcing ballet shoes, her near tears blinding her turquoise soul-lanterns, her stunning legs showed all their understated gentle muscularity.

Sendara glided toward the train to the sound of insulting wolf-whistles from the Hetzi Party Youth League girls that had just been threatening her.

In her hurry to escape their attentions, though, and with the tears that filled her eyes, she got on at the front end of the rear coach, instead of at the very rear.

And now a call came: “You! You know who I’m talking to!” It was the conductress on the train, who had spotted, in the not long distance, the pink garter on Sendara’s long legs: legs loping as she strode, displaying her perfect muscle tone, a gentle gazelle, with the radiant waves of her luxuriant hair flouncing as it danced around her shapely ankles when she swept along toward the open doors leading to the haven of her carriage.

At the shout from the conductress, Sendara realised her error, stepped off and ran in her tiptoe-shoes to the very rear access, which was shutting as the conductress, having ordered Sendara get out of where she was not allowed to board, now closed the electric slide-doors careless of weather Sendara made it onboard her train at all.

When at last she sat on the worn and tattered seat, Sendara unavoidably shaped her gorgeous legs, toes, in her front-heeled ballet shoes, pointing straight to the coach floor, curving her calves beyond the descriptive abilities of earthly geometry, as her hem rose to reveal a vast expanse of massive supremely-white bare thigh.

Distressed by the further sign of cruelty from the train’s conductress, Sendara, eager to hide herself away, had dashed to an empty place and sat quickly, by more or less sliding down into the seat, thus causing not only her hem rising far further up her completely naked snow-white thighs than she intended, but also the crutch of her thong panties to be tugged up hard against her potent purse, promising to divide her honeypot’s lips, it was pulled so tight.

Uncomfortable though this was, Sendara chose thankfulness for the shelter from those being cruel to her, over the wish to rearrange her clothing. She wanted to hide herself away in the corner seat she had adopted.

She was, of course, unaware of the wisps of red curls, only a shade darker than her glorious coiffure, that were consequently sneak-peeking out from the sides of her panty’s gusset, as some of her nether tresses escaped her pulled-tight panty’s crutch, and were exposed like all-consuming flames: flickering prominences around her pink-hot sun: the unquenchable flames around her insatiable vulva.

Sendara longed to cross her fabulous thighs so as to hide the shaming garter; but, so close were her knees to one of the two luscious blue-eyed blondes in the seats opposite hers, and with her legs being so long, she could not do so without asking to be excused.

Her heart still pounding with the late onset of the fear she had bravely held at bay on the platform, Sendara closed her eyes in relief, only to open them again when she heard neighing noises and equine-like snorts from the mocking Hetzi Youth League girls, who had made their way to the chain that marked off where the confessed lesbians were required to sit, away from the rest of the public.

Sendara knew only too well, that the neighs and snorts and the one ‘forefoot’ pawing of the ground by the chief among her tormentors, was meant to convey that her insulters considered her to be a lowly animal, and her brief deep rose blush of shame contrasted her lovely face with the dream cream-white of her huge bare thighs and of her heavily heaving heavenly heavy breasts.

One of the girls opposite looked up, and Sendara tried to smile.

It was a failed attempt to communicate. Sendara should have known better. Black leather had taken the place of the pink they wore when these girls, the two sat opposite her, had been mere Girl-Control officers.

With the arrival in power of the Hetzis, young women such as these, had taken that cause to heart, and the consequent course that enabled them to transfer to the Central Lesbian Identification and Termination Sisteren: the CLITS: the Hetzi’s morality police.

It did not need the girl who had been admiring Sendara’s escaped pubic hair, flickering its flaming wildfire from the sides of her panty’s crotch, to cross her black stocking clad legs, and thus show the Hetzi Party garter she wore around her left thigh, just below her suspender clasp, for Sendara to wish she could be anywhere other than where she was at that moment.

