View Full Version : Petalina’s Progress

Eve Adorer
03-09-2008, 08:58 AM
Petalina’s Progress
by Eve Adorer

Sometimes there is no choice….

Petalina’s Progress
by Eve Adorer

Saturday 1 June 2052.

Fresh showered this morn she chooses white. Practicedly flicking her damp-darkened flame-red hair over five-five shoulders with pretty hands and an unsettling settling shake of her proud head, with long-nailed long fingers she untangles and then floats her choice of stockings from a left-open drawer onto the end of a bed still fragrantly warm from her sweet body’s sleeping there.

She is draped within a white bath towel: naked thereunder as yet. The towel wraps her akin a decidedly divided, divinely cleaved, low cut, bosom emboldening strapless mini-dress.

Now she purchases a perky perch prettily before a mirror deeply in love with her, and busies herself with her hairdryer over a confusion of matted diamond droplet dripping curls, that spring to dawn life under the tease of her comb and the blow of the glowing air, as the blowing air teases and tousles her glowing hair.

Now her smiling deep dark brown eyes glance at her room reversed in her mirror, and see why mummy is always complaining of her untidiness.

She will, she promises herself, not be such a trial to mummy, and tidy away this very day.

But, as yet, and likely to stay that way if truth be told and tolled, yesterday’s clothes scatter the floor fallen from the bedside chair at which they were carelessly thrown and missed or slid from at bedtime.

On the dressing table at which she sits sideways, is a profusion of lipsticks, mascara, cotton buds, combs, brushes, trinket holders, a half-emptied cola bottle, patent unguents of every description, nail varnishes of every shade from pink to pink, and back again, via pink, two opened boxes of paper handkerchiefs, another of face-wipes, and a pair of pairs of femininely-scented so-called ‘soiled’ panties.

The bedroom walls are draped with taped posters of very pretty, pretty well naked starlets, and soap actresses dressed in character.

In one key one, Leticia Lombardy’s gorgeous blue eyes sparkle laughter as she fills the glass she lifts to the whisky optic behind the bar of the ‘Siren’s Rock’ in a ‘still’ from an episode of ‘Lovelorn’ dating back a year now.

The brassiere that she had worn with one set of the panties on the dressing table, is tangled in the folded down duvet.

Her down-feather pillows are separated. One, still impressed by Petalina’s head, is half down the bed. The other fallen to the floor, is intimately scented where, last night, for an hour, she silently saddled across love’s prairie, and then rode rodeo with her clitoris as pommel, a wild pony.

Amid sighs and cries sensual and sexual, bareback, bare all bar the cape of red curls that flurried and furled in the wild wind of her even wilder imagination, the midnight-cowgirl, Petalina, had reined in and reigned over a magnificent bronco, bucking a dreamy dreaming schoolgirl to Deliverance City.

Time was moving on. School holidays: so she had slept late. Today she had a date with mummy, who had just tapped the door with a cry of: “Petalina: are you ready yet sweetheart?”

The bath towel to carpet now floated and her pretty feet stepped over its sodden circle, to fling on her clothes.

The white bra from the bed would do. She grabbed it and then leant forward to round up and corral her wilfully wildly wondering wonderful breasts, in order to order them to ‘stand to attention and face front!’.

These thus domed and dominated to strictly behaved twin unison, her dexterous fingers now win the fight to connect the hook and eye behind her back, and then settle the bra’s beautiful contents before running a thumb inside the straps to sort and settle them assuredly untwisted over her delicately boned shoulders.

Where are her suspenders? She scrabbles in a draw and scatters aside fresh laundered neatly folded clothing, mummy’s hard work, to find a matching white, except that they are not quite, and puts round her hips a pretty floral-panel pattern with side-clasps for the stockings she vaguely recalls putting somewhere ready a short while since.

The fingernails she has cultivated with such patience, she must now take care do not carelessly tear a snare in the stocking she has rolled up like a new condom to sheath the length of her conspicuously curvaceous left leg as she sits once more and scents the chair seat with her lower kiss’ femininity.

She forwards to the edge of her chair and her pretty lips pout as, after rolling the stocking out and up the shapely road of her divine left leg now outstretched, she finally positions the suspender clasp, to pull up and hold the stocking’s darker circling top, till it is lightly impressing her impressive thigh mid-high.

After the right stocking has also been rolled into its lucky role, she stands and grasps next a pristine white wisp, and it becomes a sling to slay an infinite number of Goliaths any and every day, with potent pouch petals kissing it inside and a girl’s red nether curls gathered and overspilling, as she carelessly tethers her g-string tying a swift bow skilfully behind her, and flounces to her chair once more to don her shoes there.

Her white leather four-inch-stiletto-heeled-sandals, have long straps tracing criss-cross lattice around her pronounced calves: straps she buckles under her knees: the neatness of the criss-crossed leather caressing her lovely legs, showing how artistic she is by nature, and, indeed, how tidy she can be if she tries.

She then rises and traipses ballerina-light, as she throws a white, clean but creased, sloppy tee-shirt over her head, sweeping out her hair so its curls fall behind her once more, to rear of her knees, as all round, does her short-sleeved tee’s hem, to make like a micro-mini-dress.

As Petalina Goldkiss clasps a light white leather belt at her hips: “Do come on now darling, it’s ten to nine already!” her mother calls again, muffled by the bedroom door.

“Oh: Darling, you could have made an effort”, Namatina, Petalina’s mother despaired as her pretty daughter stepped into the hallway.

“What’s wrong mummy?”

“You know what an important interview this is for me Petalina. You’re nearly sixteen now sweetheart. You’re going to go to an interview yourself next week. Surely you don’t think Camford will put you on its PhD programme, if they see you dressed like that do you? You could have put on a proper dress, or at least a skirt”.

Petalina recognised her mother’s anxiety, and just smiled innocently, knowing Namatina’s remarks were no more than a reflection of tension.

A moment after the smile lit Petalina’s lovely eyes, her mother kissed her daughter’s cheek to signify and beg forgiveness.

Petalina admired Namatina’s outfit. Namatina’s burnished red hair shone contrast with the fern-frond green of her Parisian cut wool-weave jacket-and-skirt combo. Petalina was less certain about the mid-grey stockings. She was not sure they went with the white silk pearl-buttoned blouse, and white patent-leather three-inch-heeled pumps. Nonetheless, she answered affirmatively to her mother’s concerned: “Do I look alright?”

“You look wonderful mummy: you always look wonderful”, she assured.

If that was true of Namatina is was also true of Petalina, for mother and daughter were peas of the same exceptionally attractive pod. They could have been twins, save that Namatina was five-eight to Petalina’s still growing five-five. Namatina’s face, the face of a thirty-four year old woman, also already had the pure mature beauty that Petalina’s more than mere prettiness would graduate into.

Both girls had the opalescence: the near transparency of a redhead’s complexion, with Namatina’s eyes showing laughter lines at her temples, and Petalina’s pretty little nose a fairy dust of freckles.

Namatina’s decision to use the same sperm deposit that had originally fathered her, had worked a miracle with the daughter, who was also her sister, in that anonymous sense.

Breakfast over, there was no more time to wait. Namatina checked she had the key of the apartment, and both girls were on their way.

Was it coincidence that John Barnett’s lovely blonde wife was always at the door whenever Namatina went into the communal hallway?

As she noticed that, as always, Marianna’s eyes were only for her momma: “Good morning Marianna!” Petalina called brightly and totally mischievously.

“Hi Petalina. Hi Namatina!” Marianna called in turn in return, the latter a little louder to cause the hurrying Namatina to notice her, as if she hadn’t already, and respond with, the white lie: “Oh hello Marianna, I didn’t see you there”.

As mother and daughter met the warm morning air outside, and exchanged knowing looks: “You’re blushing mummy!” Petalina teased.

“No I am not!!” Namatina protested, as she flushed-up even deeper.

Petalina felt a surge of pride in her mother’s indisputable attractiveness to the female sex. She dearly wanted to marry a girl as lovely as her momma, that was for sure.

Just outside the apartment block, the twisted wreckage of Namatina’s Penetrator 7-litre coupe, glinted in a sun reflecting off the bare metal involuntarily violently exposed when Namatina’s Russian girlfriend, Ariana Spermspurna had totalled it.

It had only been there a week. Both Petalina and Namatina recalled watching in horror as the garage girls had lowered what was left of it on the parking lot outside their condo.

Thank gee Ariana was okay. This they knew for sure because Ariana was with them when the wreck was returned. But the “slight scratch” that Ariana had told Namatina she had given Namatina’s brand new auto, had turned out to be a whole world more than what Namatina had already spanked Ariana for.

The walk to ‘Girls Aloan’ was not far. Namatina and Petalina could breeze there on the sidewalk in ten minutes and did so, through an initial gauntlet of wolf-whistles and earthy genuflections, imitating erectile tissue, from the bored girls on the building site near their home.

Mother and daughter lowered their heads and tried not to look at each other in case they started to giggle.

“Hey darlin’ you want my number?! You can bring yer little sister wiv yer if yer want!” preceded mother and daughter blushing divinely at the appreciation of their attractiveness as they proceeded, parading their charms as they progressed.

“You know why she walks like that dontcha?” came a rhetorical introduction next, followed by: “Cos it bit his cock off him last night, and it’s still chewing on it..........”

At this Namatina threw up her head in hurt haughty anger, and then bristled as she bustled along to clear the leering builders the quicker, clasping Petalina’s pretty hand to drag her daughter as fast as Petalina could manage in her four-inch heels.

“Sorry darlin’. Didn’t mean it like dat!” came the genuinely apologetic call, at which Namatina stopped and turned, and the full view of her lovely face silenced the crude women.

“Wow, she’s a fuckin’ cracker she is!”, came the converts concluding sigh.

“What’s a girl gotta ‘ave to get a crack ‘ot bit of stuff like that inter bed?”

“More money dan what you got would ‘elp Zarah!” came a teasing response, followed by resigned laughter.

