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    Seraphima - Part 1 - Chapter 1-7

    (by Eve Adorer)

    If next door was a convent, then eighteen-year-old Seraphima was just ‘the girl next door’. Like all young girls, Seraphima was compelled by the mysterious wonder between her legs. As her story begins, the question of the moment is, what is Seraphima, a convent schoolgirl, doing in the ‘Poolside Bar’?
    Stay with the ride and enjoy what’s inside!!

    (by Eve Adorer)

    Part 1 - Chapter 1 - Pool

    Pool or pools? Alluring: brown: compellingly disquietening: electrically flashing golden heavenly inspirationally joyous kinetic lightening: momentously nobly omniscient: potently queenly: romantically spellbinding: truly unsurpassably visionarily wistfully xenodochium: youthfully zymergic, and these and those, alphabetically, just her eyes.

    Pool or pools? Dark-brown. Long lashes. The lanterns of her searing soul.

    Pool? She? No question. She is she. This is she. She that is she, bends with cue, supplant for penis, held erectly long in pretty hands, with caressing fingers, inept girly grip, aiming at testicular spheres, gently working the foreskin, would she, were it had had one.

    Did she hear?

    Billiards? Pole and two balls making male in intimation of intimate imitation. But then there is that third ball, so this is not a man’s at all. Even that stiff stick in her gentle grip is imagined not real in its masculine appeal.

    Heels? Six-inches and what shape they give to already compellingly curvaceous limbs. Legs long and high as she leans lone over table, pool or billiards, with cue on cue to smack the balls haughtily, naughtily, dismissively, in manner seemingly unseemly, and certainly without semen.

    Lips? Pouch or mouth? Mouth. Delicately small with upturned-to-flat curved upper-lip, and bold lower. Lips at rest in the pose of a pretty posy. For she is Nubian negro, and carries the beauty of beauties, that is the blessing of the black girl.

    More on mouth? Mouth pouted pert in a kiss of concentration on smacking naughty boy balls, with pole her gentle fingers long, longingly masturbate, or seem to have in that unseemly state at any rate.

    The beauty of her mouth is it’s all but circulararity: it almost forms an exquisite ‘O’, as in ‘orgasm’.

    Legs? Naked. Summary? Summery so she is summarily at the summit of submission to sun’s solace, and wears cool clothes as near none, as would arouse monk monkey and nun, but never discompose none. Her legs long and black shine with the sheen of burnished mirrors.

    Did she hear?

    Snooker? A duly attentive erectness to the pole she holds pays service to her potency. Those naughty balls will get a poke from her for daring to erect the mast she appears to masturbate, and would be master over, but that she is so clearly a miss.

    Hair? Curls coiled curlicue, Gordian knot not. Acutely cutely concupiscent whirls, whirring the wanton, wanting of nothing even whirlpool compared, to ensnare. Damocles long to blades, not swords as in soldiers, but slender, as in shoulders.

    Face? A lantern of loveliness that is all. But consider and quiver at what such beauty delivers. The sun had just been worshipping her, not she it, after all. All of five feet seven tall, leaning long to smack those bauble balls.

    Breasts? Of course! Girl! Heavy, full, unencumbered by brassiere, double-dangling doppelganger. Pyramid-point tipped, and the points poignantly pert and alert in the warmth of the summer. She must be forty-eight F-cup, to judge by the state of her green-and-black-hooped crop top’s swellings, telling of the totality of its fulfilling filling. Lolling belle bells with strikingly proud pulchritudinous clappers: her nipples: giving content, as in conical tent investment, to the content of her vestal vest vestment.

    Pool or billiards? Skirt? Only just. Bent as she is, risen unbidden to leave her pouch unhidden, for she shy but so free to display and disport.

    Bare midriff. Belly flat with cute concave third eye: navel. Blind eye ‘seeing no ships’ to pun quip. Fifth eye to include both her nips.

    Arms? Disarmingly alarmingly long and slim, with too, glister of soft down sweetly down her two fores. Two fores not octopus, but achingly lovely to longingly look upon. Two fores not eight nor ten, but not tentative, indeed tentacle in loving embrace in the grace of her brace.

    Did she hear?

    Legs again? And how! How long can legs be and be legal? This is horny honey with legs let from ground to nirvana, flowing in two paths, righteous, and left too: the straight and curved but not the crooked highways to heaven. The eye follows their flow. The journey is long with many disturbing curves. Muscles are smooth but subtly supple and strong. Would the eyes rode these roads forever. No stockings to hide the flawless deep black shining complexion. The curves are eternal up to the infernal furnace in the radiant white pouch.

    What does that white tell us? Oh yes, she is new, but she has bled her lunar bleeds. She is very girl indeed, and still with her snare drum tympanum untaught and taut. That sentry confirming no entry is elementary, but not eliminatory of the cues on the guys forming queues she might choose from, when she ceases to confuse, and deigns to lose.

    Bum bottom buttocks butt buns? Inverted kettle drums two too. Conspicuously momentously muscular, beating time’s sway girls’ gait way either siding her gateway. Timeless metronome mounds. Rolling rodomontade silent of sound. Round full firm smooth monumentally mountainous.

    Panties? Only just. Clearly seen as she leans keen to smack the white ball with tall pole to teach the testicular balls a lesson with her borrowed penis cue. White: they are only just this side of non-existent. A glowing white thong with pretty red decorative side bows, leaving bowing wowing bottom in clear air, entirely bare.

    Inside thong? Her mystery. Her every heavenly wile. Her pungently potent musk the while. The wild-musk-rose pervaded pouch filling out her gusset with its purse lips closed: purse lips speaking of love in thunderous wondrous poetic-prose-silence, in its gentle repose.

    Did she hear? She seemed to move in display of all her loveliness, and flash her long strong legs every sexy way scintillatingly. And a look said she heard and was disturbed but not dismayed at the words of the two girls eyeing her, one of them unintentionally braying above the heat of the DJ’d music dance beat.

    As Seraphima played pool or billiards or snooker at the Poolside Bar, the silence unbid fell in a spell in the Afro-beat. And the words fell on her dainty ears though they hidden in the curls of her helical coiffure. Words not intended for her to hear, but surprised by the sudden silence in the thumping music: a girl’s voice opining pining opinion that Seraphima should be pinioned pilloried and:

    “What she needs is a fucking good spanking!”

    Snooker! Seraphima the cute copious curl-cropped girl forwards her cue on cue to address the white, and scatter the naughty boy balls as multi-coloured seed, imprudent impudent sperm, pissed impotent Onan by the ricochets off her stick poked white ball, as the cue, a penis parallel, on cue, drives the virgin white ball, just as a queue of cues should have been poking Seraphima’s pink, by turn, if at all.

    And Seraphima pocketed an instant red, and would now go for the brown, but that her heavenly eyes were on the girls leering at her loveliness, and the words she had heard had disturbed in her, what she had thought, if she had ever before thought about it at all, absurd.

    As the brown was nextly pocketed, Seraphima’s nether never pocked pink knew drizzle, and longed to know these girls who found her profoundly vamp or tramp. And, as she bent over the table once more, penis cue in pretty little hands, her panties gusset was daintily faintly fatefully damp.

    The success with the brown, reminder of her devil deep anal tunnel, was followed by a second red, and a try for the oh so appropriate pink.

