Woolmart Girl – Part 1
Synopsis: Sometimes beauty has bounden duty.
Woolmart Girl – Part 1
Poppy Heavenslove had ambition. Her work as a Woolmart counter girl was just a recovery stepping-stone. In the pocket of the smart red and white vertical-candy-stripe blouse, her youthfully full, fully firm bosom, gave plentiful double, undivided divided interest to, she had an invitation to an interview up at ‘the big place’, as everyone in the English coastal town of Barnmouth, styled Barnmouth House.
Well, okay, it was not exactly an invitation. It was just an advertisement from the ‘Jobs on Offer’ column in the ‘Barnmouth Bugle’; but Poppy was sure she could get an interview, and why should she not get the job?
Why the other girls at school, university, and now here at the Woolmart store, didn’t hate Poppy, was one of life’s mysteries.
She was an outstandingly attractive girl.
Other girls had pretty faces, but the eighteen-year-old Poppy’s face was simply lovely. Her eyes were sulphur-gold. Her hair a myriad of miraculous blonde curls caressing down to the nape of her slender neck. Her lips showed the negress influence of her grandmother: sensuously full and pouting passion-provocative. She smiled when she wasn’t giggling, and giggled when she wasn’t smiling, and the sparkle of her lividly luminous eyes, amid the spectral white of her freckle kissed face, showed she was genuinely that genuine.
Other girls had shapely figures, but Poppy’s curves demanded their own theory of geometry to define the unparalleled parabolas they described.
In summation, full bosomed two, she had a waist that would make a waif look obese, and a rear that, though not winning the race to fully match the two she fored above, was superbly full and firm, and confirmatory from its signals as she walked, with it’s competing hemispheres waging war in waving semaphore, that this was undoubtedly a girl.
Other girls had pretty legs, but Poppy’s outran them all for long lithe lissomness, smooth muscularity, and a proportionality of shapeliness in swerves and curves, that were so lovely, that they caused most of the wolf-whistles she deserved and was duly served. And nobody wolf-whistled Poppy once; not when she went to such great lengths as to give them two such long strong curvy causes.
She was also, oh so gentle and caring, that, were it not so wonderfully natural, it would have seemed as false as a politician.
All the other girls loved Poppy. She was outstandingly outstanding among them; but they were never jealous of the attention she always got, to their shaded second and third place, because they accepted it was what she deserved. And true too was it, that Poppy never pushed herself forward, or forced them aside. It was just that in the bouquet, she was the most delightful of the delicious flowers.
The Woolmart chain insisted on uniformity of uniform. And that uniform took on new form with Poppy to fill it. Whilst the other counter girls took on anonymity in the donning, Poppy’s smile and charm shone so, that she spun the heads her way. She stood out from the herd, because she was outstanding, and not only titularly.
Woolmart, the ‘dime store’ of long ago history, had been staid in outlook since its 19th century founding in the USA. Here and now in 21st century England, it had got what is old-fashionedly called, ‘with it’.
The counter girls’ hemlines had risen, with a resulting corresponding rise in sales and, one dare speculate, an equal rise in the blood pressure, and the heart-attack count, among its customers.
With Poppy’s blouse in the Woolmart colours, went a black poplin skirt, and seamed black nylon stockings, supported only by ribbon-tied frilly garters, in the red and white candy-stripe of Woolmart, to be worn at the stocking tops.
Hemlines at no more than one inch below the buttocks, and a directive that (1) this was compulsory, (2) that only Woolmart issue red and white candy-stripe thong panties were to be worn, (3) that all Woolmart girls must be hygienically shaved, (4) that the best selling goods must be located on the very bottom, or the very highest shelves, (5) that no girl needing to bend was ever to bend at the knees, and (6) that all stepladders and kick-stools be withdrawn from stores, had come from the grand dame, Fredericka Wilhelmina Woolmart, herself. The massively increased custom it generated, had saved the long historic family firm she ran from her wheelchair, from bankruptcy.
The final threat to those with concern about heart-shock or a stroke, had been the adoption of heelless ballet shoes as the uniform footwear.
Poppy’s long legs were incredibly beautiful even when she merely slouched and slummed in trainers. To extend her calves and tension her thighs and buttocks, by making her stand and walk, permanently on top–tiptoe on the squared-off toes, of red and white candy-stripe calf-leather balletic shoes, was to exhaust the descriptive powers of poetry prose and music, for the compelling wonder of the wonderfully artistically exceptionally erotic result: a result that would make the finest portraitists throw their brushes aside, resigned to their inadequacy to portray such shapely curves.
2052 was just another among the recent tough years for girls. The supposed threat of overpopulation had been as exaggerated in the 2030s, as the danger of global warming had been in the first decade of the 21st century.
But the inevitable outcry that government must ‘do something about it’, had led to the choice-pill, and the financial incentives for taking the pink pill before and during pregnancy, rather than the blue. Thus science had made the world more beautiful, by increasing the female portion of the population, to ninety-nine percent, and correspondingly reducing the overall population, as women were consequently without enough sires to breed from.
Unfortunately for women, the accompanying technological revolution had worked the opposite way. There were plenty of girls available for the employment market, but so little work now that a machine could not do, as, or more efficiently, and more cheaply, that there were few jobs for humans around.
Meanwhile, oil had dripped its last drop, and only girls were available in any number, to hew coal in the mines to provide basic energy needs.
Poppy had been lucky. Academically she had been brilliant with a starred double-first spinster’s degree from Fordbridge at age thirteen, and doctorates in mathematics, and chemistry by the age of fifteen.
But the world had no need for even such wonderfully intelligent gifted and educated girls. The few jobs of substance were rationed. Wealth bought and brought a position in life. Poppy’s mummy was poor. Poppy had been lucky not to have been sent for breaking as a ponygirl, or to pedal drive one of the huge dynamos that, these days, provided power for the town’s homes, street lights, factories, and offices.
Her luck had been in the draw held at her post-doctorate gathering. She had drawn a red and white candy-stripe straw. She rejoiced, kissing all her fellow pupils. She knew she had won the prize her friends, ordered into the mines, or to lactate on a milk-farm, longed for: she knew she was going to be a Woolmart girl.
But Poppy Heavenslove had ambition. She knew too that she must forget that she had academic attainments of such glowing brilliance that they almost outshone her physical and facial beauty. Her mind, with the sharpness of a razor’s razor’s razor’s edge took her way beyond the merely beautiful to the outstandingly stellar stunning. She was a girl in a billion.
She knew also, that she must subdue and subliminate her sublime brilliance, to her physical sexual charms. It saddened her that her mind must be wasted on makeup, and ensuring that her mouth was moist and kissable, and that the seams of her stockings were straight. But these were the main demands on a Woolmart girl.
At school and university, she had been the chair of the National Institution for Promoting Proper Legal Equality, and, on the slope given her twice-boldly-bulged blouse, by her fulsome firm and gentle left breast, had worn its badge with the proud initials: “N.I.P.P.L.E.”.
Poppy had been, and still was, a soldierette for the equality of all girls with each other, and the few lucky men that society continued to allow among its sweet scented sisteren.