Money was a key: a key, not to the heart of loving girls like Namatina and Petalina; but the key to why they were walking to Girls Aloan.

The old-fashioned shop that Girls Aloan occupied, hardly inspired confidence.

It was just that: a shop: at least a former shop. It was lodged at the base of a low-rising brownstone.

It sported no grandeur. There were no Doric columns, nor oaken door, nor marble interior to impress the public with its solidity and soundness. It had not even a polished brass plate to understate its name.

The glass of the former high street shop was curtained inside with a variety of second-hand drapes that had seen better days, and far better locations, when they had hung as new. Three or four dead flies were scattered, legs upwards, at the base of the window glass they had died months since back, trying hopelessly to fly to freedom through.

Behind the glass of the entry door, were net curtains that could be politely called “off-white” because, they were not clean and were decidedly yellowing.

The door of the shop, and the wooden frame around the shop windows, had been painted navy blue a long time ago. So long ago, in fact, that the once dark shade was now an appalling pealing powdering grey.

“Gosh... is this where you got the money from mummy?” Petalina enquired, with her tone unintentionally giving away her astonishment.

“Beggars can’t be choosers darling”, Namatina responded, with her voice showing she had registered her daughter’s implied criticism, and knew herself that the deal she had struck had been a mistake.

The mechanical bell that cracked its ‘ding’ as Namatina pushed open the door and graced over the threshold of Girls Aloan, put the period full-stop on Petalina’s conclusion that this was hardly a Federal Reserve Board supported institution.

As there was no one present in the interior, both lovely women sat on two of three in a row of chairs, thus letting their hems slide up their stockings to reveal their superb thighs right up to their stocking tops. Their hems being so short, they sat with only their intimately scented panties between their intimacies and the chairs’ seats.

But no sooner had they put their potently pouched panties on the seats, than the door bell rang another cracked clang, and a beautiful Nubian negress, six-foot tall, flowed in, as gracefully as a sailing summer cloud.

“Who said you could sit?” the negress asked coolly as she entered.

Both girls rose in reflex, and: “Oh, hello again, Karana: Namatina Goldkiss? We have an appointment at ten...” Namatina began, very tentatively.

“Yes: I know full well who you are”, the stunning negress responded: “Why did you bring the little tart with you?”

“This is my daughter”, Namatina responded nervously: shocked by the crude terminology applied to Petalina, but too in need of Karana’s good offices to be able to dare to challenge it.

“Are you deaf? I asked what you brought her here for, not who she is?”

“It’s her school’s summer vacation. I promised Petalina we’d go shopping after this. It’s coming up her sixteenth birthday, and she’s got an interview at Camford University, so we’re off to choose a suitably smart outfit.......”

“I didn’t ask to be told her boring biography”, Karana cut in, while she looked the lovely Petalina over head to toes and back again: “But I suppose she can stay”.

“You’d better come through....”, she added, before her eyes roamed up the seams in Namatina’s stockings.

Though they were the customers, and the customer customarily comes first, the two redheads instinctively let the catwalking Karana lead them through, past yet another curtain, which each girl held aside in turn when it was their turn to go into the back room, so that they could join Karana in the inner sanctum: the shop’s back office.

There, in complete contradiction with what she had instructed when she had first re-entered the shop, Karana flourished a lovely hand to show where the two girls might sit. She then sat opposite them, so they formed a three-sided circle.

Because they were bare above their stocking tops, the cold sweaty black PVC of the seats of the wooden-framed chairs, stuck to the backs of Namatina and Petalina’s thighs.

By contrast, Karana wore a long skirt, but not so long that, when she crossed her legs, the two redheads could not see her lovely white stocking clad limbs up to a hint of her stockings’ racy lacy rose-pattern tops.

“Let’s not beat about the bush”, Karana began: “You’re in deep shit Namatina. Your chick wrote of the Penetrator I gather. You should choose your girlfriends more carefully. That’s a cool 800K dollars your tart totalled.”

“You’ve been skipping the repayments too. Your pathetic email told us you lost your job six months back. Add that to the wrecked auto, and we’ve got some serious talking to do sweetheart.”

“So what are you going to do about it? And, just in case you didn’t notice, we ain’t a charity.”

“I’m trying to get another job”, Namatina began, with a distinct hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“Meantime, I thought...well...there’s the insurance of course....” she continued lamely, watching the gorgeous negress’ sarcastic smile turn to cold incredulity.

This whole business was far from going the way Namatina had assumed it would. The free coffee and the smiles of the interview when she had fixed the cheap loan, the only loan she could get from anywhere for the longed for Penetrator, which was otherwise way beyond even her high earner’s income, were, she was sure, an accurate memory. Nothing had been too much trouble then. Everything was worryingly troubling now.

“You mean your whore was insured?” Karana enquired with one eyebrow quietly quizzical heavenward.

“Who?” Namatina asked, getting confused by the pressure of the negress’ sarcasm.

“Your girlfriend: the bed-meat: the tart that slammed the Penetrator?”, Karana whispered slowly, as if Namatina were stupid.

“Well no: Ariana was driving on my insurance of course....”

“No she wasn’t Namatina”, Karana abruptly scoffed.

Namatina opened her lovely mouth to dispute this, only to give best to the Karana’s swirling dark-brown dreadlocks as the negress slowly shook her queenly head.

“You brainy chicks never read the small print do you?” Karana asked rhetorically.

“The insurance....I’d say ‘let me remind you’ at this point, but let’s face it, as you couldn’t be assed to read it.....you’d better just take my word....the insurance covered you and you alone.”

“And, before we go any further, the loan was backed by surety? Girls Aloan now owns your condo, sweetheart. It ain’t worth a fig to us though, unless we sell it, so you and your pretty little daughter here are on the street as from right nowsville. That is, unless you can afford to make up the six-months missing payments on the Penetrator, and still continue the rest of the payments to completion of the buy of an auto you’ve no longer got and can’t therefore sell.....And do all that without an income from a job....”

Petalina reached a comforting hand, to touch the two wonderfully well girlicured hands of her momma.

A silence that was as short as it seemed long, followed, as the eyes of the two stunning redheads followed the equally astonishing negress, when she rose and walked to her briefcase to pull out what appeared to be a diary.

Karana then returned to her seat and, without looking up from the book she was opening, ordered: “Stand up, lift your hem clear, and let me look at your legs.”

Namatina felt Petalina move her hand away, so that she, Namatina, was free to rise. Namatina then looked at her daughter, and began to stand up.

“No: not you, you stupid bitch, I mean the little tart!”, Karana insisted quietly.

Namatina cod-fished her mouth to protest, but no sound came out bar the sweet soprano as Petalina assured her: “It’s alright mummy: I don’t mind”.

Moments later, the deeply blushing Petalina stood high to heaven on her heavenly legs: legs stretched to superb curves by her stiletto-heeled shoes.

At an indication from Karana’s forefinger, Petalina began a slow pirouette, with the wonderful bonus that her g-string left her bottom completely bare.

“Mmm. Are her tits real? Does she have any piercings? Does she sport any tattoos?” Karina stabbed out at the astonished Namatina.

“Of course not, she’s completely natural”, Namatina answered.

“And just how complete is that exactly?” Karana asked next.

“How do you mean?” Namatina croaked, before she cleared her throat.

“Good god: I don’t have to spell it out for you do I?! Is she or isn’t she?” Karana insisted, as she flicked out an impatient wave to order Petalina to stop turning.

Petalina was blushing beetroot-red as she stopped turning, and now stood showing her bare bottom to the gorgeous negress.

“Well?” Karana persisted, demanding that Petalina’s momma answer, as if Petalina could not respond for herself.

“My darling daughter is a fully intact virgin, if you must know, but I don’t know what the hell it has to do with you!!” Namatina answered, tears verging on the precipice of her lower eyelids.

Ignoring the tantrum, Karana continued: “Does she masturbate?”

Regretting her uncharacteristic temper outburst, Namatina blushed to match Petalina, save that Petalina now lowered her lovely head in additional shame.

“I don’t know”, Namatina answered.

“Huh! Some kind of mother you are, not knowing if her own daughter frigs herself off”, Karana scoffed.

“Yes I do mummy”, Petalina whispered, and then raised her head proudly.

“That’s unfortunate”, Karana mused, as she thought out loud.

“Take your belt off and your tee-shirt right up, I want to look at the tits”, Karana now commanded.

“Is all this really necessary?” Namatina begged, with a voice saying she already knew the answer.

“I’ll ignore that question!”, Karana snapped back.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful for once, and undo your daughter’s belt and help her unhook her bra for me?”

As, a short while later, Petalina’s breasts flowed out from overfilling and overspilling the fullest capacity of their cupped captivity, Karana looked at them as captivated by them as they were free to captivate.

“They are wonderful. Your daughter has a very beautiful body to go with her ravishingly lovely face. Is she, say, a 36D?”

“No: she’s a 38E same as me” Namatina responded, now resigned to the humiliation she and, more so, Petalina, were being put through.

“The nipples are very pronounced: does she suck them?”

“No!”, Petalina herself responded, lowering her head in shame once more.

“Mmmm. I don’t really believe you could resist them, but you can sit down now Petalina”, Karana ordered very gently, thus revealing that she was smitten by the younger girl’s beauty.

Not attempting to re-hook her brassiere, Petalina dropped her tee-shirt’s hem back down, but did not notice it was caught on her suspender belt at the rear. In consequence, when she sat once more on the PVC of the chair, she did so with her bottom completely bare, and let out a decidedly sexy “Ooooh!” as the seat’s clammy chill surprised her.

“I think we may have a solution here, Namatina”, Karana now began.

“We, my partners and I have been thinking for some time about a collateral swap. Originally, we had just you in mind, Namatina. But it’s a fortunate coincidence that you brought your daughter with you today, and that she’s up to the mark.”

“We’ve actually had an eye on Petalina for this last few weeks, just in case we needed her as well. Did you know that she’s the most sought after girl in her school? If you want to see it, we have video of her headmistress trying to feel her up.”