As she crossed her left leg over her right, being practicedly careful with the wheel spurs she wore at the top end of the heels of her twelve-inch stiletto knee-high calf-hugging jackboots, the buttock bottom revealing slit in the girl’s black-leather miniskirt flashed her enormous thigh.

And the garter around that thigh, her thighband, showed the Hetzi Party and government symbol. The garter was blood red, but for a white circle, in which, embroidered in black, a huge erect and upthrusting human phallus, pierced a tall slim oval, representing the lips of a delicate quim.

Sendara wished she could hide. So great was her fear that she felt sure she must defecate. Yet she knew that she, as a labelled lesbian, was not allowed to use the lavatories on the train, or at the train stations come to that.

Her guess, which was right, was that these two girls were Girl-Farm warders, and that they had some unfortunates under their charge. Otherwise they could have chosen to sit in the very best seats on the train, instead of the slum quarters Sendara was obliged to occupy.

A clunk and clank of couplings confirmed as much. One of the notorious prison wagons had obviously just been attached to the rear of the train.

At least, that was what Sendara assumed, since, other than to be near the cages such trucks contained, there was no need of these CLITS to sit where they were.

The unfortunates in the truck would be girls caught in each other’s arms, or alleged to have been so caught. The CLITS got a bounty for every un-outed lesbian they rounded up. Spies were everywhere. No girl now dare to have even the most innocent relationship with another girl.

For those, like Sendara, whose only desires were for the highest love of all, that of one girl for another, life had become hell.

The choice for such girls was between trying to hide that they had the divine orientation, and thus risk being caught and imprisoned; or a public admission by the open wearing of the pink garter: a symbol that ensured that, for an absolute certainty, no other girl would ever come near her: a symbol that made a girl a prisoner even though not behind prison walls as such.

Now the Hetzi Party was in power, the pink garter was the cruel symbol that all confessed lesbians were forced to wear, to label them, and single them out from the rest of society. And so Sendara had had to settle for sitting in the litter-strewn unclean partitioned-off area of the train. She wore the garter, and was therefore, in the new parlance, an ‘under-girl’.

How had this come about? Well, take a financial crash, and the certainty it would wipe out fortunes and industry and commerce, as assured as the guarantee that its parallel in the late 1920s would be taken as offering no lessons for this recurrence.

Then take the fact that the post crash nations were confrontational once more, and needing their populations boosted to provide armament factory workers and soldiery.

Take also the fact that the new rush to arms needed money. It also needed a disciplined society. Furthermore it needed the poor to stay poor whilst the economy was bled of the wealth they, the working people, actually created.

At least, that was the view of the self-interested wealthy: the monied class that had grown from the ashes of the old economy after the boom bubble had burst with a second bang; this one scoring 1929-plus on the Richter scale.

Lesbians had been an easy target. They were not productive in the sense of being reproductive. The Hetzis had a leader, Adela Hilter, whose love, it was rumoured, but categorically denied of course, had been spurned by a gorgeous actress, who had since died in mysterious circumstances.

In her book, ‘Nein Camp’, written in her long years of frustrating opposition to the then prevailing but rapidly declining liberal-democracy, Hilter had told of the international conspiracy of lesbians and capitalists who were seeking to bleed the heterosexual majority of their rights.

Focusing hatred on a minority kept the majority happy.

Lesbians had become the target of blame for the horrors of the long years of the second post Wall Street crash rebuild. Hilter had made sure of that. In her election campaign, word was put about that during the long years of the slump, when many girls were quite literally starving, the lesbians had lived in luxury with the black-marketeers, whilst the rest of the populace had suffered.

Two years had passed since Hilter’s first coming to power. Whether because of their policies, or because it would have happened anyway, England had recovered to an economic state akin to that it was in, in the first decade of the twenty-first century. But the clampdown on lesbians continued; indeed, had even increased.