Poppy’s ambition had, over time since her graduation, become as limited as the length of her skirts. Her new ambition, the arrival of which begins her story, had begun with a customer. Customers are customary in Woolmart of course, but this day, this customer, was clearly completely special.
She was a negress, perhaps thirty-years-old, at least five-twelve tall, with the demeanour and the figure of a catwalk model. Feline similes and metaphors would be to the fore in any description of the lithe glide of her walk, and her purposeful poised, perfect peace possessed movements.
“May I be of assistance madam?” Poppy’s lovely face smiled, without the smile being of any remark, for though it was truly remarkably lovely, it was of no remark that she should be smiling, for Poppy was always smiling.
The face that looked up, the face of the tight-coil-curl-crop-topped negress, the queenly face of a princess among women, showed a visage breathtaking in vision.
The eyes, were deep down soulful brown. There was a delicate flare to the nostrils. The proud lips of the small mouth, were prayers from rather than to heaven in their poised pout, and seemed to be shouting without speaking their kisses out. The lightly furrowed brow, as she turned, formed part of a smile of recognition of the matching and opposite pole, in the loveliness of Poppy, so ghostly white in contrast with the supreme dream of the negress’ own creamy smooth dark coffee black.
Poppy blushed. Her face flushed. This customer was not merely exceptionally lovely; she was agonisingly beautiful. Poppy knew right there and then that her heart and mind had fallen, and head was over heels in the cliché metaphor that defines love.
The negress looked kindly and gently at the Woolmart badge blazoned on Poppy’s chest, and smiled at what she read, before she looked lightening-shafts straight into Poppy’s pretty eyes, and thunderbolt devastation thus derived, arrived.
“’Poppy’. What a lovely name!” the negress gently whispered, with a hint of kindly amusement, suggestive of personal charm to match her visible physical charms.
“Thank you madam”, Poppy gasped, as she fought and lost the battle not to lose countenance in front of this wonderful woman: and her blushing head hung with her chin on her chest as if in shame: the shame she had no need for, and which it would be a shame if she truly felt the same.
“Can you be of assistance? Well yes my dear… Well yes Poppy”, the lovely negress teased, with her confident voice conspicuously clear contralto concerto, “I am looking for some toys for a pet dog. Silly really. I haven’t chosen one yet. I was thinking maybe pedigree… I’ve engaged a kennel keeper….”
Recovering her composure, despite the dampness in the crotch of her panties, a wetness that Poppy hoped her fellow shop-girls would not see, Poppy’s sweet arms and pretty hands signalled for the lovely lithe negress to sway her wonder ahead, as she led her, from behind, to a corner of the store, stocking balls, leather bones, even pretend slippers, for dogs to chase and chew, or chew and chase.
“May I guide you this way madam? We have, as you’ll soon see, a splendid selection of pets’ toys, including especially, and not least, those suitable for our canine companions”, Poppy delighted, surprised at her sudden salesgirl spiel.
A sale made, Poppy sighed aside as she watched the stunning negress waltz-walk her wiggle outside.
“’Ere you was doin’ alright dare Poppy me gel! I seen der way she looked at yer!!” Sarah, Poppy’s best friend at Woolmart teased.
“You do know ‘oo dat iz don’tcha?” she added, as she saw Poppy’s gorgeous freckle kissed face look deliciously perplexed.
The look on Poppy’s sweet face, and the tiny crease in her brow it was impossible not to wish to kiss away, told Sarah that Poppy was innocent of that fact.
“Well, my darlin’ gel….It’s only Lady Barnmouth ‘erself!” Sarah concluded, before then smiling at the resulting look of total astonishment on Poppy’s acutely cute countenance.
Poppy placed the newspaper advertisement down on the corner shelf. With the receiver at her left ear, the payphone enjoyed her right hand’s longest finger inserted in the coil of the cable of the handset, and flexing and twisting within it, as if enquiring exploratively inside a cunt.
On that same hand, Poppy’s delectable little finger curved up and flexibly back. And, whilst with her middle finger in the cable coil as if it were a vagina, she also played the cable’s spring coil properties into stretch and return, stretch and return, akin to as if she were playing with a foreskin in its turn.
Unbeknown to her, Poppy’s Woolmart uniform skirt had ridden high up her smooth thighs, and showed the base crescents of her rear moons. Thus from the rear, in her Woolmart issue red and white candy-stripe thong panties, her impertinently potent pubic pouch, was patently pert purse: hidden but unmissably unmistakably delineated, complete with the in-tuck close-closed tightness of her labia-majora, outlined by an exciting crease in her panties’ crotch.
As she waited for her call to be answered, her pudenda petals a posy on open display bulging out her thong’s crotch, unrealised by her sweet innocence, standing sex-on-legs on the squared-off toes of her heelless ballet shoes, she nervously played a lovely leg back and forth, thereby describing indescribably emotion-inspiring motions with her curvy calf muscle.
The ‘burrrp-burrrp; ‘burrrp-burrrp’’ continued continuously on the line, and Poppy had almost decided on abandoning her quest; when a clatter told her the handset at the receiving end was being lifted.
Poppy’s pretty mouth went dry as she heard: “Barnmouth House, Lady Barnmouth’s residence. Miss Geeves, Lady Barnmouth’s personal aide speaking. How may one be of assistance? One assumes one is not talking to trade?!”
“It’s about your advertisement in the ‘Barnmouth Bugle’…” Poppy began, before being abruptly instructed: “Will you kindly enunciate with more vocal presence and preciseness girl!”
“It’s about your advertisement in the ‘Barnmouth Bugle’…” Poppy repeated more boldly, yet more nervously still.
“And which adverteasemon would that be precisely?” Miss Emelda Geeves cold voice enquired.
“The one for a ‘maid-of-all-work’”, Poppy braved, despite the chill of the voice from the void.
“Oh really. That one. Oh well. One believes, one can fit you in next Tuesday at 10.00”, Miss Geeves responded.
“You mean I have the job?!” sweet Poppy innocented, in overreaction to her highly nervous anticipation of rejection.
“Young lady! Whomsoever you are, one would hardly imagine you could be so dull of intellect as not to comprehend that one was merely indicating the possibility of an interview!” the cold Miss Geeves froze through.
“I’m so sorry”, Poppy sweetened with her pretty lips kissing out every sincerely sincere word.
“One should hope so!” Miss Geeves commented tartly, sharply.
“Do you know the whereabouts of Barnmouth House?” Miss Geeves continued.
“Yes Miss Geeves”, Poppy answered, butterflies in a dogfight in her soft flat belly.
“The servants’ quarters are clearly labelled. Report there at 09.50 for a ten o’ clock interview. Don’t be late. What name should one record?”
“Poppy: Poppy Heavenslove”, Poppy answered, and, without her being able to add more than the opening of her lovely lips to say a sweet polite delight of a ‘thank you’, the call was abruptly cut to an end.
As she moved her hand to place the receiver at rest, Poppy’s lucky forearm, brushed the pert right breast that was lurking alluringly, and thus made to flirt under her blouse.