“No? Well, no matter, the choice is entirely yours”, Karana sarcasmed.

“Now then: this conversation is totally deniable. If you don’t deliver on your part, or if you involve anyone, especially the police, then this conversation, quite simply, never took place. Do you understand?”

The two redheads held hands, as Namatina nodded.

“Good” Karana responded, and then paused.

“Okay. To come straight out with it, the deal is this. You can keep your home for now and what’s left of the auto. Your debts will be written off entirely by Girls Aloan and we’ll only sell your condo after the deal gets underway.”

“The deal has a high and heavy price. The price: the price for the deal: the only price acceptable to Girls Aloan, is that you and your daughter, Petalina, repay the debt with your bodies”.

“No!!!!” Namatina cried, rising from her seat in her rush of anxiety: “God no! Not Petalina too!! Please no!!!” she begged

Petalina put a comforting arm around her distraught mother, and sat her down again.

“It’s alright mummy. It’s alright. I don’t mind. I’ll do it for you mummy, I’ll do it for us, you know I will”, she soothed.

“I haven’t finished yet!” Karana shouted above the two wailing women.

Then, her words punctuated by Namatina’s continuing sobs, Karana concluded: “There is but one strict stipulation that goes with the deal. It is that, despite her masturbation devaluing her, when she is delivered up, Petalina must still be an intact virgin, otherwise the whole deal is off”.

“We have a millionaire countess who will fund this. She’ll want a DVD of it being done and regular reports on Petalina as she goes through life after.”

“You, Namatina, will go into service with the countess as her lifelong slave. Petalina will be free to enjoy life, if ‘enjoy’ is the right word.”

“Now go. You have the phone number. We plan to start at the weekend – Saturday next. We will make preparations on that assumption. You can have time to think about it, but don’t have any alternative I can think of.”

“And, so, when you’ve also reached the same conclusion, you, Namatina, will phone, ask for me, and use the code word ‘red’ to confirm you agree the deal. We will then come and collect Petalina and yourself, take her to where it will take place, and you will become the countess’ slave, after watching it being done to your daughter”.

As the two sobbing ghost-white curly-redhead wonders rose to leave, Karana shot out two more points: “Remember, all you’ve heard is totally deniable.”

“Oh: and, when you get home, so as to mark her out as a virgin, Petalina must lose the pubes. Shave it totally smooth, and shave it twice a day after that”.

“What are you going to do to her?!” Namatina begged, as she bit her pretty lip to hold back her tears.

“You’ve been told the deal, bitch, now just get out of here!” Karana sneered triumphantly......

It had been good of the countess to let Petalina continue to live in the condo she and her dear momma had shared. Namatina’s apartment in the condo had gone to the countess as a contribution toward Namatina’s debts. But the countess had recognised that little Petalina needed a roof over her head until she left school: a home from which she would dutifully email the countess with a report on her sex-life every month: reports that the countess would take delight in having her slave, Namatina, read out-loud to her; though, fortunately, Petalina did not know that.

Today Petalina sat on the 15.30 train home to Barnmouth. Out of the window, she could see the River Barn’s valley in all its spring loveliness: the unfurling of the pristine green leaves on the deciduous sisters among the evergreen pines they gave way to, as the latter strode alone up the distant distinctly dark Barnwold Hills, told of the dawn of the new year, as did the trackside fields full of lambs springing over imagined obstacles as they learned to use their newborn’s legs.

The astoundingly glorious gold of her glistering cascade of complex curls might be a mite autumnal; but spring had also sprung in ghost-white pretty Petalina’s mind, and she tried not to return the bewitching smile in the sparkling almond-hued almond shaped eyes of a stunning jet-haired ethnic- Japanese girl in the seat opposite her. Yet, so pretty were this twenty-year-old’s legs, and so seductive the line that led to the bell of her skirt and the mystery between her thighs hidden by the shadow from her hem, that Petalina must pretend that she was looking out of the coach window.

Petalina had a lot to contemplate. She was returning home after an interview for an appointment as an office-girl, at the main UK factory of the world-famous Clittitass Love Toys Inc., and it had been a strange interview.

The countess had allowed Petalina to complete her time at school. The office-girl job was the first Petalina had ever applied for post school, and even though she would never now go to college and get the education that the qualifications listed for the post she had applied for, purely speculatively, demanded, her interviewer had said how very attractive Petalina was and selected her right there and then, without any reservations.

Her interviewer, Milandia Loveworthy had made some very strange comments.

Through the glass of the one-way mirror window in her ground floor office, it was possible to look, unobserved, at the factory-girls as they went about their dreadfully repetitive work.

“Psychologists have extolled the virtue of jealousy as a driving force among the females working in a factory environment Miss Goldkiss. Delivering a cause for a united focus on a figure of desire and jealousy, keeps the old ‘green-eyed monster’ from causing the factory-girls to turn on one another. Fessenstein in her treatise ‘The Female Jealouside and Redress Through Focused Targeting’ speaks of using a ‘tease-tart’.

“I want you to become this factory’s first tease-tart Miss Goldkiss. You will not find it difficult to look stunningly attractive: nature has done wonders by you. We will pay for your clothing.”

“You will not wear the factory products. I have Paris for dresses, skirts and supporting underwear, London for millinery and stockings, and Milan for shoes in mind for you; and, of course, it has to be New York for your panties.”

“Fessenstein recommends ‘The finest designer outfits’ to convey that the wearer is either being paid much more by far than the shop-floor girls are, or that she is sleeping with the boss to get favours and, either way, is desirably unavailable: available unavailability being the key to the success in deploying a tease-tart.”

“Please don’t let worry-lines crease your brow so Miss Goldkiss. You don’t actually have to sleep with the boss, but I am not about to say ‘no’ if you decide you would like to!” Milandia had joked as Petalina had blushed beyond English Rose.

“All you have to do is to be your lovely self. But you must never ever date any of the shop-floor girls. You are to be a ‘tease-tart’ – what we in England also call a ‘clit-tease’. Apart from looking lovely at all times, all you have to do is accept a lift to and from work in my Leopard, so the girls will not only think you’re being bedded by me, but will long to sniff the leather of the passenger seat after you have just got out!”.

Back in the very present, Petalina’s peripheral vision told her that the Japanese doll was smiling at her, and looking to engage her in conversation.

Unable to avoid the older girls stunning eyes, Petalina lowered her head shyly as she heard her whisper: “I just love you hair....How ever do you manage to keep it so beautiful? What conditioner do you use?”

But before the conversation could be struck up, the train pulled into a station and a group of girls, over-cheery, with cherry-red cheeks from the intoxication of youth, vitality, and more than a little alcohol, ran giggling into the carriage and latched onto the pretty Japanese.

“Hey now doll: are you a cracker or are you a cracker?!” slurred the newly boarded girl who seemed to be the centre of attention.

“Me and me mates are out celebrating see”, she went on to say, as if the lovely Japanese wanted or needed to know.

“It’s me last day of freedom. Madeline and me is getting married tomorrow...only Madeline ain’t here of course, cos she’s getting drunk somewhere down-town see. And it’s bad luck to let the bride see the bride on the day before the wedding. But if you wanna come with us sweetheart, I’ll forget all about Maddy and marry you instead: alright darlin’?”

The Japanese girl giggled divinely.

“Waz you name den darlin’?” the drunken bride-to-be then insistently slurred.

“Nimoto”, the Japanese angel answered, giggling once more, with a pretty hand touch on her nose and sparkles in her eyes.

“Well you’re absolutely fuckin’ gorgeous Nimoto. D’yo know that?” the tipsy girl sincered.

“Thank you”, Nimoto smiled as she lowered her head shyly.

“Bet you shave it too, don’t you darlin’?” the drunk girl then blurted out: the short distance between her unconscious and conscious minds having been hot-wired by drink.

In the instant, Nimoto looked upset, and the drunken girl was genuinely apologetic: “Sorry darlin’ I didn’t mean no ‘urt to a gorgeous doll like what you is!”

Nimoto instinctively knew the apology was from the tipsy girl’s heart and soul. And so she looked up with her countenance showing her confidence renewed, and joined in the fun by whispering the truth; “Yes: I do”, and then giggling lovingly as she saw it was now the drunks turn to blush.

“Oh fuckin’ ‘ell! I don’t want to fink about dat, ‘cept that I bloody well do! Oh bloody ‘ell! Wow and bloody wow!”

This stunning revelation seemed to poleaxe the tipsy soon-to-be bride, who just could not get rid of her blush, and now covered for herself by saying: “If’n you want to come and join us Nimoto....we’re off to Camford to see if we can find some student girls to shag. Them brains tarts has always got hot cracks. We’re on a bet see. We wanna see how many students we can get the knickers off this side of midnight, and me pals say I’ve gotta lick out at least one PhD, whatever one of them is......”

“Nimoto blushed crimson at this directness: “I’m sorry, I’ve got a wife at home cooking dinner for me. It’s our first anniversary”, she began.... “But why don’t you ask this lovely redhead to join you, she then offered....thinking both to get rid of the attention she was getting, and sure she could defend both herself and the redhead if, as was surely to be expected, the redhead also declined the invitation. Nimoto so wanted to talk to the titian temptress, and this was a way of including Petalina in the conversation, as certainly as it assured success in subsequently including the drunken bride-to-be out.

.....But as she looked up and across to where Petalina had, she assumed, sat throughout the barrage of loud but friendly badinage, Nimoto saw only an empty seat.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the next carriage but one, lovely lonely Petalina sat trying to hide her sadness. The countess may have insisted upon Petalina being ‘protected’ as part of the repayment of her momma’s debts, but Petalina’s mind heart and very soul was still in love with love and longing for it.

The unfurling uncurling mint-fresh leaves were not the only sign of spring in the air. The season’s slow warming glow also saw the arrival of fresh freckles on the spectral face of the bewitching Petalina. One even teetered top edge of the siren strawberry of her seductively succulent lips.