The public were sure the Hetzi Party had delivered the new comfort of full employment and excellent pay for the working day: so convinced in fact that they had voted for the last time, as they overwhelming elected Hilter as Lord High Protector of England, in a second ballot one year from her first election win.

The persecution of lesbians was cruel and futile; but it kept the nation distracted, and provided sport for the network of servants in the Hetzi Party’s employ: the CLITS not least. So much was it now part of the accepted way of the modern world, that even the liberal press praised it, if faintly, describing it as: “a justifiable aberration” and “an unfortunate necessity”.

The Chinese girl who wandered into the train carriage compartment Sendara blessed with her presence, was simply stunning. She was perhaps twenty, five-seven to five-eight tall, with straight black hair from her head to her bottom. Her honey-complexioned oval face glowed with a loving smile. Her light brown orientally narrowed eyes shone.

She wore a white blouse with its sleeves rolled up just above her elbows, thus exposing the profuse soft down on her slim forearms. Within that blouse her little breasts cavorted like kittens at play.

And she wore shorts. She was bare legged in tiny white shorts that showed the concave hollows in her ample firm buttocks, caused by the front-heeled ballet-shoes she wore, raising her legs to very shapely perfection.

Her shorts were so short they also revealed crescents of bare bottom, and so clinging that, what they outlined between her tanned thighs, confirmed that she was undoubtedly a girl.

For all the girls sitting in the carriage, to look at her was irresistible. For none to have done so was inadmissible. Like all girls, they looked her over to compare notes. They assessed her ‘bedability’ and saw that she was extremely attractive.

Had the Chinese girl’s lovely legs been able to blush, they would have done so. All eyes ran them up and down repeatedly, making her lose countenance and flush a confused profuse puce.

To cover for her embarrassment, she nervously swept her raven hair back with her pretty little hands: completely unnecessarily, as it was in perfect order down her femininely curved back.

“Can we help you sweetheart?” asked one of the CLITS, the one sat opposite Sendara, the one who had crossed her shapely thighs.

“I look for lavatory?” the Chinese angel whispered in shy innocent mezzo.

“Other end of the coach darling”, the CLITS officer advised, even as her eyes repeated the tour of the Chinese’s extremely shapely legs.

“So sorry” the girl whispered, now clearly enjoying being ogled, and she gave a sweet seductive smile over her shoulder: a ‘do you like my bum?’ smile over her shoulder, as she went back past the chain that marked off where the likes of Sendara must sit, on the way to fulfil the urgent mission of discharging her mulled wine.

After the sweet Chinese girl was out of view: “Jeese! Did you see the fucking legs on that?!” the cross-thighed girl enquired, unnecessarily, of her fellow CLITS officer.

“Yea! Too fucking right! And there were two of them!”

“I’ve heard of Chinese crackers, now I think I’ve just fucking seen one!” her equally lascivious companion replied.

“Wouldn’t mind putting her across my knee and playing the finale of the 1812 on that bum of hers, that’s for sure”, she added.

“Did you notice the lezzy looking her over as well?” the crossed-legged girl enquired, meaning to be cruel to Sendara, whose crutch with the tight crotch of her panties pulled hard against her honeypot, with the incendiary flames of her escaped pubic curls consequent, were in her eyeline, and inflaming her.

“Yea I did. And if I could be assed to get my whip out, I’d give the fucking slag a taste of what for”, the companion CLITS constable answered, in a near bored yawn.

Sendara lowered her lovely eyes, in fear but not shame. She was terrified the CLITS officers would beat her up. And therefore relieved, with or without justification, she was unsure which, when the seat next to her was suddenly occupied.

At least she was relieved for the split-second before she realised that her new companion was not a fellow pink-garter wearer.

“You’ve got gorgeous tits. Bet your girlfriend likes to kiss them don’t she?”

“Bet you’ve got really massive nips ain’t you? You lezzy girls have always got enormous nips with all that tit sucking you do to get each other off.”