Poppy smiled. Now, too late for all she had been putting on display to cause others dismay, she realised how high her hem had ridden. But she did not care. The erotic mound in her panties was in command of her. Ever since she had met Lady Barnmouth in Woolmart that day, now two weeks since, Poppy had schemed to find a way to get to see and talk to the stupendous negress.
Though she might only be a Woolmart girl now, Poppy Heavenslove had ambition. She was going to marry Lady Barnmouth. She did not even know if Lady Barnmouth was already married. In her ingénue’s imagination, nothing was going to get in her way. A job as a maid-of-all-work at Barnmouth House was but an entrée.
“Some of lady Barnmouth’s guests, may want to take you to bed. You’ll have no objection to that, one trusts Heavenslove?”
“No Miss Geeves”, Poppy answered blushing like a dew-dappled rose.
Poppy was an intact virgin. She was saving herself for the right girl. Despite her brilliance and her wonderful academic attainments, her dream, since her earlier teens, had been to meet an irresistible force, such indeed as Lady Barnmouth, and be swept off her feet to church, a carrying of her one-hundred-and-ten pounds of one-hundred-percent girl over the threshold of the shared new home, and a sweet saintly sacrifice in a first night wrestle and painful surrender in the marital bed.
Now she was being asked if she would be some complete stranger’s whore at that stranger’s whim. And, if she wanted the job she had schemed for as the first stepping stone on the ladder to get herself into Lady Barnmouth’s life and love and bed, she just had to say the ‘yes’ she had just said by saying ‘no’.
Miss Geeves had not, at this stage at least, turned out to be the frozen frump she had sounded on the telephone. Perhaps, like many people, she had a ‘telephone voice’ that misrepresented her real self.
Poppy, wearing her Woolmart uniform, the smartest outfit she, a poor girl poorly paid, had; had been aware, throughout the interview, of Miss Geeves appreciative eyes on her legs, and of those eyes clearly seeking to see if they could see that which would undoubtedly pouch out Poppy’s no doubt tight panties.
“You are an exceptionally attractive girl Heavenslove”, Miss Geeves sincered, as Poppy’s blush rushed to the colour that surely gave her her name. “One is certain that Lady Barnmouth will be more than happy to have you deployed in her household”.
“Thank you Miss Geeves. Do I have the job?” Poppy responded, with a freckle blessed face that the light of delight made even more dreamily delicious.
“Yes. Yes of course Heavenslove”, Miss Geeves responded, and then watched amazed as the lovely Poppy leaped to her feet on legs longer than life, but running far more smoothly, lissomed lithely over, and showered her in sweet scented kisses of shear innocent joy: Poppy hugging the would be frump, into a crumpled hump.
“Well really!!!” Miss Geeves responded, but her tone said that her voice was expressing disgust she, in heart, did not feel in any part.
A moments pause, allowed Miss Geeves to recover her poise.
“We had better get you ready for service right now Heavenslove, Miss Geeves opined in a return to her dedicated desiccated tone.
The vibrant vivacious Poppy stood ready with another sweet embrace that Miss Geeves longed to experience; but knew she must forego if this angel was ever to be of any use to Lady Barnmouth’s household.
Miss Geeves fought not to look at the sparkle in the shining golden eyes of the seductive Poppy, whose lovely face showed her overwhelming joy at having been accepted to work at Barnmouth House. Poppy’s look also showed her determination to learn the role of a ‘maid-of-all-work’ in every single detail. She would not disappoint. On that much Poppy was absolutely determined.
“Thank you! Oh thank you so much Miss Geeves! You won’t regret this. I promise you won’t ever regret taking me on. I absolutely never will let you down!” Poppy enthused with the softest sweetest sincerity, whilst recognising that her natural urge to embrace and kiss Miss Geeves in punctuation, was to be restrained and refrained from.
As she stood completely naked before Miss Geeves, in readiness for her uniform, Poppy’s lovely eyes whispered: ‘love me’.
“My goodness girl, did god not know when or where to stop when she made your legs? I’ve never seen longer or more luscious legs in all my life”.
“Thank you” Poppy flushed and blushed, a girl in complete negation of her fight for her sisters when she had organised and led the N.I.P.P.L.E. at her school and university.
In the presence of this potently pretty pulchritudinous posy, with her freckle deckled angel’s visage, Miss Geeves had once again forgotten herself.
She liked her underlings to be vulnerable when she introduced them to their place in the household. Complete nakedness was perfect, even when the naked girl’s wonderful breasts, with their huge cone nipples, were swaying mesmerisingly seductively.
“I brook no indiscipline among the maidery, Heavenslove. I have dispensation from Lady Barnmouth to administer corporal punishment. At all times when Lady Barnmouth is with us, I keep a tally of the performance of the girls in her service. Each and every act of indiscipline scores a black mark. And, when Lady Barnmouth has departed, each girl receives as many lashes from the bullwhip, as she has bad marks against her name.”
In sum, have no doubt whatsoever, that if you are a naughty girl, you will be severely whipped!”
The sweet flush of healthy colour drained from poor Poppy’s face as she heard this.
“Do you understand?!” Miss Geeves demanded.
“Yes Miss Geeves”, came Poppy’s dry-mouthed whisper.
Miss Geeves then signalled Poppy to perch her pert bottom on a cool wooden chair, and brought Poppy the stockings and shoes she was to wear.
“I see that you are hygienically shaved”, Miss Geeves observed, making Poppy blush the colour of her pretty name once again, as she, Poppy, realised where Miss Geeves’ eyes had just been feasting.
“Yes Miss Geeves. It has always been Woolmart company policy….” Poppy began to answer.
“I am not interested in ‘Woolmart company policy’, Heavenslove!” Miss Geeves interrupted abruptly.
“I believe in the necessity for strict and complete hygiene. But I do not believe in shaving or the use of unguents. We will impose hygiene in the proper manner! You will let your pubic hair re-grow for the coming fortnight, and you will then have it plucked.”
And, even as her brilliant mind imagined the excruciating pain of having her pubic hairs individually pulled out with tweezers: “Yes Miss Geeves”, came Poppy’s terrified acquiescence.
The rolling on of the white sheer-nylon stockings, with their inlaid pure gold seams leading up to the pure gold rings around the very top of their saucy deep tops, was a seductive delight that the uncontrolled and uncontrollable sighs, of both girl and woman, as the stocks covered the thighs, told of the pure heaven of the shapeliness of Poppy’s strong unfathomably-long legs.
For now, the stockings kissed the lovely legs, relying only on their tops to grip Poppy’s thighs to hold them up, and thus failing and falling to her knees once more, as they inevitably slid down Poppy’s immaculately smooth soft complexion.
Now Poppy was made to sit again, and Miss Geeves took hold of Poppy’s delicate delight of a left foot. With Poppy’s pure-girl 110 pounds converting a chair to a throne once more, even Miss Geeves blushed at handling something so lovely. And to watch Poppy’s left leg as her calf-muscle curved her wonderfully, when Miss Geeves checked the flexibility of the foot, was no betrayal of shear eroticism.
The shoe was amazing. It was of stainless-steel with a core of gold through its heel and toe. And heel and toe were all but all it consisted of.