Though to others they were astonishingly adorable, Petalina had always hated her freckles. As an even younger girl, she had tried to cover them with makeup. But now, for the greater glory of the world, she let them show.

This was the first day in her new job and her darling freckles had not gone unnoticed on the workshop floor.

For her first day as the factory’s tease-tart, Milandia Loveworthy, had had Petalina dress in a ‘little green number’.

The verdant pastoral pastel shade of green chosen, was a compliment to the shear glory of Petalina’s flaming tresses. Though it was long-sleeved, the top was worn off-shoulder and the supreme whiteness of Petalina’s soft skin and the intricate delicacy of her shoulder and collar bones, showed how carefully god had made her.

With her shoulders bare, there could be no brassiere, and thus Petalina’s generous portions played their appointed role in prominently propping out the clinging line of her dress’ figure-hugging elasticated top, and deployed their alarming charms as she wiggled in walk and they wandered wonderfully within their tight but light restraint.

The skirt of her dress clung too to her delicious derriere and hinted that her hips were decorated, as indeed they were, by a delicately designed suspender belt.

The twice told truth of this ran, beyond the miniscule minimum of her min-dress’ hem, down the outsides of her bare translucently white thighs: with the extra-long reach of these, her suspenders, kissing her stockings just above her knees where they drew their tops up in long victory vees.

Mint-green was the theme not only of her dress but also in her underwear and stockings, and the saucily slanted Panama that sloped atop her impossible curls, and the five-inch heeled slingbacks posing her lovely legs in delectable tension.

The dark rings under her soulful brown eyes hinted that Petalina had hardly slept and the answer to the cause of that god-given blessing and curse spotted its scarlet tears under her mint-green thong.

Her bleed had come on this dawn, and was a great discomfort to Petalina. Tampons were out of the question of course. She could therefore only use pads or panty-liners to soak up her sacrificial blood.

As intended by her boss, one magically majestic stroll of this wonder of nature through the throng on the workshop floor was enough to set tongues wagging.

“’Ere Trish, you seen the new girl in Accounts? I wouldn’t kick ‘er out of bed, that’s for sure!”

“Yea. It’s not bloody fair.” Trisha Smith answered. “She goes about all hoity-toity wiv ‘er ‘air right down to beyond ‘er bleedin’ arse, and we ‘as to ‘ave it trimmed short and wear ‘air nets for safety an’ all”.

“I know; but she ain’t factory, she’s office, and them rules don’t apply none to office see”, Martha informed, as if Trisha didn’t already know.

“Bet you don’t know what colour knickers she’s got on!” Trisha teased.

“Coarse I do. Dey’ll be fuckin’ green same as der rest of her rig-out won’t dey?” Martha responded, losing her certainty toward the end of her answer.

“But I dunno though!” Martha then mused.

“I fort you said you did!” Trisha shot back.

“Nah. I was just asking meself, same as what you was Trish. Dey might be red or blue. Lenf of that bloody dress she’s almost got on, and we’re sure to find out afore the day’s gone, eh Trish!

Both women then chortled, but still carried on with their work on the constant conveyor.

“What’s ‘er name den?” Trisha asked ten seconds later.


“Der new girl in Accounts: der red ‘ead. What’s ’er name?”

“Oh. I ‘erd it were ‘Petal’ or suffink like dat” Martha assured, her tone suggesting she had authoritative contacts in ‘high places’: sources not shared by anyone else.

“Rose Petal would suit ‘er wouldn’t it? She ain’t ‘alf got lovely skin.” she went on.

“I ‘ear she comes to work in Milandia’s auto, so I bet she’s shacking up wiv der boss”, Trisha speculated.

“I bet she cums to what, in what?!” Martha responded, trumpeting her nearest ear in pretence she was deaf and hadn’t heard the previous sentence.

This did not get the laugh intended. Instead Trisha almost stopped work as she speculated: “Just imagine that ‘eh. Bet she can’t keep ‘er ‘ands off of ‘erself: I mean, ‘ow could yer, if you was as pretty as dat, an’ built like dat eh?”

At that point, Petalina walked onto the factory floor, and began to walk up the open lattice staircase to where the office worker’s lavatory was located.

As her sweet face smiled at the two talkative girls near the staircase, Trisha and Martha fell shyly silent and appeared to be concentrating on their work without time to look up from it.

But after Petalina had traipsed her treasure in very leggy measured steps, to where she would deal with her crimson, the two women looked at each other and knowingly mouthed in unison, their agreement that today they were indeed: “Green!”

For pretty Petalina, passing her golden wine was now a very difficult business, and worse still was ridding her menstruum.

In the ladies’ lavatory, Petalina lowered her panties, whilst all the while fighting her urgent need to do the necessary. In her bleed week she stored her wine this way, because she needed a good flow of pee to hose her seep out.

In her situation, she found it best to seat herself with her thighs pressed up to her breasts. And, to ensure her urine would flow into the lavatory bowl, to put a pretty hand between her thighs to direct the multiple sprinkles to become a single stream.

For pretty Petalina, passing her golden wine was now a very difficult business.

Lifting her skirt so it was well off her lower body, and with her tiny tight thong panties binding her ankles, almost as if she were featuring in some kind of BDSM story, she placed her shoes’ heels within the rim of the toilet’s seat and looked down toward her lower mouth, between thighs made monumental by her purposeful pose; and paused; put a sweet hand in front of her slit, fingers downward, and then peed profusely.

As she urinated, she peeked between her enormous thighs, and was relieved as she relieved herself, to see her wine pass from Oporto red, to sweet rosé, and then to pure white, as her peeing flushed out her moon cycle sacrifice to the altar of pulchritudinous potency.

Petalina was used to this vile indignity now, and had found this way, this stance, this mode of sitting, was the best, indeed, the only way to ensure her pee escaped neatly, rather than showering her gorgeous thighs and going almost everywhere bar where wished it to.

No concession had been made for her need to urinate and menstruate.

Her powerful piss would have to wash out her vestibule when she was menstruating, and this it did because its hissing jet shot back off the insides of her outer lips and hosed her out before it seeped in tiny jets.

It would be nice if there were a bidet in this room Petalina mused, as she washed her hands afterwards, just before pulling up her panties to hold a new panty-liner in place, and then running enquiring fingers around the simply skimpy panty boundaries, to ensure they were not folded-in anywhere.

The stitches had been painful at first. They made her delicate flesh very sore because they were pulled so tight. But that soreness had eventually abated. And that was not because they had got any degree looser. Their defence of her virtue was still absolute.

Petalina’s complete infibulation was very thorough in performing its duty. As Petalina’s contribution to countess, for the countess having repaid her momma’s debts to Girls Aloan, the countess had insisted upon Petalina being sewn-up.

Furthermore, her mouth, her lovely mouth, was protected by a ball-stud with its two hemispheres screwed together by an axle penetrating her tongue. A stud large enough to prevent her tongue being reached out beyond the duty of licking her delicious lips: with even that only possible to perform with its extreme tip. The ball-stud coincidently gave Petalina’s sweet voice a very sexy innocent’s lisp.

The stainless-steel conical covers completely encapsulating her captivating nipples, and held hard over them by rivet-headed horizontal rods piercing Petalina’s fresh girl’s flesh, also put those sensitive signals of her signal joy at sexual arousal, forever out of play’s way.

Petalina’s other penance had been the total ban on her having any contact whatsoever with Namatina.

For now though, Petalina pulled up her panties, and the panty-liner she wore hid the ridge formed by the way her lips had been drawn together so that they pouted, and the pout then sewn tight closed forever, with neat hand-worked stitches that sealed her completely.

Petalina did not want to hurry back to the office. She knew Milandia had a meeting at 15.00, and was looking forward to the peace and quiet when her boss was not there for a while.

It was not the work that she could not cope with: it was another pressure that was getting to her.

To prolong her stay in the lavatory, a lovely ghost looked at her flaming curls, and caressed them with long fingers into acutely cute conformity.

For such a highly intelligent girl it had taken a long time for the penny to drop, that, when she had just now climbed the stairs to spend that same metaphorical penny, the two girls who worked just below that stairway must have had the heavenly view up Petalina’s dress: they must have been able to see everything!

Now the realisation raced to her, Petalina blushed so deeply that her shyness caused pretty tears to teeter on her lower eyelids.

And she must shortly wiggle the same gauntlet!

The click and clack of Petalina’s stilettos sounded sensational to Trisha and Martha’s ears. With such an erotic sound as foreplay, they did not need to nudge each other to remind themselves to look up as Petalina came down, but both girls noted that there was not as good a view that way, and thus they must look forward to Petalina going the other way again, later in the day.

Despite that Petalina had done nothing other than to be her natural charming self with them, the two young women - Trisha and Martha – established the distance between ‘them and us’: between the factory-girls such as they, and ‘management’ such as Petalina, by letting Petalina hear them saying:

“I fink green’s a smashing colour don’t you Martha?” on the one part. And, in case Petalina thought they might only be talking about her Parisian couture outfit, responding: “Oh yea, smashing: but meself, I prefers to wear knickers what covers me bum!”

Petalina hung her head and hurried by. And two young women individually wished they could bite back their spiteful words; but were not going to lose face by seeking for that to become their combined view.

Milandia Loveworthy lived up to her name; in her own interpretation of it that is.

She had risen like a rocket from the factory floor, because the predecessor in the post Milandia now occupied, had done the same just before her, and gone on to HQ over in Tokyo, leaving the vacancy.

The predecessor in Milandia’s post had chosen Milandia because she liked a nice pair of legs, and Milandia had a great pair, and gorgeous green eyes that startled with champagne’s sparkle, framed by her soft nut-brown shoulder-length hair with its saucy fringe.

Petalina had been recruited from outside, because Milandia had done her MBA and read her Fessenstein, and because she too had great legs.

Between her duty to devastate the women and girls on the factory floor, the flawless Petalina sat working on a PC just outside Milandia’s office.