    Need of rest for cue this long shot she, as her skirt hem shot up she, her long strong legs she, reached despite need for cue support for lack of her height, the brown via white to smite, and panties glowed bright white triangle pouched pulchritudinous ‘tween tensioned fit bare thighs, as her mind raced with the disgrace of the drips sipped by her gusset, when one of the staring girls had audibly called for Seraphima to be whipped.

    But why did ‘whip’ come to mind all but butt? Seraphima had not heard that word used. She was deliciously confused. Her eyes, her soft calf eyes, looked doe-longingly brief-lingeringly at the lovely girls, whose eyes in turn were burning on the burnished bare dark black legs of she, that she brandished so beckoningly.

    Willy, boyfriend gentle and innocent. Boy next door. Only boy had ever known she, as friend, not more intimate as in ‘boyfriend’ one word, was more ‘boy friend’ two words.

    Seraphima and Willy only just re-met since not long. Seraphima, an orphan from the local convent.

    In the interview in her office, so far, Abbess Mercy had told Seraphima, that Seraphima could no longer go to university, but would, nonetheless, have to leave the convent.

    This was not Seraphima’s fault. The convent was in the midst of a financial crisis. It was regrettable, but Seraphima’s time to leave had come. She needed to face the world outside without chaperones.

    The convent coffers were nearly empty. College was no longer an option for Seraphima, unless she could afford to fund herself. The abbess was sorry, but the convent could no longer afford to do it. The abbess was truly sorry, she wished she could do something about it, but things were as they were.

    Now she was eighteen, Seraphima was no longer necessarily required to wear the woollen dress and knickers of the pupils under tutelage at the convent. Her school years were over.

    So Seraphima sat with her beautiful bare dark black legs demurely but gently pressed together at her knees. She wore a micro-skirt. Seraphima did not cross her legs. To do so was forbidden in the convent.

    In her micro-skirt, Seraphima’s hugely handsome thighs were compelling eye-catching. They were wholly proportionate with her lovely body, but somehow loomed very impressively and powerfully large in the eye of the lucky beholder.

    As she sat demurely upright on a wooden dining-table type chair, Seraphima’s forty-eight-inch bosom was pushing out her striped crop top, with her conical nipples prodding up like circular arrowheads, stretching the material of that garment to near bursting rip.

    In her complete sweet innocence, thinking as a girl in an all-girl environment, Seraphima had seen nothing wrong in coming to this highly important interview, sans panties. In consequence, the copious, completely coiled curls, of her luxuriously long pubic hair, tumbled in impossible spirals, between her thighs, to dangle on the floor below the seat she blessed with her beautiful behind.

    One of the glories of the incredible Seraphima, was this luxuriance of flowing midnight springs: her pubic hair, was as soft and of as dark a brown as the hair of her head, and as curled to. But that it was in compound coils of incredibly confusing complexity, its long tail would have dragged on the floor as she swayed her heavenly way.

    This erotic wonder dangled and dandled from her mons veneris and her labia majora. She shampooed, brushed, and combed it with the same loving care she imparted to her coiffure. If ‘crowning glory’ had an apposite opposite, this site and sight was it.

    If the seven wonders of the world were rolled into one girl, that girl would be Seraphima, and a sub-wonder these profuse curls dangling down between her lovely legs to her shapely ankles, as if it were on the head hair of another girl with her lips permanently kissing Seraphima’s thus completely hidden love mouth: Seraphima’s pubic hair, her beautiful upon beautiful four-foot long pubic hair.

    “My sweet and honoured lady, you are taking away my future. I beg you, my sweet and honoured lady! You know that I am an orphan. I have no access to other finance”, Seraphima begged.

    “My sweet and honoured lady, I beg you to reconsider. Please, my sweet and honoured lady!” Seraphima pleaded.

    Seraphima leaned forward at this juncture, her lovely negress’ mouth kissing the air with every syllable her sexual contralto sang.

    Her heavy breasts therefore followed gravity, and flowed forward and down as they left their nestling places on Seraphima’s chest. Her firm nipples thus bobbled up and down, rubbing within her fortunate, and fortunately elastic, top.

    Her gentle face was completely disarming. Her eyes glowed with her youthful vitality zest and vivacity. A stray of her head curls, swung a helix over her left eye, and Seraphima raised a long fingered hand to brush it gently aside, thereby lifting one of her breasts toward the heaven from whence she indisputably came.

    “Are you packed for leaving the convent?” Abbess Mercy, responded.

    “My sweet and honoured lady!” Seraphima cried out with overwhelming anxiety.

    “Seraphima, my charming daughter….” Abbess Mercy continued, in a tone of mixed mild irritation and amusement, both prompted by the total innocence of her charge.

    “Seraphima, there is a world out there waiting for you! Admittedly, the lack of university qualification will limit your marketability, and there is ninety-nine-percent unemployment among girls at present…. But you could….. or maybe… well, anyway…”, the abbess had run out of ideas for Seraphima’s future, even before she began her list of what Seraphima could do by way of a career.

    Abbess Mercy knew that, in reality, Seraphima’s position was hopeless, unless Seraphima could find a man or girl to marry her: a man or girl with some money of course.

    The alternatives for Seraphima, were working in the coal mines, or prostitution. Most English girls were sold into US, Russian, or Chinese brothels. Many sold thus, still fooled themselves they would make the money to be able to go to college. But the market for girls, even the highly prized English girls, was flooded. Most of them would be lucky to get even one meal a day as payment for selling their bodies.

    “My sweet and honoured lady, please may I take the vows? Seraphima asked in her despair.

    The Abbess laughed gently. Seraphima hung her head amidst an emotionally stirring slow-motion springing and coiling of the curls of her dark-brown hair, as they flowed to shade Seraphima from showing that the glowing sun of her gorgeous face was turning to sweet rain.

    “My sweet and honoured lady, why do you mock me?” Seraphima sobbed.

    “My daughter: if I had any, but any, vacancy for a nun, do you not realise that I would choose you above and beyond any competitor in the world?” the abbess soothed.

    “I cannot create from nothing. That is the sole prerogative of the good lord. You would imagine that, with we nuns taking a vow of poverty, the convent would cost a whisper to run. But that, sadly for you my daughter, is simply not so”, Abbess Mercy sighed, resignedly.

    Throughout the interview, Seraphima had been aware of the abbess’ eyes on her legs: legs given particular loveliness by the six-inch heels Seraphima wore.

    Seraphima’s loving mind considered the shocking idea that she could win the abbess over by using her sexual charms. It was but a microsecond’s thought, and dismissed in the next instant. The consequences of failure were dire. Seraphima knew she would probably be bullwhipped. Five hundred lashes was the minimum punishment. They had given one girl one hundred lashes every day for a whole week, bar on the Sunday, when she had suffered two hundred.

    “Let me be straight forward with you my daughter”, the abbess continued.

    “You are a very attractive, and, consequently, a very distracting young woman. Quite honestly, I cannot afford to have you hanging around the convent. I have seen with my own eyes, the way the other girls look at you. And, yes, I know you have never encouraged it, but I have heard the wolf whistles?”

    “You are a disruption. A truly lovely one, but a disruption nonetheless. That is one factor. The other, as I have already mentioned, is cost.”

    “We need your cell. Come the winter celebrants, there will be a surfeit of nuns in the convent. That is why we do not need new initiates Seraphima.”