The toe looked like a golf tee. It was six inches long, tapering to a sewing-needle’s point. Miss Geeves put its cup-end over Poppy’s big toe, so that it contained her stockinged big toe, including her toenail and up to the first joint in that toe.
She then pressed the almost semicircular stainless-steel arch of the sole of the shoe, insofar as she could, to the warm sole of Poppy’s delightful foot within her stocking. But, not succeeding in bending Poppy’s foot sufficiently, resorted to the fastening of a buckled black leather strap over the mid-top of Poppy’s foot, and another broader black leather strap that would hold the shoe to Poppy’s dainty ankle.
Alternating straps to make them tight by turn, Miss Geeves ignored Poppy’s moans of pain when her foot was being finally murderously arched, and admired instead, the tapering stainless steel gold-cored heel, that ran parallel with the sole of the shoe, fourteen inches, till, just half-an-inch behind the six-inch stainless-steel and gold toe of the shoe, where it too became as sharply sewing-needle-pointed as the toe itself.
Repeat treatment on the right foot made Poppy’s feet replete with the minimalist shoes, and Miss Geeves ordered the angel to stand.
As Miss Geeves held her pretty hands, Poppy dared to stand, and cried out with the agonising pain, as she, wavering on her billion-mile-long legs, strong fit and athletic though they were, teetered on the brink of toppling in tumble, as the whole 110-pounds of her pure-girlness was pressed down on her big toes.
She stood on their six-inch tapers with an infinity of minimality of contact with the ground she made heaven wherever she stood, and which she still blessed with her angelic wonder, as she wobbled in her shoes and cried the gentle tears of a girl in extreme pain, with all her weight crushing her big toes, and only the minimal of minimal relief supplied by her fourteen-inch needle-pointed heels, so close as only to be half-an-inch behind her toes, she was so steeply steepled in stance.
Miss Geeves reluctantly let go of the dainty hands and watched the remaining four each of Poppy’s sweet toes, visibly curl up within the foot of her stockings, those toes being free of any engagement with Poppy’s shoes, and then at the girl teetering ever on the brink of falling as she swayed, her lovely body raised on zillion-mile-long legs, made longer by the six-inch toes and fourteen inch heels of her stainless-steel gold-cored tiptoe shoes.
“Stop crying girl!!” Miss Geeves snapped commandingly, as she walked around behind Poppy, to remove the chair, and thus ensure the angel could not sit down to relieve her pain.
It was thus that Miss Geeves glimpsed the pure perfection of the shape her sky-high heeled stance had given Poppy’s incredible calves, with their strong muscles risen heaven high toward the back of the knees, and then the double-deep-deep hollow dimples in the sides of Poppy’s beautiful bum: dimples caused by her stance, enforced by her fourteen-inch heels, which were causing Poppy to clench her buttocks extremely tightly.
“My heavens girl, if ever a bottom was made by god herself…” Miss Geeves muttered just loud enough for Poppy to hear.
Poppy fought her tears of pain and shame, and simple whispered in deep cruel embarrassment and the agony from her tortured big toes: “Oh please!…”
“’Please’ what you little whore?! I expect you’re turned on by wearing those super-high heels aren’t you, you little tart? Are you begging: ‘please slap my bum?!’ Filth like you would be into such execrable perversions no doubt! I won’t ask, because I don’t need to ask if you always invite your girlfriends to spank you! You’re just a fucking Woolmart girl. You’re all the fucking same. Can’t keep your hands off each other. Kisses, tit-sucking, and cunt-groping in the stock room at every chance no doubt. Sluts! All of you Woolmart girls are just fucking sluts!!”, Miss Geeves sneered with heartfelt conviction, letting her usually excessively affected English, descend into the utterings of a woman from the same gutters from which she was convinced girls such as Poppy came, and could never leave.
The suspender belt came next. Its white lace-like waistband bore two side suspenders to slide down the sides of Poppy’s immensely strong and equally beautiful thighs. As a core within it, there ran a steel hawser with hoops at either and both of its ends.
The suspender belt rested at Poppy’s soft firm smooth belly, with the hawser hoops temporarily tied to each other above the small of her femininely arched back with a strong nylon rope.
In order to fasten the belt at the deepest curve of Poppy’s shapely waist, it would be necessary to draw the two ‘eyes’ in the hawser core together. To do that would need immense strength, or else the use of a steel bar through the temporary tie of the nylon rope, to turn the bar, and thus tighten the rope like a tourniquet.
Thus did Miss Geeves apply herself as poor Poppy, tottered teetered and close-near toppled on her big toe tips, sure she would fall, as her waist was slowly but absolutely assuredly, squeezed down from its perfectly delightful natural twenty-two inches, to a shear mere exact and not merely near, twelve gaspingly erotic inches.
A strong padlock now clasped the hawser hidden in the belt grasping Poppy’s gasp-making wasped waist, and held the hawser in place even as the temporary nylon rope was cut and discarded.
Miss Geeves now retrieved Poppy’s slipped down stockings, and fixed them to the suspenders at the sides of Poppy’s wonderful thighs. Gold clasps thus gripped the gold rings in the stocking tops around the golden girl’s golden thighs. A gold band ran within the wasp-waist enforcing suspender belt. A gold thread ran up from the stocking clasps to the belt. In the mid-front of the belt was a secreted microchip.
Curiously designed panties came next. If they were not to be put on such a feminine creature as Poppy, the panty’s crotch might have been thought to be a codpiece. It was transparent plastic, with two holes at its top, with a nipple thrusting up between the holes. Between Poppy’s heavenly thighs the bottom end of the ‘codpiece’ seemed to form a slightly forward thrusting cup, and down from the cup’s bottom most corner at its base, there protruded another nipple.
So, all in all, the article that was being placed over Poppy’s nude smooth cunt lips, was a transparent plastic banana-shaped hollowed-out panty crotch, with a container-bottle at its base.
But that was not all of its present mysteries. For within the ‘codpiece’ was a gold wire that, when the ‘codpiece’ was in place, ran between Poppy’s sensitive outer lips, and pressed gently on her inner pink, next her hooded clitoris.
The panty crotch was tied to Poppy with tight ribbons. One ribbon ran up her belly to clip, with a gold clip to the gold strip within her garter belt at front. And at rear, the ribbon divided her tight-clenched deep side-dimpled bum moons, before going through a hoop at the rear of her suspender belt, and then being pulled tight, so that soft rubber edges to the codpiece pressed onto Poppy’s love-lips, and both sealed the fit to her body, and slightly opened her, toward her giving a beautiful pink love-smile.
Plastic reinforced the cups of the white uplift brassiere that Miss Geeves fitted under Poppy’s naturally splendid pendulous breasts to lift them up and point them straight boldly out, grossly embarrassingly for the sweet girl.
Straps over her shoulders, and tight round her chest to her back, held this girls forty-inch-E-cup bosom presented as if meat on a butcher’s counter, with the cups of the bra curving up only to contain her ampleness from below, whilst leaving her thus presented breasts, bare on their soft firm uppers, and with a resultant massively provocative cleavage.