The pain of sitting with her stitches was something Petalina had only just got used to.

Sitting caused the stitches through her love-lips to pull painfully. Nonetheless she managed.

But, despite that she had not yet been with the company for a full day, she already dreaded Milandia putting her head around the door of her inner office partition and saying: “Miss Goldkiss!” For at that Petalina knew she was expected to enter dutifully in and sit her one-hundred pounds of plus-perfect confection on the boss’ knee: on Milandia’s stockinged knees.

So sat, precariously and trying to smile to please, Milandia would expect Petalina to pencil notes in a pad always left at readiness on the corner of Milandia’s desk, and would use the excuse to feel the hot flesh of the inside of Petalina’s right thigh, whilst both girls pretended that that was not really happening.

In such circumstances, Petalina’s position was precarious in two ways.

Firstly, the perch she purchased on the thirty-year-old Milandia’s shapely knees, necessitated her raising her feet out of her shoes and pointing her toes to the ground, giving her calves exceptionally sexy shape, as her big toes sought to balance her, so as, Milandia assumed, to keep her full mass from pressing down on the sensitivity central to every girl’s centre of gravity: the lips which Milandia was seeking should feel her stockinged thighs pressing up on them. Unbeknown to Milandia of course, Petalina lifted her sweet weight for fear her humiliating infibulation would be felt by Milandia’s handsome thighs.

And, secondly, Petalina knew that, if she upset her employer in any way, she could and probably would be dismissed in the instant, and she had no other employment to go to at the time.

“Take a note please Miss Goldkiss”, Milandia insisted as 15.00 arrived and passed and she showed no interest in, or intent of letting Petalina off her knee to go to the meeting in her diary.

“Take a note please Miss Goldkiss. It must read as follows: ‘Milandia Loveworthy invites the gorgeous Petalina Goldkiss to wine and dine at her home tonight at eight. Miss Goldkiss need bring nothing bar her adorable self, and, if she insists on wearing one, a nightdress’. Now read that back to me if you would please”, Milandia instructed.

“Are you okay Petalina, I notice that you are very hot?”

Petalina did not answer and tried not to show her relief as Milandia concluded for herself: “Tch! I’m such a stupid mare! You’re on a losing-streak aren’t you: you’re having your monthly?

Petalina nodded confirmation of her weeping femininity.

“Okay, okay, nature wins out this time sweetheart, but I’m going to get you rocking and rolling on top of my duvet, that you can bet on as a certainty, Petalina...that is an absolute dead cert”.

Petalina sensed she was supposed to be flattered by this, and tried, with adequate success, to convey a pleased and honoured look, as she traipsed ballet-beautiful steps out of the room, so that she might sigh with relief out of Milandia’s sight.

For a girl as shy as Petalina, it was a surprising choice to make. She could not, of course, be sure it would have the effect intended.

But she knew, now she was dry again, that Milandia would not continue to take ‘no’ as an acceptable answer, and she longed to get away from something she actually longed to get into.

Contrarian as any girl, she had to find a way out that would see her summarily dismissed from a job she enjoyed. She wanted to avoid being felt and having loving feelings. This way, the way she had opted for, did not guarantee that she would be told to go, but it was a good possibility, and better than having her enforced disability discovered when she was in Milandia’s bed.

Ordinarily, red might not be considered the best colour for a redhead to wear, but the red Petalina wore, from head to toes, including her tiptoe front-heeled rear heelless ballet shoes, on the first day of her bleed-free weeks, could not compete with and could therefore only compliment the ravishing flow and glow of her radiant hair.

Her choice from the vast wardrobe Milandia had bought for the company’s tease-tart, was a carmine teaselled-wool tailored skirt and jacket combo, with suspenders and stockings in devil-dark maroon. The jacket she wore without an accompanying blouse. Thus, with no blouse being worn, and the maroon brassiere that matched her suspenders having strongly underwired quarter cups, she, the shy Petalina, showed her 38Es eased high, as enormous gentle frontage, with immense cleavage within the vee of her dress suit’s lapels.

The skirt was a little longer this day, but the tops of her stockings and her gold suspender clasps showed as she wiggled into the factory, and blushed and giggled at the wolf-whistles that assailed her from the girls there, so that she blew them a kiss as she went into her office.

In her inner office within the office Petalina worked in, Milandia was noting the marked increase in productivity, since Petalina’s arrival, and the consequent focus of the factory-girls in speeding throughput, so that they could be free to look at the angel when she came onto the workshop floor.

Every girl there wanted to get to talk to ‘Miss Goldkiss’ and, to her shame when she thought about it and her total helplessness now she had been ‘protected’ as per the countess’ demands, Petalina found the attention very flattering.

Petalina had spent much of the weekend composing her email to the countess, telling her mistress of the Japanese girl on the train, how all the girls in the factory wanted her, and how Milandia was trying to seduce her.

She added detail of her role as a tease-tart, and how her boss’ letting it be known that she, Petalina, took notes sitting on her knee, and let it be seen that she brought her to work and took her home each day, had indeed focused jealousy upon her, and upped production several-fold, as the girls in the factory were thus united in peace with one another, and focused all the energy that might otherwise be wasted in back-biting and cat-fighting, on longing to bed her.

And she concluded with the true story of how the factory women were having a daily sweepstake on what colour panties she, Petalina, would be wearing that day.

A truly embarrassing event had told Petalina of that. A new girl: a girl new to the factory and the daily lottery, had asked Petalina if she wanted to join the betting, innocent that pretty Petalina was the girl with the panties being bet upon.

This detail she told the countess in her dutiful email. And then she added that, even though she knew it was forbidden her forever, she longed to see her momma, and that she sent all her highest and most heartfelt love to Namatina, and hoped she was proving a good and faithful slave to the countess. Had this been a letter on paper, it’s seal would undoubtedly have been poor Petalina’s loving tears.

For a girl as shy as Petalina, it was a surprising choice to make. She could not, of course, be sure it would have the effect intended.

Because of her sweet shyness, she delayed her trip to the lavatory for as long as possible.

Then, when she had to go, she had to go hurriedly, and feared it might not be spotted. But she could have counted on the betting syndicate.

The buzz of conversation and talk of who got the money that day was audible to Petalina, even though it went down to a whisper when she wiggled back down the stairs and into her office.

For a long while, Petalina assumed that it had not worked. But the tone of voice in which Milandia eventually beckoned her into her inner office gave her hope.

“Please don’t sit down Miss Goldkiss.”

“I have had a report: in fact more than one report, from very reliable quarters, that you have behaved in a quite unseemly manner today”

In response, the gorgeous Petalina merely blushed.

“I can see that you know what I am talking about Miss Goldkiss. And the girls who reliably reported this to me, tell me that you...your...that you are wearing no panties, and that you are... that you very clearly...shall we say, you are very clearly, erm..... that is.....let’s say: ‘unavailable’?”

“Please don’t answer on that point. You can be assured of excellent references Miss Goldkiss, but an unavailable girl is, of course, of no use to us as a tease-tart....”

“We are going to have to let you go Miss Goldkiss. Here are your wages for today, and I hope you have every success in finding new employment...I’ll send someone round to have all your clothing collected, but you can keep anything you have already worn, as it is hardly likely to look lovelier on anyone else....” Milandia concluded, in indication that she had fallen in love with the curly-haired beauty.

“Thank you Milandia – I mean Miss L.......” Petalina lovingly sweetly lisped, short-tongued, and erotically breathlessly, as she struggled to speak past the huge ball that stopped her mouth.

But her gentle words so softly delivered were not completed before her lips were suddenly silenced by a long and longing kiss from Milandia: a kiss that Petalina oh so wished she could fully return.

Guided only by the kisses she had exchanged with her headmistress when still at school, kisses nothing like this, innocent Petalina was completely overwhelmed by the sudden rushes in her body.

She had both hated and loved the surreptitious fondling of her thigh when she had been obliged to sit on Milandia’s knee, and this full-on, full-blown kiss, empowered her favourably.

She was being coaxed into being the willing equal partner in this embrace. She could break free and end the kiss whenever she chose; but she did not choose. She had always found Milandia attractive, it was only Milandia’s taking advantage of being the boss, and groping her without her assent, that Petalina had hated. She now not only welcomed but adored this confirmation that Milandia regarded her as more than just a body.

It was a millisecond before Petalina’s full passion kicked in, and it only took as long as that, because she was a complete innocent, never yet taken to bed, let alone to beyond the beyond’s beyond; except in self-delivery.

If there had been any question that Milandia’s kiss was expressive of something much deeper than a fond farewell to an extremely pretty girl, Petalina’s melting into her arms would have found that out. Petalina was, instantly, not just passionate, she was passion personified as she surrendered to Milandia.

But the pain began with Petalina’s nipples. It was not physical pain: at least not just physical pain. The real pain came with the killing of Milandia’s desire.

The instant Milandia felt for and fondled Petalina’s soft-firm right breast, and discovered she could only feel the steel cones covering Petalina’s paps: the very instant of that discovery, Milandia pulled away.

At the discovery of Petalina’s nipple protectors, Milandia pulled out of the embrace, and Petalina knew that her punishment for her momma’s debts had won.

Milandia coughed falsely, as if the need to clear her throat had caused her to end the embrace. Then: “I hope you’ll very soon find another job Petalina, only I must go now, I have an appointment”, Milandia lied, as she swept up her briefcase, and left the sobbing frustrated Petalina to wipe her own tears.

As Milandia swept past her, Petalina raised her arms to signal her longing to return to the embrace; but knew the truth that a woman like Milandia had no use for her: no use for a girl who could never ever receive love in its physical form.

And thus Petalina knew renewed knowledge that her sewn chastity would as surely leave her without love all her days, as the sun would rise each dawn in worship, and die each dusk in love and praise of the glory of girls such as she.

It had not been as foolish for Petalina to actively seek dismissal after not even three weeks at the factory, as it might seem.