    “Because of the dire state of the country’s economy, I am keeping more nuns on than we strictly need, so you see I can be charitable. But we just cannot afford to have you hanging around…. I’m sorry, Seraphima, I am truly sorry, but that is the way it is for all of us these days”, Abbess Mercy concluded, to the sad sound of Seraphima’s heartrending sobs.

    “My sweet and honoured lady…..” Seraphima whispered, by way of farewell, her head hung to hide her tears, as she rose from her chair to leave the room, stood with the copious curls of her pubic hair swinging gently between her shapely ankles, and curtseyed very thighilly to her de facto mother.

    Seraphima’s loud sob as she wiggled from the room in an erotic ‘clitter-clatter’ of stiletto heels, would have broken any heart.

    Abbess Mercy, found her own tears welling. To her own surprise, she now turned turtle in her torment, and called for Seraphima to come back.

    Turned and returned: Seraphima stood trying not to let her radiant loveliness interfere with what she hoped and prayed might be a chance for her. She did not want her fantastic sexuality to win her favours. She knew she had to face the world without using that weapon.

    “Okay! Okay!” Abbess Mercy suddenly resignedly sighed.

    “Look: just so long as you continue to obey the rules of the convent, including complete chastity, then I will let you stay around. You can help teach, perhaps: as a classroom assistant. But remember, Seraphima, chastity at all times, and no leaving the nunnery without at least two nuns as chaperones!” Abbess Mercy warned.

    Seraphima almost leapt on the abbess to kiss her. From the gentle diamonds of rain that had trickled from her dark-brown eyes, suddenly sunshine broke through the clouds.

    “My sweet and honoured lady, thank you, thank you, thank you!!” she cried with her palms pressed together in prayer of gratitude for the abbess finding her a job.

    “You will never regret it, my sweet and honoured lady. I will work so hard for Sister Faith. I know nothing of teaching, but I will learn. I promise on promise that I will learn. And you will never ever, but ever, regret giving me this chance, my sweet and honoured lady”, Seraphima gabbled with tears of love running down her sweet cheeks.

    The suspicion started when two nuns reported to the abbess, that Seraphima was wearing scent.

    If Seraphima was wearing scent, she did not get it from within the convent. Was she sneaking out alone?

    The suspicion increased when the same two nuns reported Seraphima’s additional pride about her appearance. “I’ve known her take a whole hour just shampooing and pampering her pubic hair, my sweet and honoured lady. She brushes it till it shines. She divides it into two tails, ties it with ribbons, and coils it into her panties, and I’m sure that’s where she is wearing the scent, my sweet and honoured lady!”

    “Seraphima is at a difficult time of life”, Abbess Mercy speculated, with an intonation which, if a hearer had not known better, might have been taken as indicating a wish she (the abbess) were Seraphima.

    “It is good of you to call this to my attention. I share your concern that she may be sneaking out at times, and seeing boys.”

    The two betraying nuns, portrayed surprise on their pretty faces. They had, quite honestly, never even thought of the possibility that Seraphima was consorting with boys.

    “Yes”, Abbess Mercy whispered into the intercom, speaking to her secretary in the neighbouring office, whilst firmly waving the two betraying nuns out of the room.

    “Yes”, Abbess Mercy whispered, “Ah. Got you at last Sister Mercury. Sister Mercury: please put me in touch with the Inquisition. I need two of their detectives. I’m afraid that my trust in a certain young lady has been serially seriously betrayed.”

    The very same night on the day Seraphima had been told she could stay at the convent, as long as she never went out without escorts, she was in the Poolside Bar, playing snooker with Willy. Seraphima had shown great enterprise in escaping the convent. She had been seeing Willy for over a month by now.

    Willy, though boyfriend in thinking in his mind, had never laid she, even hand on she, and was as innocent of she as she. And she completely no more than chased for chaste kiss on peach soft face cheek by he and no other ever. Even mouth only kissed at corner accidentally proximately.

    Okay her eyelids kissed closed in moment of passion when he had ejaculated in his pants caressing her face. Then she had kissed his palm, and giggled golden, not cruel, but honoured that he had shot his oyster for her beauty incarnate carnal.

    And she had offered her mouth, but he would resist that kiss wanting to save that savour for his saviour. And she had been honoured that he would not touch her and he had leaned forward her head to kiss her forehead in gratitude for his spunk, and his still hard issue tissue, and then her smiling eye with fluttering lashes, even as she sighed to say she wanted him inside where she was yet to give a cock a ride.

    Back to here and now, Willy watched Seraphima’s hem rise over twin moonrise and tight white crescent star nestling bright in the shadow of deep black sigh thighs.

    He would reach and remind her hem of its modesty, save that his sap was rising and she had her shot to make, would his not come first, in thirst of thrust at and in such an erotic sight and site.

    And he saw too that the two ethnic-Chinese with the jade parade of unparalleled shine straight divine long down onto their laps, were ogling his Seraphima.

    But that was so filthy. Girl was for boy. God did not provide that another girl… But such dainty hands. Them white on silk smooth ebony thighs: Seraphima’s. Imagine. No must not! Disgusting! They, surely not in her panties, or pretty lips kissing her lovely negress’ mouth, or touching-up her perturbing protuberances till her nipples danced.

    Must not think that. Must stand between and hide her. Seraphima not, surely not, I mean not really showing herself, I mean her body, I mean her legs, I mean to two girls other, that would love to be her lover!?

    Girl next door played as childhood neighbours. Propose tonight. Dressed white. Aisle. Willy’s mother in smiles and tears. Seraphima in pure white, fully qualified. Again too at night. And at pink dawn the red in the bed to show it had been shed. Sacred in her panties now as she leans to poke the cue ball white, into the pink, with her sweet mite of might.

    And it is an extremely long reach for her. And she is up out her six-inch heel, left foot on tip top of big toe and right leg raised in a parable of prayerworthy parabolas, and her white gusset straining to hide the seat of her passion, which is showing a smile within the diaphanous. And her pink would glisten were it not for the grace of lace. And, oh god, the contrasting white of the under wonder of her delicate foot, as pure as her soul, as she shows the contrast of her sole raised foot’s sole.

    And then she is all legs and legs and legs and legs and legs and giggles as she celebrates her pocketed pink and slinks to the scoreboard to add the six, as she thinks she must miss the next red on purpose to show she is just a girl, and let her would be hero know that he can defeat her at any game he chooses. Wishing that she could lose that to love that had lingered lifelong within her. Longing the strand that stretched to guard her praetorian, could be forced to yield to that she had saved it for: her boy. Longing a turnkey to unlock her cell. Her goal to break gaol on the cock of a male.

    But Seraphima’s eyes told lies, as they smiled at Willy, only to gaze past him and see the two Chinese ravens, seemingly ravenous of ravishing and rapine, were gone as suddenly as they seemed to have arrived: were they spies?

    Were they spies in disguise? Seraphima had no right to be where she was. The convent had strict rules: no boys. Seraphima had sneaked out in clothes stolen for the night from the communal wardrobe. Clothes reserved for girls allowed out on trust for an interview or such, but not for girls out on a tryst.

    Seraphima had not seen the Chinese lovelies before. They could be inquisitive, or Inquisition nuns in mufti. Either option was disquietening. Seraphima was curious. She had been lured by their leers. She knew new naughtiness between her legs.

    Seraphima had to know. Her mind was in a panic! Was their look lust, or discovery of her breach of trust?

    To wrest from her duo of soul-brown eyes, where her admirers had gone, Seraphima made as if looking for the cue she in fact knew where she had rested. They were not at either bar, and the street door was ajar!