Two independent gold wires ran within the brassier, to emerge bare at Poppy’s pert pouting rosebud pink proud conical nipples, and, with manipulation from Miss Geeves, to gently enter Poppy’s nipple’s milk-ducts. More such gold cores ran within her bra straps. Nestling neatly in her cleavage was a hidden microchip.
Miss Geeves now brought two transparent plastic tubes, and fastened the first to the nipple at the top of Poppy’s panty-piece. She then fastened the second, and longer one, to the nipple at the base of the cup at the bottom of the panty-piece. Both tubes were then run up Poppy’s front, side by side, through hoops made for the purpose of holding them at the front of Poppy’s suspender belt, and then the alike hoops in the brassiere, up the middle of Poppy’s immense cleavage where they were left, for the moment to hang loose.
A transparent plastic open bell skirt was now clipped at Poppy’s hips just above her firmly dimple-clenched hard-slapping-wanton bum.
The short sleeved, puff-sleeved, black dress of close clinging velvet, was rolled up, and slipped over Poppy’s lovely slim gold-down glistening forearms, and then over her head.
Her lovely curls were next whisked out, and the dress took on the magnificence of the boldness of her bountiful bosom, and then the incredible slimness of her wasped waist, and finally stretched over to cover the bell, that thus held it flared out, so that her bare bottom was barely covered, and her cunt, in its transparent codpiece, was transfixingly apparent for all to see.
And Miss Geeves checked the white puff sleeves on the maid’s dress, at Poppy’s upper arms, and that the bell held Poppy’s sin-black dress’ skirt wide out, and that its hem hid the means by which that was achieved: the plastic bell itself.
And then she tied a tiny frilly edged white apron, fixing it with a huge bow at Poppy’s super-slimmed waist at the back, and ensured that this maid’s apron was straight, and that the low swoop of the neckline of the hugging black velvet maid’s dress, showed the full majesty of Poppy’s magnificent bosom, evenly uncovered down to, but short of revealing Poppy’s proud nipples, save for the clear obviousness with which they shaped the dress’ taut fabric.
Suffering all these strange indignities for her love of Lady Barnmouth, and her longing to be near her, Poppy’s wonderful mind had strained at the strangeness of what was happening. And in the distraction of the pain from her tortured big toes, she let her mind grind on the indignities of what was being done to her. And her thoughts echoed back to her time at college, and the protests she had organised and led against the inequalities of, and the mistreatment of girls in the modern world.
And a sweet voice, Poppy’s, dared to say: “You’re turning me into a sex object! You’re turning me into a masturbatory fantasy! You’re making me akin to a blow-up doll! Please don’t do this to me: I’m a real girl with degrees and doctorates!! You’re turning me into a shop-bought fuck toy!!!”
“Yes?! So?!!!!” Miss Geeves sarcasmed in total derision.
At this dismal summary dismissal, Poppy’s head sunk lower than her poor heart.
The transparent mask Miss Geeves strapped over Poppy’s nose and mouth was fed with the two pipes: the one from the top, and the one from the bottom of the transparent plastic codpiece covering Poppy’s cunt.
At pretty Poppy’s quizzical look, Miss Geeves informed: “The first hose is to give you the feminising pleasure of being, at all times, able to smell your own intimate aroma, with every sweet breath you take. The second, is for when you get thirsty”.
Poppy blushed at the first, for, as she drew her delightful breath in the mask and thus took her air in from the codpiece over her cunt, with its two breathe-holes either side of the tube now running to her nostrils, she could indeed smell her own seductive between-legs scent.
The second of Miss Geeves remarks: the reference to the tube now between the lips of Poppy’s sweet mouth, and atop her tongue: the reference to a means of drinking when thirsty, even Poppy’s brilliant mind could not work out.
“We are now going to teach you how you will be instructed and made to obey”, Miss Geeves commented mildly. “You surely don’t imagine we would ever let a mere Woolmart girl think she can think for herself do you?” Miss Geeves challenged mysteriously.
Miss Geeves now put on Poppy’s wrap-around mirror glasses. They both hooked over her little ears hidden within her golden curls, and also plugged her ears so as to reduce her hearing to the minimum: a minimum maximised when Miss Geeves clicked a switch, and the built-in battery-powered radio in the glasses began to fill poor Poppy’s head with white noise: a steady hum, so that she was effectively completely deaf.
Poppy’s beautiful eyes showed her terror. Her eyes. Her lovely eyes could be seen through her wrap-around glasses; but could not see. All Poppy could see in the one-way glass of her glasses, was the image of her own golden eyes looking back at her. She looked into mirrors and could not see out. Her lucky captor could see her eyes, but Poppy could not see: she was blinded by her glasses.
In her terror Poppy dared to lift a pretty little hand to take off her glasses.
“Don’t you damned well dare!” spat Miss Geeves voice suddenly and splittingly loudly through Poppy’s earplug headphones.
Poppy’s mind flashed back to recall the promise that she would be bullwhipped on her bare body if she were a naughty girl, and instantly refrained.
“I am going to lead you into the metal floored rooms in which you will perform your services, for as long a day as required”, Miss Geeves instructed.
“You can be pleased to know that the metal of the floor is kept flawlessly polished to mirror-perfection, so that Lady Barnmouth and her guests may see, whenever it pleases them so to do, all the wonderful equipage you normally have hidden up your dress’ skirt.”
“The floor also carries an electrical flow. It provides the means by which, you will learn to obey, and through which you will given instruction. And it won’t be through this present means. Lady Barnmouth will not stand for me radioing you like this”.
“Your gold-cored steel shoes’ toes and heels, will provide more than adequate contact with the metal flooring to power you up and communicate with you.”
“If you are wondering: the power will come in through your steel shoes and heels. After that, gold is a wonderful conductor of electricity. From your shoes, the power will run up the seams of the stockings on your incredibly long and equally incredibly beautiful legs.
Your stockings’ seams, connect to the gold rings at your stockings’ tops. From your stockings’ tops, the power will flow through your gold suspender clasps, up the gold thread in your suspenders to your wasping suspender belt. From there it can run up your back to your brassiere by means of a gold inlay within the back of your maid’s dress that makes contact between your suspender belt and your tit-cantilevering bra.
The straps of your brassier form aerials: antenna as back-up for operating you by remote control. Microchips in your brassiere and suspender belt are both receivers and instructors. There is more too. That ‘more’ I will inform you of shortly.”
“One last thing before we move to the slave flooring. You looked querulous when I mentioned the purpose of the tube in your lovely mouth. I said that it was there for when you became thirsty. You obviously didn’t understand. But then why should a stupid slut of a Woolmart girl understand anything so elegant as that particular arrangement?”
“Let me put it in simple words, so that even a slag tart like you can understand. You will, when on duty, be dressed, all day, as you are now: and by that I mean from before dawn until dawn nearly dawns again most likely.”
“During that time it is, of course, inevitable that you will have to pee. You will never ever be allowed to go to the bathroom. So, you will piss your pee into your panties.”
“By now the elegance of the solution to the inevitable problems of the thirst you will also undoubtedly experience during your endlessly long days of obedient duty, will even have occurred to you: you filthy whore.”