After all, this was 2052, and workers such as she no longer had any right to resign. Only if she were dismissed could she leave. But Petalina was not so incautious as not to have already and previously found herself another post. And she had a plan.

Petalina planned to get back with her momma. It was forbidden her to seek that solace. But her thinking was that it could surely happen as long as it was accidental, and her thoughts added that ‘accidents’ could, of course, be aided.

Accordingly, it was no accident that Petalina had answered an advertisement she had found in the ‘Tittler’ – a magazine published by the upper crust for the upper crust. The vacancy described in the ‘Appointments’ column at the rear of that august organ, was in the home of a daughter of the Beaumont-Fortain household: the Beaumont-Fortain household being headed by the Dowager Countess Racanata Beaumont-Fortain – the lady in whose home Petalina, of course knew, that her mother, Namatina, was enslaved.

Despite the cool of the supposedly summer’s day, Lady Victoria Cecile Jocasta Beaumont-Fortain, the heir to the Beaumont-Fortain title, and her best friend at Rondine Academy for Girls, Acanda St John-Fortesque-Thomas, had decided upon afternoon tea on the extensive lawns of Victoria Beaumont-Fortain’s newly acquired country home.

Acanda, though a mere commoner, was trying hard not to let her feelings of superiority show. Through her now notorious whirlwind romance with a princess of the blood royal, she had completely upstaged Lady Victoria in the gossip columns during the year to date, and felt she had to be kind to her fellow twenty-year-old, and disguise that she had not really been that impressed with the fifty-acre gardens and Elizabethan mansion house that Lady Victoria had just been given by her – Lady Victoria’s - momma: Countess Beaumont-Fortain.

Despite sensing the truth, that she had not impressed her school friend, Lady Victoria had every appearance of success: a hint of a smile: a ‘something up my sleeve’ look on her very pretty face.

During a lull in the girly conversation, at the sound of china cups rattling on a solid silver tray, Acanda casually turned, and then returned her face swiftly Victoria’s way, with, for Victoria, a very satisfying look of total astonishment, and then turned back again to gape open-mouthed at the lovely creature that carried the afternoon tea across the lawns to her mistress, and her mistress’ guest.

By the express order of her mistress, Petalina wore a contour-caressing black lycra mini-dress, a tiny frilly-edged white apron tied round her tinier middle, and a pair of black squared-toed heelless ballet shoes, in which she tippy-toed en-pointe, displaying the very shapely beauty of her very shapely legs.

Petalina’s legs were caressed by burnt-charcoal stockings, with regimentally straight seams: shear nylon stockings maintained in place by sinfully black suspenders, that grasped the deep dark tops ringing round Petalina’s strong thighs: stocking tops on full display below the hem of her dress this day.

Petalina’s dress was so short as to show also, the pert lips that pouched her black thong panties with their impertinent pout. Her bare breasts wondered about wonderfully, to show that they were divided widely but not divided and thus ruled over, because they made display nature’s way under her white-lace-frill-necked sinful black contour-clinging dress.

As she only wore frilly lace wristbands matching the apron and the headband that marked her servile role, Petalina’s slim arms were totally bare from the puff-sleeves at the shoulders of her dress downwards, and the gorgeous soft down on her forearms glinted more desirably than gold itself.

“You little bitch Victoria Beumont-Fortain!” her friend and school years’ lover cried in laughing loving joy at having been trumped by her friend: “You never told me you had a new slave!”

“Oh thet” Victoria responded, in her usual luxuriously-slow bored-sounding nasal drawl, trying to hide triumph behind extra-particular casualness on this occasion. “It’s just a little something mummy got me through the good eld ‘Tittler’, after my eld personal maid, beck at momma’s hame, heyd to be dismissed.”

“Turns out she’s oine of a pair ectually. I think the other oine was this oine’s sister or cousin or some sarch. Mummy – the countess – already eorned the eolder oine as it turned iate, and therefore said I could hev this oine.”

“Best to split them up, so they can’t learn bard ways of oine another and all thet....”

As she and her mother, Namatina, were being discussed, Petalina, having placed the tea tray on the table between her seated mistresses, stood statue no more than three feet distant, with her sweet brown eyes respectfully cast down while Acanda’s dark blue orbs mentally undressed her, and lusted after what her mind’s eyes saw.

“Oh you lucky bitch Vicky!”

“Have you shagged it yet?”

“Shush! She’ll haar you!” Victoria responded, visibly embarrassed.

“Oh for god’s sake Vicky darling: you don’t imagine these creatures have any feelings do you?!

“Talking of ‘feeling’ though, I’d love to feel its tits!! Why not order it to go and warm your bed, and we can spend the afternoon having some fun with it.”

“Mind you, I hope it’s clean. You are never too sure where they might have been.....I mean, considering where they come from.....”, Acanda opined.

“This one’s from a quate respectable stable ectually. It and its sister...the oither oine thet is....got into debt and thet kind of how d’ya do thingy....... Momma paid orff the debt in exchange for a little deal don’t ya know......” Victoria began to explain.

“Oh bloody hell, Vicky darling, pardon me while I shed tears for the little tart; I don’t think!!”

“These creatures bring these things on themselves. They breed like rabbits for starters, and then by their total lack of anything one could even remotely call intellect, they get themselves into some trouble or other, and expect their social superiors to carry the burden of their stupidity and profligacy!

“Anyway it caan’t be shegged”, Victoria interposed, both to stop her friend’s tirade about the shortcomings of the lower orders, and to complete her victory over Acanda, before the opportunity was lost through time and the conversation moving on.

“What do you mean ‘It can’t be shagged’? These working class tarts may be no bloody good in bed; but aren’t their inept fumblings, calamitous clumsiness, and complete lack of finesse, all part of the fun of having one of them?” Acanda retorted, before a memory shot back into her mind.

“D’you know: I actually had one that said it was in love with me. ‘In love with me!’ Oh dear god I ask you!! Can you imagine?!!”

“And d’you know what? I had the kitchen maid give it a squirt of that oven-cleaner thingy, you know, whatever it’s called, just a quick squirt inside you know where, and the stupid little whore never said it was in love with me again, I can promise you that!....”

“This one caan’t be shegged” Victoria repeated, “It caan’t be shegged, so we aren’t ever going to know what it’s layke in beyd”

“Why can’t it be shagged? Has its slit healed up or something?” Acanda enquired, thoroughly intrigued, with a look on her face that said she knew Victoria must be joking, but could not herself think out what the punch-line to that joke must be.

“Quate simply my daar, it can’t be shegged, because my momma has hed it snipped and sewn up. It can’t even play with itself, It caan’t feel a thing down thar, don’t ya know......”

“Oh my god!! Oh bloody hell!! Acanda shouted, as she shot a hand up to cover a mouth gaping with astonishment and pleasure at the thought of such cruelty.

“Oh do: oh please do tell it to strip off so I can have a look!” she then demanded, her curiosity spurred by a sudden wetness in her very expensive panties, and showing by her leaning forward in her chair, the better to ogle Petalina’s pretty legs.

Victoria ignored this peremptory command and continued to whet her one-time lover’s appetite, and quim, by filling in some detail.

“Oh yes, it hed it done when it was just tarned sixteen. It ended its state school with it done - I think the oiks leave at eighteen don’t they? – so we are talking about one wewy fwustrated wikkle whore. It’s never hed it: can’t hev it: and will never ever hev it now, especially since mummy had it pokered tooa.....”

Lady Victoria now stopped, because Acanda was up from her seat and whispering in her ear.

Then the two girls fell to giggling, before, screaming with laughter, Victoria shouted, with tears in her eyes: “Acaandar St John-Fortesque-Thomaas you are a pwize bitch and a cwever wikkle whore tooa!! Of course one ought to. We can shaar a shower first!”

Trying to straighten her face, and wiping tears from her giggles from the corners of her eyes with the heels of her hands, she then turned to Petalina, who still stood with submissively lowered head.

“Woberts come har please!”

Petalina was reduced to and used to answering to the surname ‘Roberts’, the name Victoria had given her, because Victoria could not be bothered to learn Petalina’s real name. Petalina had just replaced the previous ‘Roberts’ who had, of course, been no more a ‘Roberts’ than the girl before her, or the one before that.

“Woberts come har please!” Victoria demanded, and Petalina slow-wiggled her lovely presence toward her mistress before curtseying as deeply as her total obedience demanded she should, and beholders of her shapely legs longed she would.

“Woberts you will go to one’s bedwoom and stwip yourself barr. You are to wash Miss Acaandar and one in the shar. Do you think you carn menage thet?” Victoria enquired with a mocking snigger only just under reins.

“Yes my lady” Petalina responded with her appealing lisp, as she bobbed another sexy curtsey.

“And you will then stay barr while you watch Miss Acaandar and I making worve. Thet will be alwight with you Woberts, woan’t it?” Petalina’s mistress enquired, with a cruel enjoyment barely suppressed and clearly expressed, if not by her words, by her snide tone.

“Of course my lady”, Petalina answered with her third sensational curtsey.

“And if you have any love-making tips from your vast experience over the last two years or so....”, Acanda added, before both mistresses once again fell into peals of uncontrollable hooting laughter, that blinded them with tears, and almost had them doubled over.

It was, of course, Petalina, standing naked all afternoon, and even evening long, that longed to shed tears of tortured total frustration, as she watched her two superbly athletic social superiors, challenge even supremely able contortionists to match such positions as they found to make love profound, and show anyone around who did not know, that sixty-nine has no right way around, bar beyond every way that can possibly be found.