    Seraphima looked ill: so much so that poor Willy gently assumed she was on the verge of something uniquely female.

    “Excuse me will you Willy, but I must go to the ladies…” Seraphima whispered.

    An excuse made and Seraphima was now in the powder room, admiring her perfection in a mirror within the room of thrones, wondering if she was alone or had discovered her Chinese cousins’ coven.

    The clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death.

    But there was no sight nor sound save the mirror’s futile attempt to capture the beauty of a negress with a constant kiss formed by her delicate mouth, and her eyes lighthouses flashing ‘come-hither’, siren for shipwrecks in the channel ‘tween the mountainous mounds of her bosom, when seeking shelter on the gentle waters of her belly, for sailors deceived into seeking calm, to find but alarm in the maelstrom ardour in her passionate harbour.

    Surely illegally long, lovely dark-black legs transported the transparently torrid Seraphima back to her boy, and her hand, her gentle hand with its white palm in wholly holy contrast to the delightful dark upper, and the shine of her unvarnished untarnished long fingernails, her gentle hand pulsing with the vitality of this vivid vrouw, was held, as she swayed her graceful way, her every move signalling silently that she was significantly sex.

    “We need the money. You are going to make the money we need. You are going to pay public penance for your sins.”

    The clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death.

    Willy felt a pulsing in his pants as he held the dainty charm of Seraphima’s dark-brown hand. There seemed to be a new rapture to the way she swayed this day. This night there was a fight within her skirt as her buttocks rolled as they strolled to his car, and he opened the door for Seraphima to take the front passenger seat.

    Then Willy watched, captured, enraptured, as Seraphima’s long legs were fully revealed by her rising skirt riding up her smoothness. And Seraphima’s lovely eyes smiled up at him for the honour he had paid her for holding the door for her, till she could settle her holy shrine on the thus sainted seat. And her sighs as she watched him watching her skirt’s hem slide up the vastness of her strong dark black thighs, told of the bells that tolled in Seraphima’s torment, the terrible temptation threatening snail trail on the seat she made throne.

    As Willy sat beside Seraphima, her giggle when she dropped her removed panties in his lap flashed goldenly in her glorious eyes.

    Then her dainty hands grasped Willy’s strong arm, and her sweet head was on his shoulder. Her unspoken message was in the token she had removed from covering her coveted curls. The white triangle that she had dropped in his lap, told him she was accessible, and that, if he wished, as who would not, he could savour the aroma-Arabic of her drip drop droplet dipped panties.

    Seraphima’s mind whirled. She was girl. The two Chinese that had teased her with their emphatically wanting eyes on her handsome thighs and the bright white triangle between them besides, had reminded Seraphima’s mind, not for the first time, or in a revolutionary revelation to her sweet innocence, that she was as attractive to girls as to boys.

    But the true revelation for Seraphima, was in her reaction to the discomforting rediscovered attraction. Her mind told her that to be so honoured by equally beautiful girls such as the raven haired charmers she had entranced so, was the higher of the two loves.

    To be the love and lust of a boy’s would-be thrust, was a norm of expectation. But to be the allure of another girl was an honour higher. Another girl would know her desires and the source of her fires. Never yet kissed, Seraphima knew now she longed to be tasted on the butterfly wings of her prominent promise proud-pouted mouth, by another miss, who would not miss, but kiss her properly.

    Yet, if we go back in time to the toilets of the bar the lovely Chinese had left, Seraphima was now waiting. She wanted to waste time in case the Chinese dolls arrived from elsewhere, having not been where she had entered to try and find them.

    She would have gone off with the Chinese for sure, and handed them her panties as her calling card, when she was certain they wanted to make love to her.

    She had sensed that the sentinel scent central to her gusset would signal her surrender as well as rendering her open to sliding entry.

    Her curiosity had then taunted her. Feeling the yielding softness of her tiny shielding white lace thong, with no excuse for taking it off to show she was willing and ready, Seraphima had been overcome by shame and embarrassment that she would so speedily mentally surrender to total strangers.

    Not in so many words did it occur to her, but she determined to punish herself for being so turned-on by being objectified by her fellow girls. She would, this very night she would, confirm her heterosexual credentials.

  2. #2

    Seraphima - Part 1 - Chapter 2

    (by Eve Adorer)

    Part 1 - Chapter 2 - Drool

    And but minutes later, as Willy had walked front round to the driver’s seat, Seraphima had taken-off her scanties in a scurry hurry in the dark of the car. She would have Willy stamp her passport red. He must enter the harbour between the arbour of her bifurcated fur-forest, with his hard ardour.

    She was decided on being divided. To save her stretch for the marriage bed was silly. The delicate diaphanous diaphragm nestling in the humidity of her horny hole was not wholly holy: she would give it to Willy’s wilful wanton willy.

    Yet she knew it was sin to want it sundered. She had been told it would hurt and hurt all the more if it was split in sin, which, seemingly, was geographically located all-around church marriage island.

    In the convent where Seraphima had been raised, an orphan: to keep the girls intact, they had even been forbidden athletic sports.

    The nuns whipped girls found touching themselves. Those that gave full way to temptation, were ritually flogged, and thrown naked into the streets to henceforth earn their way as whores.

    Seraphima had always passed the monthly inspection. The phrase “a snap inspection” bandied about among the convent girls, had made Seraphima giggle divinely when a teen. But she too had had to submit to the attentions of the abbess.

    Seraphima lying on her back, tied with her legs wide splayed, the abbess had had a twinkle in her eye. Seraphima had turned her head in shame as she was examined once again. The cushion under her buttocks, the flashlight torch, the gentle enquiring finger’s linger, as Seraphima bit her lovely lower lip to stop her secretions from revealing her secret enjoyment of the moment of torment, had burned their brand in Seraphima’s very soul.

    Earlier by far than now, she had wanted to become a nun. Seraphima had wanted to become a nun in the Holy Order of St Clitoris: the order that ran the convent she called home.

    She had wanted to become a nun until the day she had accidentally seen Sister Matilda’s infibulated sex, and the crimson caps inserted into, to cover over her nipples. The realisation that a girl as sensationally sweet as Sister Matilda, had been sewn up so that she would remain intact forever, and her nipples too guarded against the temptations of the flesh, had told Seraphima that she was no nun, but had indeed compulsive needs.

    The secret kissing among her then fellow schoolgirls, Seraphima had taken no part in.

    In the drab greyness of the ankle-length gown all the convent schoolgirls wore, the growing magnificence of Seraphima’s significant bosom had signally double-filled its otherwise shapeless drape. Her tensioning of its upper front with her tantalising temptations, had also drawn its material materially tight over the rotundity of her rampant rear.

    And, when her nipples had hardened with the winter chill, to poke and provoke and scribe a thrill on the rough woollen material of the dress, which had rubbed her to even harder distress, so as to make her bless her coarse woollen school knickers with her unction, Seraphima had blushed, and lowered her head in modesty.

    The other girls had whistled wolf at her, and whispered temptation in her ear. They had tried to hold her pretty hand. But Seraphima had taken her teachers’ and their teaching preaching seriously.

    She had back then, wanted to become a nun, and had covered her ears at the sounds of surprised pleasure and longing, when the head-girl took one of her juniors into her bed.