“Bet they’re even bigger in this hot weather. Heat makes them swell up don’t it? Bet your lezzy lover loves to suck them then don’t she?”

As he breathed his halitosis and alcohol mix over her, the man now sat on Sendara’s right, had already unzipped his jeans, and was working his erect bare cock like a slide-trombone at the crescendo of a jazz solo.

Disgusted and horribly embarrassed, Sendara strained her head to one side to look out of the window.

“Look at my cock darling!” the overheated drunken man demanded.

“That’s what you lezzies really want. That’d cure you. A cock hard up you and you’d go like this fucking train darling: bet you would.”

“Our next station stop will be Caressall. That’s Caressall for our next station stop. Please be careful to mind the gap when the train enters. Caressall is our next station stop. Thank you”, the conductress’ sweet voice almost sang over the public address in the carriages.

“Look at my prick darling! Would you like to feel it? You’ve got lovely long fingers. Toss me off will you eh? I’d love to be tossed off by a lezzy.”

Tears teased the corners of Sendara’s lovely loving eyes as the raincoat-clad man continued to work himself off on the stunning beauty of her body.

The train began to leave Caressall, and the conductress announced over the speakers: “For the benefit of passengers who have joined us at Caressall, our next station stop will be Wetnow, followed by, Fingerin, Kissnow, Lickit, Camford, and Cunnilingham Central, where this train terminates. We apologise that we are running a little late, owing to our wait at Hondon for a cage-wagon to be connected to the rear of the train. But we hope to come inside Wetnow in approximately ten minutes. Thank you.”

“Look at my cock darling! You’ve got such fucking beautiful thighs. Bet your girlfriends love to have their heads crushed by your fucking thighs wrapped around their faces till they’re smothered by the smell of your cunny don’t they?”

“Bet they long to have your fucking gorgeous thighs crushing their faces into your crack so their noses can only smell the real you, and their tongues have to lick-beg you for your thighs not to crush their fucking skulls, don’t they darling?”

“Toss me off bitch. I’ve always wanted to be tossed off by a fucking lezzy.”

Sendara did not need to turn her tear-caressed face to know that the man’s demands needed only disappointment by her for his excitement to grow.

Her cool distance and hot proximity were both fuels for his desire.

He wanted not to be touched by her but to touch the untouchable: Sendara’s agonising beauty.

Sendara’s unspoken refusal, her turning her head away in distress, aroused him the more.

“Look at my cock darling or I’ll slap your fucking lezzy face!”

As she turned for fear he would indeed hit her, the train hurtled down the tracks no faster than Sendara’s soft tears trickled down her stunning face.

“That’s better darling. You’ve got such fucking beautiful legs sweetheart” the raincoat man hissed as he worked his foreskin with increasing fury.

“You got fucking beautiful thighs! Oh fuck you got…oh fuck fuck fuck you got fucking ….oh fuck fucking fucking fuck fucking fucking fuck, oh god you got such fucking beautiful thighs, I want your fucking thighs crushing my fucking face, I want you sat on my face, I want your sweaty cunt sat on my fucking face” he hissed through tightly gritted teeth, till, in the very instant that the train shot into the Wetnow tunnel, his semen at last spurted, and then trailed down his still rampant stem.

“You’ll feel a whole lot better for a rub down with this darling”, he then mocked as he caught up his spunk in the palm of his right hand, and worked its still warm stickiness: his salty secretion, his semen, drying in the heat of her hot body, on the inside of Sendara’s beyond beautiful bare right milk-white thigh”

As the expended drunken raincoat man ointmented her thigh with his smelly semen, and finally wiped his fingers over the god-given-lips of her beautiful mouth, Sendara fought her sobs.

The filth of his fresh excrescence now dried on the beauty of her inner right thigh, and under her passionately flaring nostrils, nauseated her, yet she dare not try and cleanse herself of its mockery.