It was as if the two girls kept themselves supremely fit and supple only for this. And ‘this’ was a thing of such unsurpassable beauty that Petalina, who, though now eighteen, was, by watching, getting her very first ever sex education, found herself crying when she saw these lovely girls, a tangle of limbs and longing lips amid the silence and giggles and sighs and gasps and guiding looks from glowing eyes that said ‘I want you now to kiss my thighs’ followed by the squeal of joy, as one showed she had learned a newer way to kiss and lick the other’s toy, and giggles when their noses clashed turning to sighing silence suddenly when their mouths engaged in what made both girls one, the kiss of passion on mouths tasting of their own quims as tongues wrestled and showed where they had not long since been, and these four-limbed creatures became one so that mutual love became octopusian, as mind entered mind and heart and soul, and duo became solo with the girls so united that they felt each other’s ecstasy as their own, and to Petalina’s eyes, amidst their beautiful sighs, Victoria’s nubile negro merged with Acanda’s wonderful white, such that Acanda seemed negress and Victoria transposed too, then both girls looked alike the superior black, and black was beautiful in the extreme, till even these fit creatures became exhausted, and gave way to Morpheus’ schemes, and sleep metamorphosed them to their original hue when the sated single body once more became two: two wonderful dreams become dreamers now, the dreams they dreamed having just come true.

The next morning, Victoria’s plan seemed to be coming true too. Acanda showed no sign of wishing to leave.

Petalina’s only wish was that they would not be so cruel to her. But she bore it, because she had to, and because she knew these girls were meant for each other.

Her mistress was civility itself when alone with Petalina, but mischief was to the fore when the two mistresses were together, and Petalina within range of their torment.

Today it began at breakfast, while Petalina, looking astoundingly saucy in a leaf-green maid’s outfit, turquoise stockings, and sun-yellow ballet-shoes, busied herself, tiptoeing dutifully between charging her two mistress’ plates and coffee cups, as they commanded and demanded.

“Well, Woberts, what did you think of our little performance wast evening? Was it up to the stendard you have experienced yourself perheps: mmm?” asked an unusually crude Victoria, egged on by ‘nudges’ from the laughing eyes of Acanda.

“If I may make so bold as to say so ma’am, I found it incredibly beautiful: so beautiful it made me cry”, Petalina answered, with sweet sincerity in her lovely lisp.

At this, Acanda nearly spat out the toast she was chewing, snorting in her fight to swallow but not choke, she so wanted to roar her disdainful laughter; but Victoria, as suddenly, sunk her head deeply, and after a pause, whispered:

“Pwease forgive me Woberts, thet was wewy unkind of me.”

“There is nothing to forgive my lady”, Petalina responded, curtseying and blushing in turn and together, at this touch of gentleness from her superior.

“Oh for god’s sake Vicky! Keep the little bitch in its place. If it’s so stupid as to have earned the punishment of lifelong chastity, it has to get used to it, and there is no harm in showing it what it’s always going to miss. One doesn’t want such trash forgetting how it’s being punished. Reminding it how it’s being tortured also reminds it of its fundamental stupidity in getting itself into such a horrid scrape in the first place”, Acanda insisted, as she dismissively beckoned for Petalina to fetch her some more toast.

“Go and see if today’s mail has arrived pwease Woberts”, Victoria now instructed, so as to divert Acanda, and try and impress her love that she, Victoria Beaumont-Fortain, did in fact know how to treat the lower orders.

Petalina was only too pleased to obey this instruction. She knew where the postgirl would be at this time of day. The ten-mile long cycle trip from Barnmouth out and up to this distant Elizabethan house, would probably right now be being rewarded by a cup of tea in the kitchens with the chef: and Petalina loved the fun the postgirl always brought with the mail.

In that, Petalina wasn’t disappointed, for as soon as she appeared through the kitchen doors....

“’Ere she is chefy! Petalina!! Cor ain’t she a sight for sore eyes, eh chefy?!”

“Didn’t she ought to be in the kitchens wiv you chefy, she’s as sweet as any of dem dare puddings what you mek for der tofs upstairs, that’s for sure. If only me and the missus wasn’t coming up to our tenth, I’d chuck ‘er out and ‘ave our Petalina any day of der week; ‘less me missus got in first and gave me the old ‘eave-ho for Petalina ‘erself dat is!”

Petalina giggled, and the chef smiled, as she nodded in the direction of the silver salver on which there was one item of mail.

As pretty Petalina wiggled across to pick up the salver, both older women ran their eyes up and down the seams of her stockings absent mindedly, but with mutual appreciation of Petalina’s well turned legs.

“’Ere chefy, when is it the forteenf of February den? See, I gotta ‘ave me one day off a year on dat day like”, the postgirl enquired sounding suddenly serious, while she watched Petalina’s hem rise when she bent to pick up the tray with the letter and letter-opener on it, and her thighs met the silent sighs of the same four appreciative eyes.

“Oh: and why is that posty”, the chef enquired, in a tone signalling she knew what was coming, but would not spoil the joke.

“I gotta ‘ave me day off den chefy, cos I ain’t never gonna be able to carry all dem valentine cards wot our pretty little Petalina ‘ere is gonna get dat day, am I?”

At this, Petalina blushed, and made a signal, with her delicate right hand dropping from the wrist toward the postgirl: a signal that said ‘go away and stop teasing’ but did not mean it: a signal that also said: ‘that was nice!’ and did mean that.

With no time to pause, Petalina looked over her shoulder and smiled at the postgirl as she left the kitchen with the letter addressed to Victoria, and hurried to the breakfast room to deliver it.

And, as she left the kitchens she heard: “So then chefy, is our little Petalina spoken for, or is all der young girls round ‘ere blind or summat?”

“Oh, I thought you knew posty! Petalina can’t do no courting, she’s had it done. I hear say she’s been sewn-up this last two years and more.”

“Oh fucking ‘ell! Pardon my French chefy: but the poor kid! Wot a waste eh. Wot a bloody waste! Whatever did she do to deserve dat?....” .

“It’s from the countess: it’s from my momma!” Victoria announced to an Acanda concentrating on page three of ‘The Daily Semaphore’ and only half listening.

Victoria then opened the letter, returned the silver letter-opener to the tray Petalina held, distractedly dropped the envelope on the floor, for Petalina to pick up, and read the missive’s opening:

“She’s complaining she hes hed no word from a ‘Petal’ someoine or other. who is suppoesed to be witing her monthly emails, and hes been neglecting her duewties?.....”

Victoria then read on in silence for a moment, before looking up with: “Oh blarst! Oh dem and blarst! Momma is insisting on the annual cway woast!”

At this exclamation, Victoria lowered the letter she held in her left hand, and flicked it with a back swipe of the fingers of her right, as if doing so would wipe away the words that bored and annoyed her: or as if she were bidding an annoying fly to go somewhere else.

“Are you wistening darling?” Victoria then enquired, controlling her desire to vent her exasperation on the tempting target of the distracted Acanda.

“So, you don’t go to the bloody clay bake”, Acanda answered, to prove she had heard the essence, before she got back to reading about Leticia Lombardy’s lurid love life.

“One hes to go Acaandar!” Victoria responded, with a tone that conveyed an assumption Acanda was aware of the full contents of the letter that only she, Victoria, had in fact so far read.

“No you don’t. You just send a letter to your dear momma, saying you don’t want to go to the damned thing this year, because it’s so naffing boring, her chef is a pigswill-merchant, and the peasants who hang around for a handout, stink to high heaven!” Acanda murmured, as she turned the page to read of events at the Holden hotel in Paris, under a picture of ‘Rachel’ from the girl-band ‘Ranatana’, that suggested she must have had another facelift, surely making it at least three since she had been famous back in the 2030s and married the delectable soccer star, Dalina Difinder.

“One hes to go Acaandar, quate simply because one’s dear momma wants one to heold it harr, at this hall. She’s hed the kitchens at the main hall clarsed for weedecorwating, fired her chef till they are weddy again, and wants the woast heold har at this eld hanting lordge!”

“Well at least that’s one item of good news!” Acanda responded.

“What do you mean darling?”

“The countess has given her chef the shove, that’s what I mean”

At this Victoria giggled divinely: “You can be so cwude sometimes Arcaanda!”

Victoria knew her duty. The annual clay bake was an event going back before history it seemed. The lady of the manor played host. All the girls who worked the estates attended. It was their annual treat: a feast at the table of their mistress. All the girls who worked the estates attended, except of course those who must work the kitchens and serve table.

Obviously, the ponygirls, girloxen, and bitches were not invited, and a number of the staff would have to stay behind to mind the stables, cowsheds, and kennels. Also, the roast being held at that time of year when the bacchanalia-girls would be gathering the harvest, it would mean some of the prettiest among the peasants would be absent as usual, they being, of course, too busy with the task of treading the grapes in the barrels, whilst also eating them and, of course, peeing on them.

Victoria knew her duty. She clearly also knew that this duty would be hers in time to come, when her momma passed away.

For Petalina, the sudden flurry of the hurry to be ready for an event only a week away, disappointed her in two ways.

Having no love of her own, she had taken to longing to see her mistress and Acanda become ‘an item’. But, so busy was Victoria with the event thrust upon her out of the blue, that Acanda had left to return to her city banking job, and revive her relationship with Princess **********, leaving almost without Victoria seeming to notice she had gone.

Petalina’s other disappointment was that her mamma had not been among the retinue of extra servants the countess had sent the four miles from the main house, as reinforcements for her daughter to use. Clearly, the countess had no intention of letting mother and daughter ever see each other again.

Petalina’s surprise was in her role in the event. She had assumed she would work waiting table. She had already assisted in unloading the temporary trestle tables the countess had also provided. But, in fact she was delighted to find that she would be deployed in the kitchen. She and Victoria’s chef got on together wonderfully, and Petalina wanted to take up quizzing ‘chefy’ about news of her momma once more: news from ‘the big house’ that the chef somehow seemed to get in plenty.

“There’ll be two hours on, for you sweetheart. There’ll be a team of you younger girls to run in the wheel, cos it takes all day from before dawn to bake a feast like this one proper see”, the chef advised Petalina, as she gave Petalina, everyone’s sweetheart, a detailed look around the kitchens.

“I expect Miss Victoria will keep you busy till I needs you. I reckon as how it’ll be ‘bout four in the afternoon for the last trot.”