    Way back then, Seraphima herself had always slept with her legs strapped together at the knees and ankles, and her hands held in the girlacles, sprinkled with holy water, that tied her to the bed’s head, till the nuns would release her and her fellow, as of then, would be novitiates, from their voluntary bonds, at dawn.

    The clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death.

    The drive was out of town. Seraphima clung ivy-vine divine to Willy’s comfortingly strong arm. He could see her mouth in the rear-view mirror. Seraphima knew he could see her mouth, and made no play to display, but just let its shear negress beauty have the say no mere words could convey.

    Composed and closed, Seraphima’s mouth made a maid’s kiss not to be missed. Her upper lip’s uplifted curved flatness cried out to be kissed in its own right. Her lower lip’s breadth took breath away.

    Unseen by Willy, Seraphima’s dark-brown eyes tried to look at her mouth in the mirror, to ensure it formed the informed flower of succulent pleasing teasing temptation, pleading passion with the wholly holy kiss it naturally formed in repose. She knew her lips were lovely: she had so often been told so by the other convent girls.

    They parked up, as they always did on a date, outside the enormous hothouses that formed part of the farm that financed the Convent of St Labia Majora and Minora: the convent in which Seraphima had been raised and schooled.

    Never had Willy known Seraphima so pliant and compliant; and yet so complaining with her moans, that he was not going far enough in his roaming of her randy raging body.

    For a whole endless two hours, his right hand caressed her naked right thigh from knee to half-moon, sliding down its incredible smoothness with a ruthlessness provoked by Seraphima’s incessant sighs.

    But Seraphima wore no panties and knew she was accessible and wanted no foreplay, but to be sacrificed on the spike of Willy’s swollen manhood.

    She wanted no fingers within her. She wanted to be splayed and rammed in her clam. She wanted her hymen sundered split and rodded to irrecoverable raw ruination. She wanted to be sacrificed, her cunt lubricated only by the blood of her torn maidenhead.

    Yet too, she wanted to stay whole and holy in her hole, and to give only unto him in the marital bed. Seraphima’s mind was as split as her hymen was whole. She was a girl in deed as well as thinking. She wanted but she wanted not. She was hot to trot, but not in hell to rot.

    Yet why would he not hold her breasts? Were they too big or not big enough for him? Why did he not taste a nipple? Her top was off in their loving scuffle. Her profoundly huge right breast rested softly on his chest, its up-hard nipple zigzagging ‘L.O.V.E. M.E.’ with the apex of its huge brown-pink cone on his shirt.

    Then the first ever kiss came, and Seraphima’s lovely eyes closed, knowing this was love and that Willy would never rape her. So she crossed her huge thighs to save him the embarrassment of having risen, but not to her challenge to take her and make her a woman.

    Seraphima’s mouth was for the kiss. Seraphima’s mouth was made for the kiss. Seraphima’s mouth was the kiss.

    Time stood still as Willy told her of his love with his mouth closed on her passionate petals, sipping the nectar of her femininity: the luckiest man alive: kissing very heaven: the mouth of a pure negress: the mouth that is the epitome of the kiss.

    For the whole two hours of the foreplay, the infrared cameras had copied it all, till the pretty blonde director whispering into a microphone, called: “Okay Now!”.

    And, with Willy’s mouth sucking her left nipple to heaven, Seraphima found the car door being suddenly forcibly swung open, and two lovely Chinese, in nun’s habits, grasping her slender arms and dragging her out in her shamefully fully fulsomely aroused state, as she screamed in her shock for: “Willy!!”

    The cameras focused in on Seraphima’s high-lifted top and her bountiful breasts bare with their nipples, hotly aroused, a dark brown-pink on her negress’ ebony black. The cones mountainous pointing sharp as needles, bobbing and throbbing with her very heavy arousal.

    Her mouth too, its gorgeous lips still moist with Willy’s inadequate kisses, was camera candy. And, could it have seen within her slit, it would have shamed her by filming the shine in her shrine, showing she was saturated with succulent nectar, for Willy to slide inside with his stiff staff were he man enough to take to heaven this distaff.

    As they ripped Seraphima’s crop top off over her head, and pulled over her instead, the familiar coarse iron-grey roughness of a convent schoolgirl’s dress, they threatened her with a wire whip, should she even think of trying to escape.

    As the rough woollen convent dress fell down her incredible curves, a hand reached up to pull Seraphima’s micro-skirt off.

    And so, was clear glimpsed minutely-momentarily by the infrared in the near dark, all curls in a kempt unkempt kept bikini-line bordered triangular conjuncture: over four-foot long but that it was curled, dangling in mesmeric helter-skelter whirls, the hanging garden of this babe’s Babylon. Scattering helical springs swinging, blown by the cooling breeze, flowing down between her wonderful thighs to the insides of her ankles, hiding within their seemingly impenetrable jungle, her moist love-lips: Seraphima’s pubic hair.

    Still hot and aflame with her natural desires, the fires of her love still shining in her gorgeous eyes, after the two hours over which her willing body had been caressed, Seraphima realised she had been taken prisoner by the abbess and was being returned to the convent from which she had escaped for that night, and those many stolen nights that had by now preceded it.

    Seraphima had been followed. That she had found herself a boyfriend was soon discovered. The location of their meetings and of their follow-up petting sessions in Willy’s car, if such could be called ‘petting’, since, before that fateful night, it had never gone beyond holding hands, was soon espied.

    The convenience of the darkness in the glade just outside the convent, for taking Seraphima in the heat of love, was ideal.

    The chance to make a film and thus money from Seraphima’s punishment, had been serendipitous.

    Her boy had been a pushover to get co-operation from. He had betrayed Seraphima in the instant he was offered a ‘front row seat’ to watch her being punished.

    Bare foot under now, Seraphima’s borrowed high-heels having been removed, Seraphima’s lovely body filled the frumpy ankle-length coarse woollen dress with the burgeoning sexuality, in reality, it was designed to hide inside. With twin bulges to the fore, and to the rear, making four, two supremely smooth more, Seraphima’s body was all to adore.

    Into the blazing lights of the main hall of the convent, the raven-haired Chinese dolls dragged Seraphima by her wrists, tied rope in front of her.

    These were the same girls who had so blatantly ogled Seraphima in the Poolside Bar, where she had played snooker, flaying the balls. Those same girls now made her walk, her bare feet chilled by the cold of the marble floor.

    Tethering her slender wrists with the ends of the rope by which they were already tied helpless, the Chinese devil’s angels, the nuns from the Inquisition, now stretched Seraphima up to an oaken beam, till she was standing in pain with her arms high aloft on the top tips of her big toes.

    Seraphima was in agony. She could not relieve her arms. Her toes had little to no purchase on the floor, and she would dangle by her arms alone if she lifted but one lovely leg.

    Let us but dream of the shape that her gorgeous legs must have taken on in this cruel stance.

    We are denied a glance by her long dress covering her distress. But can picture her calves’ curves, the length and strength of her thighs tickled by the magical curls of her pubic hair, and the concavity of her tensioned buttocks, for a dream to be met in the sleeping waking wake of wet.

    Seraphima looked around at the gathered nuns, novices, and schoolgirls, and into the lovely face of Abbess Mercy, the auburn haired wonder whose paleness and whiteness paid due duty in contrast the jade black beauty of Seraphima.

    Seraphima’s eyes asked the question “Why the lights and the filming?”