Re-housing his now flaccid prick in his jeans, as he rose to go back to his own seat further up the carriage, the raincoat man seemed pleased with his efforts.

Sendara fought bravely not to cry once more.

“Look at me darling” the raincoat man demanded as he backed out from the seat beside her.

Sendara looked her angel’s face up: and he spat on her kiss. He spat on her gorgeous bee-stung lips.

“Fucking lezzy slag!” he derided as he departed.

No other passenger on the train even turned as they heard his abuse. Indeed the two CLITS officers had fallen asleep, one of their blonde heads resting on the other’s black-leather-clad shoulder.

No passenger turned when the raincoat man had insulted and ravished her. Nor did they turn when he brushed past the three teenage Hetzi Youth League girls, who had come past the chain, each brandishing a one of the long-necked-bottles of wine sold on the train, two emptied, and a third full, with its cork stopper still in place, and blustered in their newfound wine-fuelled bravery.

“Yea. That’s right. You’re a fucking lezzy slag, and me and my mates here are gonna take you into the fucking John, and show you what your three holes were really made for, you girl-murdering bitch.”

And nor did the other passengers turn as the Hetzi girls dragged the screaming Sendara down the central aisle of the coach, forcing her along by pulling her glorious hair, or when they heard the lavatory door bolt slammed locked, or even when they heard her lovely face being slapped in barbaric foreplay for the pain with which she was about to pay for being exclusively a lover of the divine way.

The constant memory of her life with Sukie before the ordeal of her bottle-rape, had awoken Sendara to the need to take action. But it also met with Sendara’s fear that she could not overcome her fear of doing so.

She knew Sukie was right. Or at least, unless she went ahead with the speech she had written as a plea for tolerance of lesbianism, Sukie would be right.

The bottle-rape had left Sendara torn and bleeding. The girls raping her had also bitten her nipples and her clitoris, and, to her everlasting shame, Sendara had cum.

Nobody had rushed to her aid, even when she had struggled to walk, in her steepling shoes, off the train, her clothing irreparably torn, and blood trickling from her bitten nipples.

She had had to walk all the way through Camford town, the three miles from the station to the university, bleeding, and almost naked, except for the mocking pink garter she must always wear.

Sukie had been exceptional. She had saved her tears till she had bathed her lover and nursed her well.

But the rape and the cum had ended their relationship.

Sendara never mentioned the cum. The fact she had orgasmed repeatedly during her rape, had shamed her so deeply at the time, and still did now in retrospect, such that she pushed the matter to the deepest recesses of the back of her mind. Even so, it surfaced in her wet-dreams.

The rape had decided Sendara on celibacy. In the two years since its occurrence she had foregone other girls, and even refrained from the joy of masturbation.

For a passionate girl like Sendara, to forego pleasuring herself: for her to not worship the heavenly beauty of her own body was the highest of high sacrifices as well as the deepest of deep tragedies.

Sendara knew she could only really cum now if she masturbated brutally. In the aftermath of the bottle-rape, she had, just the once, found herself slapping her own breasts in preparation for the wine bottle she had half drunk and was arousing herself to sip with her other lips: to slip between her other lips: to force up herself; and had stopped herself, even though to go without relief was an agony, an untold agony to forever stoke her feminine desire fires.

As she waited for the return of her luggage after the security scan at the airport, all of these sad thoughts ran through Sendara’s brilliant mind, a mind tortured by her enforced celibacy.

“Professor Angelskiss?”

The uniformed Cunnilingual Airways ground-staff girl walking a waltz toward her, was a very pretty brown-eyed brunette, whose figure threatened hourglasses with lawsuits for middling falsification of statistics.

Sendara turned.

“I thought it must be you. My colleague said to look for a lovely redhead”, the ground-staff girl blurted out, before her face burned scarlet.

“Oh I’m so sorry!” she blushed, “Mummy keeps telling me off for thinking out loud….”, she apologised.