“But in case you are so stupid as not even now to understand. I am saying that you will pee your piss into the pot at the bottom of your plastic panties, and walk around with that piss slopping pure-goldenly to and fro no doubt, but always there for when you are thirsty. For when you are thirsty enough, you will suck on the tube in your pretty mouth, and thus draw up your piss from the reservoir in your panties.”
“In sum: you will, and you may think you can resist, but in the end you will, you unquestionably will, drink your own piss!”
There followed a heart-rending muffled sob, and Poppy’s gentle tears ran rainbow-refracting trails caressing the soft down on the lovely complexion of her freckled peach soft cheeks, thus telling the true tale of her utter misery.
Miss Geeves took gentle hold of Poppy’s sweet right hand, with it long impractical fingernails, and noted, with some sensitivity, that poor Poppy, though a fit girl, was perspiring from her fear, and from the pain from her brutally tortured big toes.
As she walked, for thus she was bid so to do, Poppy felt her increased femininity.
The heady aroma that she constantly scented from between her own legs was surprising aphrodisiacal. Even though, through the tube she used to breathe, she was smelling her own cunt, and not that of a girlfriend she was bedding, Poppy found the aroma arousing.
And to her brilliant mind, the thought that she was being compelled to constantly scent her own cunt, turned her on. Her own musky fragrance, and the compulsion she was under to breathe it constantly, aroused Poppy in a strange new way. It was also as if her own intimate fragrance was aromatherapy for her. It calmed her.
Also when she walked, she found she had a new extreme of femininity in her steps. She could feel the highly erotic maximality of muscularity and the curvaceous comeliness given her god-made legs, by her fourteen-inch high heels.
She had, quite literally, only pinpoint contact with the ground from the toes and heels of her stainless-steel shoes. Her stance and her walk were therefore at all times immensely precarious. She knew that, at all times, even as she merely stood on the top ends of her big toes as she must, with her feet pointing straight down to the ground, she risked wrenching one of her slim trim ankles, or breaking one of her big toes.
When she walked, to lift one foot was to put all her lovely 110 pounds on the big toe of her grounded foot alone, and thus to be more at risk of falling than the constant risk she was under anyway.
If she could not get such tiny grip on the ground as her sewing-needle-pointed toes and heels would provide, she knew she would fall and, in doing so, almost certainly break one of her beautiful legs.
The fear of falling was constant. Poppy’s brain thus instructed her leg muscles to use their full strength. And thus, unwittingly, Poppy’s brain made her legs even more compellingly shapely and orgasmically beautiful.
And there was more femininity to Poppy’s walk in another way. She had only a twelve-inch waist. Her middle was more wasped than a wasps, and so she wiggled wider.
Her clenched dimpled bum swung enticingly invitingly excitingly, and that excitement was not least for Poppy herself, as her bottom beat side to side in the open bell of her dress’ skirt, for all the world as if the skirt were really a bell, and her bum trying to beat the bell to make it sound out in celebration of her being a girl.
At first, the excessive swing to her bum when she walked shocked Poppy, and only increased her fear she would fall. But when she knew she had been wasped to make her snake her hips like a whore, she resigned herself to her fate, and she let her deep side dimpled firmly clenched bum, beat alluring pendulum, as it swung when she walked, as it and she could not, in reality, prevent.
Miss Geeves was talking through Poppy’s earpieces once more. “All of you maid sluts are on a different wavelength. The master computer is programmed to control you all. You will obey its commands without question. It will know if you are being dilatory or a naughty girl in some other unforgivable way, and it will correct you, choosing its own degree of severity.”
“Throughout the house there are walkways, doorways, and rooms. And in each of the rooms there are duties. Except on occasions like this when I teach you something new, you will remain blinded by your glasses and made deaf by your earplugs, thus ensuring your total obedience, and the computer’s complete control over you.”
“The computer will instruct you where you are to go. And it will open doors for you, and tell you which room you are in, and what you are to do in that room.”
“In each of the rooms there are cameras and sensors. The computer can thus assess when a bed needs making, or crockery washing, or clothes laundered.
It also knows where all stocks are held, duvet covers or what you will. All you will provide is the pair of pretty hands that it lacks. Your lovely hands will make beds or sweep paths, or whatever the computer orders you to do.”
“Through the steel floor and your constant contact with that floor via the toes and heels of your stainless-steel and gold shoes, the computer will give you messages.”
“Those messages will be literally wired from your stainless-steel shoes, up the seams of your stockings, through your suspender clasps, up your suspenders to your suspender belt, and through the back of your dress up to your brassiere, there to be converted by the microchips on you belly and in your cleavage.”
“As it is the only thing sluts like you can ever understand, the computer will reward you for being a good girl, by instructing the microchips in your bra and in your suspender belt to pleasure you.”
“The wires in your nipples can be made to vibrate. So too can the wire in your cunt’s pink. That wire can also sense your wetness. It can communicate back to the computer through the clip that holds your panty-piece to the front of your suspender belt.”
“Thus the computer can calculate to what degree you need to be excited, by vibration of your nipples and your clitoris, in order to get you receptively wet. And thus the computer will keep you constantly receptively wet, but always, I can assure you, always well short of an orgasm.”
“In return for being nice to you, by keeping you sweet and wet all day long, the computer will expect your total obedience in gratitude.”
“You will soon find that the computer will order you about, primarily through tiny electrical shocks to your clitoris. When you are to walk it will command you to do so by giving your clit two little shocks.”
“You have, of course, two tits: a right tit and a left tit. Through that fortunate arrangement, the computer is enabled to give you directions on which way to turn.”
“A shock in your right nipple will tell you to turn right. A shock in your left nipple will order you to turn left, and equal shocks in both nipples tell you to walk straight forward or, if a longer pulse, to stop.”
“Ordinarily the shocks will be entirely bearable and, to a filthy slut like you, no doubt sexually arousing. But, if you are a naughty girl, the computer will give you a very painful lesson, and record the instance, so that the lesson can be later reinforced by a whipping”.
I am going to switch you over to the computer now, and, for the next hour, it will teach you how to be a good robotic slave. It will give you a single word command, and the electrical shock in your nipples and / or your cunt, that ordinarily stands in for that command. You will do well to learn the Morse code akin pulse patterns quickly.”
“And finally, before I turn this transmitter off, let me remind you, Heavenslove, that you are just trailer trash. You are just a fucking Woolmart counter tart. All your fancy degrees and doctorates are so much shit.”
“Whilst you are in Lady Barnmouth’s employ, you are just a pretty face with elegant arms, lovely legs, a great bum, and gorgeous tits. Those are all you are here for. Don’t ever get any fancy ideas about your importance.”
“You are just decoration. Whilst you work here you are just walking legs bum and tits. You are only worth your legs your bum and your tits. When your legs your bum or your tits lose their attraction, you will be thrown out in the street.”
At this final tirade from Emelda Geeves, Poppy’s dainty nostrils flared, and her breathing made her aware, that her between-legs aroma had just become heavier than before.