    “We need the money. You are going to make the money we need. You are going to pay public penance for your sins. You were selected and elected by the unanimous vote of the convent. Your boyfriend agreed, as long as he could watch. Your astonishing loveliness is also your Judas Seraphima. You are going to be broken on camera for our pleasure, and that of the public who will pay a fortune for the DVD download. You’re going to be punished for ignoring my express condition for your staying in the convent: that you never leave the convent without two nuns as chaperones.”

    “Give her six while she is still hot and horny from her boyfriend’s clumsy strokings!”

    Sister Faith and Sister Love, the Chinese with the raven hair trailing in train on the ground behind them, knew how to swing and bring a six-foot long single-strand wire whip to best bearing on a girl’s body.

    Seraphima was clothed; but that would be no protection. The dress Seraphima wore, the coarse wool dress of a St Clitoris Convent schoolgirl, had her still hot. The rubbing of the rough wool on her sensitive nipples, had kept Seraphima’s sexual fires burning still bright.

    “Oh god no! Please! I beg you please!! Don’t!!! Oh god, don’t whip me!!” Seraphima pleaded with passion in her naturally horny-honey contralto voice.

    “Your body is still fresh with arousal from your boyfriend’s stroking your bare thigh, kissing your mouth, and sucking on your tit. You responded with passionate abandonment for over two hours. You have let your body be felt and stroked and stoked to the highest fire of desire. You are still freshly physically and mentally aroused. And you dare to beg not to be whipped?!” Abbess Mercy quietly sneared.

    The Chinese angels were left and right handed, and wielded their whips in the whistling trips they took to slice the air like lightening shafts, following a path that was as inexorable as Seraphima’s bonds were inflexible, from coil on the ground gathered and weighed in the practiced pretty hand, to get the handling right, to a murderous whistling flow toward, and wrap around the poor victim, whose lovely body would stop its flight through the impact of its horrendous strike when it embraced her lovely body in its razor sharp bite, leaving its calling card: through her violently cut dress, a livid living breathing bleeding stripe.

    The whips curled round at chest height, and Seraphima twice howled with the excruciating pain, as “THWICK” was followed by “THWICK” and her dress was twice sliced and her soft breasts’ flesh thrashed onto her unyielding chest. And her breast flesh seared as her tits danced with the vicious tentacle of the savage wire strand cutting her smooth sensitive skin for the sin of her wanting a boy within.

    Seraphima’s screams, echoing off the convent hall walls, would have melted the heart, but were but the start, as the whips whistled again, spaced to have impact seconds apart on each of her deeply cleaved bosoms: “THWICK” and “THWICK” in an explosion of pain, left and right, and her screaming again, a soul without solace, as two more cuts were sliced in her breasts and she could feel her blood trickle from the brutal wounds. The sting and the after-sting of the savage lashes drying the tears in her delicious eyes with the surprise of its beyond painful savagery, in so swift follow-up to the first two that had made her sob so.

    The heat from the hand that had caressed her thigh, the kiss on her mouth, and the suckling of her huge nipple, in love play, had never left Seraphima’s body, even as the six foot long pliable wire whipped up and round once more, to thrash her profound protuberances, potent pert and impertinent in their heavy thrust, to slice through the wool of her maiden’s dress yet again, and cut her nipples open for her distress.

    “THWICK” and “THWICK”. And her screams were nightmare dreams as she danced in her bonds with her fabulous eyes conveying her astonishment that her admonishment and the administration of her punishment, had found her body in betrayal of her mind, as her split nipples danced anew and her slit flowed too with a new joy that she was no boy and that her sexual parts could impart a different and deeper arousal.

    Seraphima controlled her face. Her tears welled anew. They were now from the pulsing of evidence in her cut nipples, that she had been turned on by her tits being sliced, and from her continuing pain as her cuts bled and the blood soaked into the material around the long holes the whips had torn in her demeaningly demurely chaste dress.

    When the whips had sliced them open, Seraphima’s poor nipples had still been inspired and aflame with her love for Willy.

    Realisation why Willy had come-on so passionately in their kissing and cuddling in his car, now tolled on Seraphima. Yet, though she now knew Willy had betrayed her, and why: she had forgiven him.

    The cameras lingered on her cuts, and on the blood flowing from her split nipples, and the shame on her face, from the disgrace of being punished for being ravished by a boy, in an innocent and entirely natural kiss and cuddle in the dark of a park.

    Then slowly, from the shadows Willy appeared.

    Forgetting his treachery, Seraphima’s lovely deeply sexual contralto, called: “Oh god Willy. Help me! Oh please help me! Make them let me go! Help me!! Oh please help me Willy!!”

    Behind Seraphima’s back, Abbess Mercy nodded, and Willy came close to the glorious Seraphima, who even managed a tearful smile for him, followed by a flood of tears and soulful sobs.

    Through her tears, Seraphima was vaguely aware that Willy had some kind of ointment in the palm of his right hand, and she once more tried to smile among her tears and her dreadful pain. He had come to sooth her agony. He was sorry for betraying her. He wanted her forgiveness. He had brought ointment to sooth her pulsating pain.

    Looking tearfully at her hero saviour, as she now saw her Willy, Seraphima did not flinch as he brought the balm in his palm up to the left one of her two split nipples.

    But how she bucked and hollered with agony, twisting in her bonds, after he had smeared the white-yellow ointment into the savage split in that nipple. Too she fought not to have him caress the residue of that liquid into the deep split in her right nipple; but she could only swing in her bonds and torture her wrists if she twisted away so.

    As Willy rubbed the supposed balm into Seraphima’s majestically proud nipples, her moans of pain from the sting, echoed through the hall. The ointment she had longed for to ease her pain, was in fact the proceeds of Willy’s love for the beautiful Seraphima.

    The balm to calm Seraphima’s suffering, was in fact Willy’s semen. Whilst watching Seraphima taking the whipping, he had masturbated his excited cock till he ejaculated. At Abbess Mercy’s express instruction, Willy had then rubbed his fresh semen into Seraphima’s split-open nipples.

    Still crying and sobbing in pain enhanced by the stinging semen, Seraphima was now untied, and led, blindfolded, into one of the huge greenhouses in which the nunnery grew its exotic fruits for the international market.

    There, still in her dress, still bleeding from her slit-open nipples, she was sat on the floor.

    In the imagery of the filmmakers, all these events were taking place in an African convent in historic times of the missionaries, and Seraphima now in the jungle, in a supposed clearing, outside the convent walls.

    The ‘clearing’ heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death. The jabbering of monkeys and the call of exotic birds. All manner of sounds inappropriate to England filled the air, as the blindfolded Seraphima felt her big toes being tied, individually, either together or to either side of her, to something else at her sides. Which of these, she could not decide in the dark of her covered lovely lanterns.

    Glad of the secrecy her blindfold seemed to grant her, Seraphima’s mind whirled girl as she tried to fathom the gain she had from the pain and humiliation she had just endured.

    Why was her body so aroused? She had lost the boy to whom she hoped to have become espoused, but her punishment in consequence of allowing him to caress her, had exposed a new source, a frightening cause for her body’s applause.

    The pain of Seraphima’s stripes stung like hades. Her nipples, cut open as they were, throbbed with astonishing agony, and yet danced the joy of being sexual toys tortured to turn-on masturbating boys, who would long to spunk in her body, and would see the whips as their penises, delivering the love they could only spatter on their bedroom floors, for a girl on DVD they could only enjoy but never enter, as much as they adored her.