Sendara smiled lovingly.

“I’m sorry professor; but your flight has been cancelled” the ground stewardess conveyed, with a look of genuine sympathy.

“And…and… I’m so sorry as well professor, but your luggage has been damaged”, the sweet girl whispered sympathetically.

“Would all passengers for Cunnilingual Airways flight 362436 to Ntoli City, please report to terminal 96 with their tickets ready”, a tinny female voice announced, amid feedback squawks, over the departure lounge tannoy.

“That’s my flight”, Sendara whispered, as if she could deny the truth of what the sweet girl had just told her.

“I’m afraid not professor”, the blushing angel confirmed.

“I think it’s all so wrong miss. It really and truly is. But some passengers, two women who said you’d been looking at them, objected… you know… about travelling with someone wearing the pink garter?”

“Can I get another flight?” Sendara asked, knowing she knew the answer even before the ground stewardess shook her fresh-washed soft brown perfumed curls, and shyly said: “Not on Cunnilingual Airways I’m afraid. And that means not to Ntoli, as we have sole rights on that route miss”.

“I’m so sorry miss. Really and truly I am!” the sweet girl apologised from her gentle heart.

“Can I get you a cab maybe?” she added, as she brushed a comforting hand on Sendara’s bare forearm to seal the truth of her sincerity.

“No thank you. You have been kindness itself”, Sendara answered.

The girl began to walk away, but then returned.

“Please believe me. It was my boss that did it. She can be such a cow”, the stewardess explained for an as yet unknown cause.

As the miniskirted porteresses put her luggage around her pretty feet, Sendara’s eyes were drawn immediately to the strangely deformed look of her electronic notebook.

Thanking the young women who had taken her luggage off the flight she had been refused, Sendara picked up her laptop and, after a struggle opened it.

Something, probably a stiletto heel by the look of it, had stabbed through the screen, the same heel or heels had irreparably ruined its interior workings, and all the keys were missing from the keyboard, bar nine.

Sendara’s sad eyes looked these over.

In ‘qwerty’ keyboard formation, they read: ‘!etyulzcn’, which Sendara’s sharp brain instantly translated from its anagrammatic form, to the cruel insult: ‘lezy cunt!’.

As she closed the lid of her ruined laptop once more, the glorious beauty, Sendara Angelskiss, was only just winning the fight not to cry.

“Well, what do you reckon?” Lianta Smith asked, praying that her fellow leading lady would not be too displeased with the film’s rushes.

“But where do we go from there?” the stunning titian haired Angelica Amalata responded, not entirely unenthusiastically; but with a hint she knew the project had ‘terminal status’ as a subliminal subtitle all through, and that she had been saving up the point just made, for days since before now.

Despite herself, Lianta answered, only with a downcast sigh.

Angelica tried to cheer her: “Look Lianta. You know I believe in what you’re about. You’re the real deal. Calling the public’s attention to what the Hetzi’s did and are still doing over there in England, has got to be the best of causes. I’ve even put my reputation on the line by playing Angelskiss. Cripes knows I could never be as brave as she was in real life.”

“But I haven’t got any more to give the cause. You heard the latest from the Republican candidates. Come November and a landslide for Renata Ragen, and we’re gonna have got our own Hetzi government over here stateside.”

You ain’t gonna find a distributor anyways, sweetheart. You and I know it both.”

“My advice would be that you trash it before they find it.”

In her heart of hearts, Lianta had known for weeks that this response had been simmering. But hearing it from Angelica’s lovely lips was still so dispiriting, that, as she still sat before the tape editor, her head slowly sunk even lower than her heart.

Angelica knew she had delivered a fatal blow to the flawed project she’d long since known must be headed for the cutting room floor.

So she knew she must pause for poor Lianta to re-find her determination to go on: to go on without this, her pet project.