At the switch over to the computer, Poppy felt a pleasurable vibration in her nipples, followed by the peremptory mechanical female voiced command: ‘walk whore!’, preceded by two lightly tickling electrical pulses through her clitoris.
Deafened by her earplugs and the white noise filling her head, and blinded by her wrap around mirror glasses, Poppy obeyed.
“Is that the new slut?” a sweet contralto voice enquired.
“Yes my lady”, Miss Geeves answered.
“What a beautiful bum she’s got on her, and her legs are just so fantastic! She’s a more than adequate replacement for Jennifer. Yet again Geeves, you’ve done well. In fact, looking at the legs on that little slag, you’ve excelled yourself. Does the whore have a name?” Lady Barnmouth enquired.
“She’s called ‘Poppy’ my lady”, Miss Geeves answered, respectfully as always.
Lady Barnmouth gave no indication of recognition of the name. She had quite forgotten the lovely girl who had served her so efficiently in Woolmart not yet three weeks since.
“’Poppy’ is a pretty name”, Lady Barnmouth speculated momentarily.
“Of course I leave all the computer wizardry in your good hands Geeves. But don’t we have a delightful little Japanese doll called ‘Poppette’ as number sixteen?”
“We do indeed my lady”, Miss Geeves confirmed.
“Well, we can’t have two with a name starting with ‘P’ – two number sixteens can we? This pretty tart will obviously be the new number ten, in place of Jennifer, will she not?”
”Quite so, my lady”, Miss Geeves responded, ably hiding her mounting resentment at Lady Barnmouth’s interference, in what Miss Geeves had begun to think her sole territory: organising the computer and its indoor slaves.
“Well, if she’s the new number ten, she needs to be a ‘J’. So we’ll just call her ‘Jennifer’ again shall we?” Lady Barnmouth concluded.
“Of course my lady”, Miss Geeves answered, fighting her resentment at not being able to choose her own ‘J’, and name Poppy ‘Jezebel’, as she had been so minded when she watched Poppy’s exciting bum swings inside the bell of her skirt just now before.
It was a miracle of acting that saved Emelda Geeves showing her resentment when, having been surprised by Lady Barnmouth’s return, with her mistress having suddenly come back into the room, she turned to the reopened door, to see Lady Barnmouth’s lovely face.
“Nearly forgot Geeves. I have the PM coming to dinner tonight. She’s an eye for a pretty girl and is bound to notice the new tart. Do you think Jennifer can be ready to give her room service? She’s not having her monthly is she? The prime minister may want to bed her….”
“I will do my best to have Jennifer ready by tonight my lady. And, no, she’s not dripping at the moment...” Miss Geeves responded.
“Thank you Geeves. I knew I could rely on you”, Lady Barnmouth smiled again.
Obediently, under the control of the computer, Poppy was being made to walk and learn the distances from the ground floor and Miss Geeves’ room, where she had begun, to the slave’s quarters, the lounges, the kitchens, the garbage unit, the stairs and the upper rooms, including the bedrooms, the bathrooms, and the lavatories.
It was as if the computer loved her lovely legs too, for it seemed to have her walk up and down the stairs, where their full amazing length could be seen, as well as a full view of her dimpled sexily clenched bottom.
True to Miss Geeves’ words, the computer had aroused Poppy: a matter of no great difficulty with such a sensitive girl. A momentary steady vibration of her nipples and Poppy was as wet as a quadruple-monsoon. The computer soon sensed this, and just gave her nipples tiny throbs once in a while, and thus easily kept Poppy, as wet as a schoolgirl anticipating the imminent harbouring of the seventh fleet.
Unfortunately for Poppy, her eager wetness had a side effect.
If her waist wasping had given a wanton’s wiggle to her walk, something else was now giving a wiggle to her wiggle.
She was hot to trot, and not to bed, but in dire need of the bathroom.
Though she fought this, she inevitably fought and lost.
Within half-an-hour of her computer guided training, she had peed abundantly into her panties and the container at the base of her ‘codpiece’, now glowed the gold of a summer sunset, filled to the brim as it was, with her superlative cognac: her golden treasure: her wine: her pure girl’s pure girl-pee.
Getting used to working as if she were a blind girl, had cost Poppy a number of short sharp shocks.
The computer knew no let or hindrance in punishing her. It had instantly calculated that it could hurt her through her sensitive nipples, and keep her receptively wet by that means at the same time.
With other girls controlled by its electronic tentacles, a pulse to the clitoris was the most effective cure for a misdemeanour, but ‘number 10’, Poppy, must be some kind of masochist, for she was clearly turned on by her predicament, and wholly compliant with the computer’s demands and commands with the minimum of correction.
The cameras at the end of the fibre-optic entrails that wove through the fabric of the walls and ceilings of every room in the house, guided the computer, and the computer the girls in its command.
Thus Poppy could be made to make up a bed through a series of pulses to her cunt and her nipples, micromanaging her movements, combined with her own sensuous sensitivity of feel with her pretty hands.
It would have been more efficient for the slaves to be allowed to see, but Lady Barnmouth wanted the full obedience that blinding and deafening the sluts assured: blind obedience being literal in her household.
As Poppy wiggled along from where she had carried a tray of potatoes to the kitchen, under orders from the computer to fetch a tray of carrots, she sipped some more of her piss to quench her thirst.
The computer had worked her relentlessly for eight hours. In her blindness and deafness she was unaware of a passing presence, until the woman passing could resist no more, and pinched Poppy’s beautiful tight-clenched deep-deep-dimple-sided bottom.
Poppy instantly jerked to long-leggy-legged halt and squeaked with the pain, and then moaned as the computer punished her nipples and then her clitoris.
As it sensed that she had become over-aroused from the pinch, and the pulses to her nipples, the imbalance caused by Poppy’s passionate nature now seemed to take the computer by surprise.
It sensed that Poppy was approaching a climax. That so trivial a matter as a girl being surprised by having her bare bum pinched, could arouse her so, was something the computer could not cope with. And so, even though Poppy was being totally obedient, Miss Geeves instantly received a message from the computer on her pager.
A repeated pulse in her right nipple ordered Poppy to turn, and her sexy legs strode, and her bare bum bell tolled, belying a pendulum for claiming to swing, as she graced her way to the library, and the infuriated Miss Geeves, who had two of the gardeners with her.
The slap across her pretty face shocked Poppy so much that she did not even utter a syllable of sound. Her glasses were tipped and slipped down her nose on her bruised face, and the inrush of extra light burned her golden eyes causing her to blink.
As she got used to the light once more, she submitted to being stripped of her glasses, her dress, the plastic bell that belled her dress’ skirt out, her brassiere and her panties.
They stopped her pretty mouth by stuffing it with her soiled Woolmart panties.
Roping her wrists individually, they dragged her to the door of the library’s broom cupboard: toward the edge of that strong panelled oak door, which was standing open.
They tied her wrists so that her lovely arms were hugging the front and back of the door like a long lost lover.
They tied her wrists to the upper hinges of the door, so that her chin was pressed on its open edge and her golden curls dangled down her back.
“Lady Barnmouth will not tolerate such slatternly behaviour from whores like you, Jennifer!”, Miss Geeves hissed, as she played with Poppy’s right nipple.