“Oh, my dear, you must be wondering what I is on about!” the chef’s smiling voice announced, as she looked at the pretty furrows on a freckled brow, showing the mystification Petalina was too polite to speak aloud.

“These here kitchens haven’t seen no changes since Elizabeth the first’s times. Now your good queen Bess must have had foresight, because now the oils run out, along with electricity, ‘cept from the pedal-power stations where they works the girls so hard turning those dynamo thingies, the equipment here is about as good as it gets for a banquet such as this they clay bake.”

“It’s quite simple see my dear. On that wall there is the treadmill, that big basket-like wheel with steps in, you must have been wondering what was for? And that they drives the spit next door, through the wall there. Them they walls is three feet of solid stone, my little darling, but you’ll still feel the heat of the fire through them. And that’s why we need the girls running in the wheel see, so the meat gets baked evenly in the clay.”

“You’ll not have to mind me on the day. I’ll be dashing to and fro ‘tween here and next door where Miss Victoria will be overseeing me, and me the fire and the meat. So you’ll have to excuse I, if I don’t seem myself that day, my pretty angel.”

Time flown the clay bake day dawned, the bees hummed, and a true honey among girls, the gorgeous Petalina, trotted on constant en-pointe in her almost luminous red ballet-shoes, to the kitchens to take her turn running inside the tread-wheel.

Victoria liked her slave to wear red. She was constantly seeking a shade that would outshine the total glory of Petalina’s wonderful hair, and had been defeated every time.

But a maid’s dress, suspenders and stockings in a shade known as vivid cerise, with panties and the shoes to match, but never shade her coils of kissing curls, had been Petalina’s uniform this day, till now and this final afternoon, two hours before Victoria would condescend to greet ‘the peasantry’ as she called them, dutifully mumbling to disguise that she did not know and did not in the least care what the names she was being prompted to greet them by, really were.

“Ah Petalina my precious little darling!” the lovely chef greeted her. “You is just in time my dear. Now then: if I was you I’d get that they frilly hat, the apron, and even the dress off sweetheart. It’s going to be hotter than hell running in that they wheel, and you mustn’t mind none, about stripping off my lovely, we are all girls together here.....”

At that the chef trotted back next door to see that her mistress, Victoria, was content to manage without Petalina at hand for an hour or so.

Stripped to her red suspenders, her red stockings, her red panties, and her red shoes, Petalina, patiently trotted, patently sexy, endlessly trotted, daintily trotted on the squared-off toes of her heelless ballet shoes, within the wheel, her tiptop-tiptoe steps whirling the rolling road as she obeyed the chef’s command. This girlest and girlmost of all girls, ran with her tresses of glorious red spread out in flames that outshone those that rose, unseen by her, from the fire over which her run in the drum rotated the clay-baked roast, she was aware she was rotating in the huge fireplace she had been shown the previous day, on the other side of the kitchen wall.

In the heat of the kitchens of this ancestral home, Petalina’s near-nakedness was necessary, or at least thought so, for her body must inevitably run too, to trickle and tickle with rivulets of perspiration, and gleam with the sheen of her sweat and its sparkling diamond droplets as she ran and ran.

And so indeed it did, and so indeed she did with her naked titties dancing and prancing, with the light glancing off the stainless-steel cones on her nipples: her naked titties dancing and prancing wildly for the sheer joy of being free.

And her stitches hurt her. Yet they hurt in a peculiar way. They tore at her with her running, and it pleased her in a way she thought she would never feel again: a delicious and delightful feeling she had not felt since she had dared to masturbate when a schoolgirl.

The flaming curls of her incendiary hair were aglow. As her curls flew and whirled and twirled in the breeze of her speed, they must but must inflame the passions of all who could see such glory.

The eyes, Petalina’s gentle brown eyes, burned with her passion to live and serve. The long slim arms pumped with the rhythm of her sexy trot, and the glistering down on her forearms glinted, as the kitchen candles, like spotlights, lit upon her sweaty body, highlighting the well-toned muscles in her fabulous legs.

The breasts were wild and free to roam as nature would have them, and swung out the joy that she was a she, as they echoed her every dainty tiptop tiptoed step in her ballerina’s shoes, by slapping her and then each other and then bouncing together, or alone, in the same or the opposite up or down or side to side or to clash in significantly soft silence, as they buoyantly danced advanced twisting turned drooped and leapt for joy on her chest.

And her chastity stitches were pleasing her as she ran along on legs unwanting of curves and strength, or length, to be pronouncedly those that could only belong to god’s highest creation, the human girl.

And as she ran, her thong, her bright red thong, the thong over her sewn-up cunt, seemed to grow redder, darker from soaking in her sweet sweat, with every step of her endless sexy steppy-leggy trip.

Her thong left Petalina’s bottom bare and she blushed as the chef patted her there and told her she was a good girl, and so she ran faster.

And so Petalina ran faster, and rotated the clay coated feast over the fire in the neighbouring room, where the countess and her guests caroused before the fire on which their meal was being cooked.

The sound of a trumpet blown by an off-duty cowgirl, brought two reactions from two too wonderful girls. Petalina’s pretty ears caught the sweetness and skill of the amateur player; but in the neighbouring room where the trumpeter blew pre-banquet, Lady Victoria only just managed a fixed smile, and to avoid clenching her teeth in horror.

And Petalina slowed to a steady trot within the wheel her running within which, showed her body to maximum appeal, and her traitorous stitched up lips pleased her all the more. And her thong sang an intimate song that her body was not supposed to be able anymore to feel, for the countess had had Petalina protected and sealed, as was done with the nuns of old, when their bodies tolled against them being told, there was only god and that they must be delivered unto him by force if need be. For her mummy’s debts, Petalina had sacrificed her clitoris and had her sheath shafted with a red-hot poker, at the countess’ insistence that she be unsexed and vouchsafed by being sewn closed, a girl thus made dead between her lovely legs, a girl bound to live without love all her days so the countess would her momma’s debts repay. A girl tortured since she came round from her agonising pain, that she would never ever know love’s gain, and yet her thong was pleasing her as she ran, and as she ran, she recalled the humiliation she had endured in writing to the countess of her encounters with girl-girl bliss, she knew she would never now know, as her love had no means of physical show, as they had finished her sealing with the multiple stitches, and the cones she must wear under her bras, to cover the nerve endings that would otherwise have served to deliver a cum in time to come and marriage and a wife and the bed bound strife, as lovers lingered in longing embrace and kissed their lips with their lips in tonguing grace.

And Petalina’s two-year-long sexual silence was somehow being overcome by her run. And her lack of sensual sexual sensitive instruments to feel the joy were no obstacle to what her mind now deployed. She daydreamed she recalled the way she had been splayed and the swift knife’s snick as they cut her clitoris away, and her scream at the excruciating agony as they cauterised its stump, and then her uncontrollable bucking on the bench as the still hot poker had deflowered and raped the poor wench, so her nostrils flared in the smell of her own burning flesh’s stench, as they held it in her vagina to the slow count of ten, before they took it out again, with her virgin’s blood boiling till her nerve-endings were dead, and she cried for a week with the agonising pain, not only of the torture, but from knowing she would never again feel joy, in her favourite recreation, of sensuously slow masturbation. And then the stitches one at a time, drawn through her flesh to seal her in her prime, pulled through her lips time after time, till she was closed to the world forever a virgin sublime.

In the neighbouring room, Petalina’s sexy trotting rotated a joint covered in clay, within which it was cooking over the log fire’s flames. The joint was mounted on two rods that ran between the crooks of its elbows behind its back, its hands being tied at wrists in prayer at its belly, and behind the knees of its folded legs. These iron rods ran out parallel to fix to two wheels, the one of which at one end was slave to the other, the latter being iron cog driven by Petalina’s sexy appeal, as in the next door room at the rear of the flaming fire, she obediently trotted within the drum of her wooden wheel.

The meat within the clay, took on decidedly feminine form. From the flow of the clay now dried over it, the head must have been shaved bald. The ankles were tied at top thigh high, and at knee around her neck by and by. And out from the mouth was formed a clay cone for breathing, which emitted the sighs that told the waiting hungry girls that some unfortunate suffered inside. And a groove in the clay was open wide, where the pink slit in the girl could be seen with the outer lips propped aside, so that over the flames she would also cook outward from her insides.

And as the squeals of orgasmic joy were heard through the three-foot-thick walls from Petalina’s side, while she still trotted her heavenly body, heaven’s delivery replete, all her chastening chastity stitches cones and ball’s mighty might besides: who, despite their clay coating, could not look at the lovely legs of the girl being clay baked over the fire and not know? What connoisseur of feminine limbs that had memorised them when their owner but merely walked by, on these the most wonderfully means of emotion-stirring motion: of commotion causing locomotion, in the universe?

Who would not remember such legs when they had them admired? And who would now not be recollecting the girl being rolled in the flames, as ‘the girl with the legs’ the girl with the prettiest of names, the girl trumpeting her orgasms through the breathing horn in the clay, as she cooked in the flames throughout the day, baked through the clay and up through her opened-out cunt, rolled in the fire by her unknowing daughter running in the wheel to torture, both she and her with her sexy strides, to cause her momma, Namatina, to be clay baked, slow baked, baked to orgasmic heaven alive.....

.....At the sound of the joyful squeals from the next door room, Namatina smiled as she tumbled and turned over and over ...... in her bed, remembering when she too could enjoy imaginative masturbation as much as her totally uninhibited fifteen-year-old daughter, Petalina....

And before she yawned prettily, smiled devastatingly, and then fell sweetly asleep once more, nestling in the soft sweet scent of her just-washed coiled curls of autumnal hair, Namatina mused to herself, but without real worry: ‘I hope Petalina will be fresh for that bank-debt interview we have at ten tomorrow though....’

03-09-2008, 05:46 PM
Great to see you back again with another good addition for us.....;)

03-12-2008, 12:59 AM
nice story, thanks for the add on
keep em cumming