It was therefore several moments later that Lianta’s face arose amid the sensational scent of the superabundance of incendiary curls that surrounded and surrendered her, as Angelica’s sweet lips sought to softly console her.

And, as Angelica’s gentle right hand, whiter than a ghost’s, led the Nubian negress Lianta to their long-shared bedroom; both actresses longed to share tongues in the way they had dreamed all day: oh…. at least sixty-nine times.

And, as Angelica’s gentle right hand, as white in contrast as her aroused nipples were pink and her engorged lips coral, led the Nubian negress Lianta to their long-shared bedroom; her left grasped a wine bottle from the stage set and hid it behind her provocatively penduluming rear.

As she closed the lid of her ruined laptop once more, the glorious beauty, Sendara Angelskiss, was only just winning the fight not to cry.

The agony’ agony she had endured that day when the leading Hetzi girl had forced a wine bottle completely into her: when her cunt had swallowed a whole long-necked-bottle: a bottle pushed so high up inside her that she had gagged and nearly wretched, after she had belched, and then screamed with a massive cum: a cum of fulfilment at her full-fillment, had been only a mild portent of what was to come.

Sendara never mentioned the cum. That she had orgasmed repeatedly during her bottle-rape on the train, had shamed her so deeply at the time, and still did now in retrospect, that she pushed that fact to the deepest recesses of the back of her mind. Even so, it surfaced in her wet-dreams.

For then had come the walk home with the wine bottle still right up, high up inside her, irremovably inside her, so that her every sensual step masturbated her sheath.

As she stagger-stepped from the train tousled titian-tress temptress steepled in her front-heeled shoes on her supremely shapely sensationally sexy legs, had her stunning legs ever looked longer?

Nobody lent a hand to help the distressed angel. The bitter bite of the breeze on her bitten nipples emboldened them to the stiffest of stiff: to painfully stiff peaks: split peaks bleeding from the cruel bites of her rapists. Yet nobody lent a hand to help the angel.

For then had come the walk home with the wine bottle still right up high up inside her, irremovably inside her, so that her every sensual step masturbated her sheath.

And as she stepped one languorously long supremely smooth strong divinely sexy leg off the train, she belched. Unbecomingly, unapologetically, she belched, long and crudely, because of the huge bottle of red wine filling her intimacy. The bottle had been forced so far up her, she belched from the wind having been forced from her lungs.

And she wiggled. She was wanton with wiggle. Her salivating cunt slabbered its secret secretions, as her rip-raped full-bottle-fully-filled vagina mulled its red wine child.

Sendara wiggled wantonly because she was wanton. The bottle-rape had unloosed the whore in her. The bottle-filled Sendara was slut, and her walk hooker’s stroll, as she masturbated herself with the enormity of the penetration, that she wanted so to expel, but which could not help but tell her that she needed what was up her to continue its brutal penetration and merciless rape of her gentle body.

So she wiggled and her bare bottom waved flag for a flogging. And so too her breasts. And so to her breasts. She was bare there. She waved them as she walked, and their wave talked of her wanting what she was getting, even though she had never before been penetrated, and her hymen had paid the ultimate penance, and was still sacrificing the scarlet blood that trickled the insides of her fabulous ghost white thighs.

The agonising pain of her god’s wedding ring being split in the rape, had made her cum, and now its tattered remains retained the brutal bottle up her.

At all of twenty-four she had still been a girl, and was now a woman. At all of twenty-four she had still been a virgin and was now a slattern, slobbering her sexual juices as she snaked her swinging hips, and licked her bee-stung lips, and eyed all around with the blind wantonness, of a woman on the height of heat, begging that her other holes be filled, and her tits slapped, and her nipples pulled, and her clitoris squeezed, till she screamed with another cum.