‘Who is ‘Jennifer’? Why is Emelda Geeves calling me ‘Jennifer’?’ Poppy’s face and eyes asked, just before her eyes closed to better experience the pleasure of having her nipple caressed, with a practiced thumb wiping across it relentlessly repeatedly.
Poppy had no idea what she was supposed to have done or, indeed, if the opposite was the case, not done.
Despite the tightness with which her tied wrists pulled her up to the open edge of the hugely strong door, Poppy managed to turn her head, and look Miss Geeves in the eye, with a sweet and pitiful plea, begging for forgiveness, and showing fear that she, Poppy, was about to experience the bullwhipping promised her if she were a naughty girl.
Instead Poppy simply heard Miss Geeves order to the strong negress gardeners: “Ruin her. You know what to do. Give her the previous Jennifer’s punishment….
In the latter later half of the following afternoon, the summer sun still shone dust-dance-revealing beams through the library’s French windows.
As the agonised Poppy glanced around, her pain filled eyes seemed unable to see, but still lit with astonishment when they alighted on the redheaded schoolgirl who had wondered into the library with a woman, perhaps her momma, who had already passed by, her face unseen by Poppy, to open the French windows that led onto the patio and the flowing lawns following on.
The schoolgirl, fifteen at most, wore a pleated grey micro-mini-skirt, that showed the edge of the gusset of her pristine white, unsullied white, panties.
Her legs were not long, she being altogether only five-two at tops, but exceptionally pretty, as she wandered her wonder in her heelless tiptoe ballet shoes.
Her breasts hardly troubled to disturb her blouse’s uniformity of line, but were pointed out literally by the school uniform necktie that she wore, and which showed she had cleavage enough, even though her bosom would never threaten to burst her blouses’ buttons.
Her glory was her hair. Her face was wreathed in livid curling flames. Her green eyes showed the shear joy she had in being so young, so feminine, and so alive.
Desdemona, for this was the angel, put her sweet hand on Poppy’s cunt. She then noticed, and gently caressed, a curious bruise on Poppy’s clenched deep side-dimpled bottom, a bruise on her left bum cheek, as if Poppy had had her bottom pinched very hard.
Poppy, moaned at this act of gentle alms from such a pretty hand.
Desdemona’s momma admired the way it had been done. The two batons of wood with the pre-drilled holes in their longest sides, to assist in holding the girl – someone knew what they were doing: someone knew the Roman way.
Glancing down, Desdemona’s momma noted that the gagged girl stood in her extremely high-heels on the very tip-top of her big toes, with the six-inch-long toe-ends, and the fourteen-inch high heels of her shiny steel shoes, in a puddle of her own piss. ‘What a waste of a fine wine!’ Desdemona’s momma mentally decried.
Her appreciative eye now followed up and down the girl’s wonderfully long and equally wonderfully shapely legs. ‘My goodness, it’s that maid I met in the corridor last evening. What fantastic legs, and what a gorgeous bum. What a great reaction when she got what she deserved too! Who could resist pinching such a backside? Wonder how long she’s been in punishment?’.
All of these thoughts from and by Desdemona’s momma, took no more than a fleeting microsecond.
At one glance she had taken in what had probably happened.
At a second glance, she looked again at the girl’s wonderfully big breasts.
They were squeezed brutally flat in their middles: the batons saw to that. Their ends were like child’s party balloons, and the nipples were clearly constantly painfully swollen.
The batons saw to that too, the batons and the flat-headed steel nails driven through the holes in the batons: the huge steel nails with which the girl’s breasts had been nailed to the front and back of the open oak door she was tied standing at the edge of, that is, of course.
In ancient Rome, after she had been crucified thus for days, they would have whipped the girl till her unbearable pain caused her to rip her breasts off the nails. ‘Thank goodness that we are not so barbaric in 21st century England’, Desdemona’s momma concluded.
Desdemona’s momma, then turned, and having stood a while to breath the air in the open doorway, left her darling fifteen-year-old daughter to assuaging her curiosity, by caressing the helpless body of the tit-crucified Poppy.
Desdemona’s momma herself continued into the gardens to greet Lady Barnmouth and apologise for having had to rush away the previous evening.
“Lady Barnmouth, Faustina, how can I apologise enough for what must have seemed my extreme rudeness last evening in the middle of dinner?” Lora Georgette’s musical Welsh intonation intoned.
“No apology is necessary, prime minister. Affairs of state have always been beyond me. I don’t envy you the burden you bear. I only hope such time as you have been able to spend at my humble abode, has enabled you to relax a little”, Lady Barnmouth’s voice soothed.
A muffled squeal of extreme pain came through the open French windows. Both women turned momentarily toward the sound, and then relaxed again.
Lady Barnmouth knew that ‘Jennifer’ was in the library, crucified by her tits as a preliminary to her being thrown into the streets, dismissed from her service.
And Lora Georgette readily realised that the voice behind the decidedly muffled scream, was not Desdemona’s, but must have been that of the gagged and crucified girl.
“I hope you don’t mind Faustina, but I had to bring my youngest daughter, Desdemona with me.”
“She is to go to boarding school here in Barnmouth. Term starts tomorrow, and tomorrow, I’m afraid, I have to entrain for Scotland for a continuation of talks over that nation’s impending independence…”, Lora Georgette apologised again.
“I am only too delighted to oblige. Consider my home yours Lora”, Faustina, Lady Barnmouth, assured.
“Desdemona can stay and sleep-over here, and it will be an honour to offer you our hospitality too. Desdemona was with us for a month last summer. She is pure delight, and a pleasure to have around”, Faustina added.
As the two lovely women spoke, a beautiful negress, followed by two gorgeous Chinese dolls, outdoors servants, brought a silver tea service and a trestle table to the lawns, and began to set out what they had prepared and carried, before their superiors.
Another cry of pain: this one decidedly the pain of joy from the attainment of what sounded as if it must be a truly massive orgasm, preceded a long sigh of satiation from the same source: the muffled voice.
At this, Lora Georgette, prime minister of England, strolled, unhurriedly, back to the house to see if all was alright with her daughter.
On arrival in the library, her eyes needing to readjust to the contrasting shade of the room where Poppy of course still stood, nailed by her breasts to the door, prime minister Lora Georgette could not quite yet see why her pretty daughter was holding up and looking with sweet curiosity at the fingers of her right hand; though she was evidently fine.
The smile on the titian ringlet ringed face of the petite doll Desdemona was one of pleasure achieved. She had just given herself a sex lesson at Poppy’s expense, and Poppy, coincidentally and accidentally, a massive orgasm.
The answer to the item of passing interest, the curiosity Desdemona had, about the bloodied fingers of her hitherto exploratory hand, came in the sweet lisp of Desdemona’s voice: “Ooh look mummy: I’ve got blood all over my fingers!”
“Yes”, Lora Georgette replied, in a voice expressing that she now understood.
“Yes. Well, I dare say she may have been a virgin darling. Now do hurry up and wash your hands sweetheart. Tea is being readied for us on the lawns”…