    Seraphima’s slim pretty wrists were now being tied behind her, where she sat on the hard soil of the hothouse floor, her legs, drawn up to her whip striped breasts, giving erotic shape to the grey woollen sack dress she wore, with the torn tatters that marked the tracks of her six thwacks from the savage whips, still soaking her seeping blood.

    The cameras and lights were being prepared. Unseen in the background, the traitorous Willy stared, stirred by seeing the horny honey he had so recently stroked and stoked to fire, striped with the wire lashes’ fury. Some of his copious semen was still damp in his pants from where he had cum from a glance of Seraphima’s nipples being spitefully sliced by the kiss of the unerringly accurate whips, in a twice trice. But such was his enjoyment of seeing her suffer, his cock had still stayed stiff, and he had easily managed to masturbate into his palm, to provide the stinging balm rubbed to singing harm into poor Seraphima’s nipples.

    Now he watched his helpless love make heaven the floor on which her flawless body sat. Her eyes blindfolded so she could not see, and therefore could not know what they were going to do to her next, and her hands tied hopelessly at her back.

    At the removing of the blindfold, the cameras moved in on the magical dark-brown heaven of Seraphima’s emotion-stirring eyes.

    Abbess Mercy started a Latin-language chant suggestive of coming sacrifice, and a coterie of nuns, schoolgirls, and novitiates, joined in her choruses, and answered her “Amens” with an “Amen” of their own.

    “Quousque tandem abutere, Seraphima, patientia nostra?…..
    Res ipsa loquitor……
    Probatum est……
    Quis separabit?………
    Medio tutissimus ibis……”

    The dirge continued in plainsong monotone, as the clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death recorded and played back, for the noises to give authenticity to the story Seraphima was the star in, despite any of her wishes having even been sought.

    Seraphima’s eyes went wide when she saw how she was tied, and knew what they were going to do to her.

    Sister Faith and Sister Love stood with shining sharp axes, with their shoulders as the axis of the flow of their arms when the signal came, to Seraphima’s alarms.

    Seraphima looked in terror at the tightness with which her big toes were wound round with strong silk rope and tied to the trees either side of her.

    The trees, strong saplings, some ten feet apart, had been stripped of their branches and leaves, and advantage taken of their youthful willingness to bend without breaking.

    They had been tied over at their tops and pulled in semi-circles inwards toward where Seraphima sat. Then the tops of these saplings had been tethered down with strong ropes. Each tied down bent over tree, was a stripling compared with the trunk of the chopped-down tree in the middle of them. The trunk the tight ropes to keep the saplings bent were tied to, was a very substantial anchor indeed.

    The saplings bowed down in worship before Seraphima, as indeed they should.

    Seraphima’s blindfold had been removed, and eyes now followed the flow of the bonds wound tight round her big toes, and saw that the silk ropes that bound her inescapably, led, one rope each, to the tops of the bent-over supple saplings.

    Sat immovably petrified with terror, shaking uncontrollably with horror, Seraphima’s lovely mouth, mouthed silently a prayer, she was too stunned to voice out.

    Her eyes closed, and her head then hung in terrible shame, for just as Willy’s appetite for seeing her suffer was whetted again, a significantly sibilant hiss could be heard. Seraphima’s dreamily delightful delectably delicious piss now trickled, unforgivably wasted, in an effervescently bubbling stream, as she wept in the skirt of her dress on the ground, the tangy tears of terror: the celebratory champagne of absolute fear.

    “Quousque tandem abutere, Seraphima, patientia nostra?…..
    Res ipsa loquitor……
    Probatum est……
    Quis separabit?………
    Medio tutissimus ibis……”

    Abbess Mercy was the first to spit into the yard-long grail, a gold goblet filled with holy water, that she now passed to the audience of nuns and students, to spit into with equally lusty abundance.

    Between the sound of the spitting the chanting continued, till Abbess Mercy had the holy grail back in her beautiful white hands, with their long tenderly gentle, and highly flexible fingers, caressing it, as if it were an erect penis.

    “Quousque tandem abutere, Seraphima, patientia nostra?…..
    Res ipsa loquitor……
    Probatum est……
    Quis separabit?………
    Medio tutissimus ibis……

    It was done with a nod of the head. Unseen behind Seraphima, Abbess Mercy nodded to Sister Faith and Sister Love, who took their axes back to their shoulder blades with practiced unity, and crashed them down with complete uniformity, to cut the ropes that held the saplings bent in bow.

    And Seraphima’s hideously pitiful cry of “Mummyeeeeee!!!” screamed in the unscreened ears of the congregation, and shattered the sensitivity of the recording of her torture, as Seraphima was swished and ripped up off the ground by her big toes in a blinding flash, with sensational savagery.

    As the saplings straightened, the poor girl was pulled from her derriere like a rocket into the air.

    Seraphima’s beautiful legs were suddenly completely exposed, by her dress being savagely sundered at the skirt from Seraphima being pulled into an upside-down full-stretch horizontal splits.

    Seraphima’s powerful legs’ majestic strength, proved no match for the pull of the ropes tied to the tops of the saplings that had ripped her into a horizontal splits impossible in nature, with a loud crack that told of her muscles sinews and joints being stretched horrendously painfully.

    The straightening saplings, pulling Seraphima’s legs asunder, whistled the air with the whip of their trip back to the upright, with the sound of a thousand punishment canes. In milliseconds they flicked back to upright and beyond, with the force of their release from tied-over tension, taking Seraphima’s body to hell as she yelled in terrified torment that her legs would surely be ripped off by the force with which they would be parted.

    Just as the saplings had gone beyond the upright in their return to their natural state. So too did Seraphima’s body journey, as if launched at the heaven from whence she came, fly beyond the horizontal the ropes on her big toes would eventually hold in her in. And the terrible crack as she reached her zenith, was from her straight legs being torn up, till her toes touched her shoulders momentarily, before the restraining toe-tied ropes stopped her upward motion, and the settling upright of the saplings left her now, swinging arrayed, her wonderful legs completely horizontally splayed.

    Seraphima’s incredibly beautiful legs were stretched out with such excess of tension, that her lovely muscles were torsioned, totally tighter than steel hawsers.

    Her upside down body formed a ‘T’ in which her gorgeous legs were the cross-member. Her feet were pulled so hard out that they were a mere continuance of her long legs, and her long legs thus forced into a cornucopia of careering curves that even the highest of high heels could not possibly have formed them into.

    Her calves were lusciously long, and the calf muscle high and highly tensioned up to toward the back of her knees. And, even though her thighs were fantastically strong, they could not withstand the pull of the parting saplings that had shot her into the air like an arrow from a bow, so that as her beautiful legs were now so stretched into an unmerciful horizontal splits, it was as if she had become ex the arrow and now the totally tortured tensioned bowstring itself.

    Seraphima’s gorgeous legs were so wide-stretched by her tortured big toes, that her slit was wide opened. And her hymen suddenly savagely snapped. And from between Seraphima’s impossibly beautiful legs, with her ankle length pubic hair coils dangling down at back and front of her, a holy wonder occurred.

    This unparalleled wonder, Seraphima, was paralleled by the incomparable but compatible: a font of livid scarlet blood, shot up between her supremely beautiful extremely parted legs: the spout of a holy fountain, telling of the loss of her hitherto wholly holy intact virginity, on the cross that her body now in itself formed.