And Sendara had walked her sexually sensual walk through the town: from town to where she donned gown, as the professor she had become, before this wanton whore that was her, now that her womanly wiles had been made wild by the rape, and she filled with the full red wine bottle child that she masturbated in her nurturing womb as she wiggled, her legs never longer, her lips never bolder, her thighs never stronger, her breasts waving wild in wanton wander, her eyes aflame with the fires of desires that she be taken yet higher than the cums that had already come, as her glorious hair, an incendiary pyre no redder than where her fingernails had driven stigmata of her sacrifice to pain into her palms, as the bottles had been pushed up her cunt again and again and again, to her repeated refrain of screams, that told of her love of the pain no more boldly that the juices that flowed from her cunny, joined by the blood of her ripped praetorian, as her ring had been dashed aside and sundered, as she was plundered without mercy, until the thrust that had filled her and filled her still, making her wanton animal infinitely femininely feminised by her rape.

And the continuing presence of the wine bottle present up her cunt so hard and so high, in her mile-long walk all but naked as nature giving way to girls’ nature as she nurtured her torture and knew she would cum. And she wanted to cum but not yet cum. for the journey, the pain of the journey, the humiliation of the journey, was joy as she masturbated with her wanton whore’s wiggle and her bottom’s undulations, and her breasts beat soundless bells to sweep aside the weak who could not look on such a girl as this and not weep. And Sendara knew she was going to cum and let no one touch her, oh please god let no one touch her, for no one could touch her for her stunning beauty as she worked her body with her sensual sexual walk, as she walked her mile in penance for her rape and her cum on the train as the bottles had been pushed up her cunt again and again, and still she was in pain from the bottle pushed into her womb, the bottle she womanly nurtured as in feminine nature as a child borne as yet unborn, even though the child was a cold cruel bottle that had her hymen torn as its neck kissed her fallopians with its final thrust and she had belched with the enormity of its insistence and its enormity of distance up her and its enormity of enormity filling her vagina…

….But Suki saw and ran to her: she saw her love so dishevelled, with her glorious golden hair in sweat-matted tangles, as she walked supremely femininely on superbly beautiful legs toward her. And Sendara’s glorious eyes begged Suki not to touch her, but Suki must embrace with her gentle love, and so Sendara’s cunt must crush, for she came now as her womb crashed in the walls of the bottle inside her and, as her cunt went into paralysed crunching seizure at Suki’s sweet embrace, the wine bottle exploded as it imploded.

And, after it had burst, crushed, shattered, smashed to slivers and shards by the massive grip of her cunt’s crushing walls, Sendara’s cunt was ripped by the shards of the glass of the bottle as she gave it birth. And her waters were the red wine she had mulled in her vagina, and her child was the broken glass that her cunt expelled, as she squealed, sexually screeching with the joy of the agony, at her love-lips being torn, and at her sheath being jaggedly sliced and ripped. And, as Sendara screamed with the pain of her cum, screamed as she became her cunt and her cunt came, her blood joined the wine that poured out of her as afterbirth.

And Sendara writhed on the ground, a white galleon tossed on the tumultuous waves of her sea of flaming red hair, her sweaty thighs clapped in iron clasp, as she fought to increase the agony of her cunt’s ripping, by grinding the sharp shards still within her, deeper into its inner pink, while she came and came with cum after endless cum, till even a girl as fit and strong as she, must faint with her excruciating joy from her even more excruciating agony from her excruciating agony’s agony.

And, as the two actresses from the incomplete film of Sendara Angelskiss’ life made their way to make love: as actress Angelica Amalata’s almost transparent gentle right hand led the Nubian negress and actress-director Lianta Smith to their long-shared bedroom; neither actress had changed outfit from recent participation in their roles…..both still wore telltale pink garters just above their pretty knees on their left thighs…..

11-04-2007, 05:35 PM
Great to see you back Eve

Thanks for the new Addition

11-04-2007, 06:03 PM
Great Story well told... many thanks....

11-04-2007, 08:53 PM
Amazing tales as always...thanks so much for sharing it