    Then, in a second instant incident, uncoiling and electing to lightening erection, rising stiffly a full fifteen inches out from the top of her slit, and curving like a whip, was her powerfully painfully pretty rose pink proboscis.

    Seraphima’s salivating clitoris was thrust hard out of its hiding hood, and, indeed out of her slit altogether. It was now shining in its pulsating dance, thrusting out from within Seraphima’s never trimmed dark-brown pubic curls.

    This incredible child of the butterflies, had a secret she shared with their delicate wonder. She had a proboscis-clitoris. She had a clitoris that was normally curled and tucked away in its hidey hood, until it uncurled when she was sexually aroused.

    At first it unrolled and extended to such length and curvature as to cause it to dip into her vagina to sip the sweet nectar from her honeypot. Then, if she got fully excited, it would flick right back on itself, and become a very sensitive and sensationally feminine erect ‘penis’, curving up and out of her, hard and high, in bright pink contrast to Seraphima’s polished ebony skin.

    Seraphima had a proboscis-clitoris, four inches long and one-quarter inch thick in its flaccid state, and now swollen to fifteen inches by her sexual excitement.

    Her incredible super-sensitive coiled clitoris had dipped deep down into her honey pot, to sip her secreting sucrose. There it lingered long and luxuriated in the sweet honey. For those long lingering moments, Seraphima was proto-hermaphrodite, and she cried out and sighed with astonished pleasure as her own clitoris pulsed and twitched inside her vagina, having gentle sexual intercourse with her. This goddess created creature was able to have coitus with herself. She was able to shag herself with her clitoris.

    Seraphima moaned and closed her eyes with the unsurpassable pleasure of being gently loved by her own clitoris: the sweet pulsing of her clitoris’ thrusts, high up inside her vagina, made her want to sing with joy.

    The sweet sensitivity of its throbbing was such balm for the horrendous agony of having her legs torn out into a straight line splits. Yet was it because her muscles were torn that the pleasure of her self-intercourse was so very high?

    In all of her eighteen tender years, Seraphima had never masturbated. The one girl who should ever have been allowed to make love to her, had never touched herself to enjoy the fruits of her incredible body.

    Even in the secrecy of her own bed, Seraphima had never ever once caressed her breasts let alone pinched her own nipples. The terror of being stripped stark naked and given five-hundred lashes with a bullwhip, under the strict rules of the convent, was not needed to ensure Seraphima would not touch her slit.

    Seraphima had always been a good girl. She knew that her holy divide was a gift from the goddess: a gift that Seraphima must only give for others to enjoy. The nuns teaching her, had convinced her that she, Seraphima herself, had no right to expect pleasure from sex: that it was more holy to sacrifice her body without enjoyment, let alone fulfilment: and that, as well as the five-hundred earthly lashes for masturbating; eternal fire would burn between her legs in hell if ever she even touched her pussy in a naughty way.

    As Seraphima’s incredibly lovely legs, in a horizontal splits, twitched in her agony, and her ankle tickling pubic hairs, in their fabulous long helical curls, nestled on her bottom, or dangled from her crutch down between her cleavage, Seraphima’s hymen’s blood having fountained out, was left in sufficient residue for her proboscis-clitoris to drink from the fountain’s source, as it was in the process of penetrating her more deeply with its gentle sensitivity, than it had ever been able to do before.

    Seraphima’s wonderful moans and sighs of the deepest pleasure from the horrible pain of her torn legs, and the dreadful agony of the splitting of her hymen, had turned to uninhibited squeaks, and the heaviest of sighs, from the instant her clitoris had flicked, unfurled, and back flipped into her vagina to shag her.

    But the pleasure of being fucked by her own clitoris could not last. As her sexual pleasure from her own body shagging itself grew, so it was inevitable, that her clitoris would become even more excited and even more erect. And her clit becoming more erect meant it bending back on itself.

    “The tearful cry of “No!!…. No!!….” as Seraphima’s clitoris bend back on itself and thus pulled itself out of her eager nectar pot, told the tale that was true. That truth was that, not only had Seraphima never ever masturbated, but she had also, never in her eighteen sweet years, had an orgasm. This walking talking orgasm on long legs, had never had a cum.

    As Seraphima’s honey and ex-virgin’s blood dripped from the tip of her clitoris after it had dipped into, sipped from, and flipped out of her vagina, to now curve up banana-bent and thrusting like a whippy penis. Her cries of disappointment that her self-shagging had ceased, were those she had echoed throughout her tender years.

    Whenever Seraphima had had a wet dream, it had caused her proboscis-clitoris to fuck her: it had provoked her body to shag itself. And always this would take her to the very edge of the edge of orgasmic delivery, till the excitement caused her clitoris to swell further, and flick out of her honey pot, leaving her completely frustrated.

    This, was a situation it was literally in her own pretty hands to redress, save that Seraphima, as a good girl should, would clasp her hands behind her back and pray, until her searing fires of passion faded to embers, aided in their damping by her tears of frustration.

    Never before had such a delightful mouth uttered such obscenities as Seraphima now shouted in her pain and sexual frustration.

    It started in the instant that her hymen had snapped, and its loose ends had whipped the insides of her vestal virgin’s vagina walls, with a stunning sting that had rung a ring through her brain, of more pain than even her whip split nipples or the pulling of her legs and feet to form the straight line from which her body now dangled, and thus erected her clitoris in the shock of the pleasure. Seraphima’s mind was denying she was enjoying enduring this, just as her slit was slavering in confirmation of the apposite opposite.

    With her tangle of pubic curls dandling down to match the darkness of her coiffure ringlets in the impossibility of swirling twirl whirl curls, Seraphima was in agony and ecstasy. The splitting of her nipples with the whips and the pulling out beyond nature wide of her fabulous legs, even if combined, was as nothing in their pain to the sundering of her sacred sheath. And yet, even as her ex-virgin’s blood dripped down profoundly to the thus made holy ground, the sound of her cries above the continuing monotone plainsong dirge, were decidedly one-sidedly supremely sexual.

    The ripping of her maidenhead had aroused Seraphima to a supervening sexual arousal evidenced by her rock-hard nipples and the slaverings bubbling in her slit, as well as by her clitoris dancing the orgasm tango. She was lost to the world as she hung helplessly in her upside-down splits, enduring the agony of her stretched legs and torn muscles, but knowing her legs’ beauty was only enhanced by the terrible stance in which her tortured body danced.

    And Seraphima screamed words that nobody could believe she had ever heard let alone learned. And the pain of her predicament grew as too did her arousal and her maniacal shouts of: “Whip me!! Oh fuck whip me!! Oh shit!! Oh god!! Oh you fucking fucking fuck fuckers, whip me!! Whip my legs!! Oh fucking god, whip my fucking legs!!! Oh whip my legs!! That’s it, fucking whip my legs!! Whip my legs!! Oh god whip me till I bleed!! Whip my legs off!! That’s it. That’s it. That’s it!! Whip my fucking legs off!!!! Flog my fucking legs!! Oh god fucking fuck whip me!!!! Oh god fucking fuck whip my fucking fuck fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking legs!!!!!!””

    As her mounting orgasm rolled toward its crescendo of crises short of a queendom’s cum, Seraphima swung her head in violent half-turns that played her curly hair springs into horizontal streamers almost as extreme in extent as the stretching of her parted legs.

    Thus, out-shot droplets of her sweet sweat, ringing around her head in a rainbow reflecting halo, as she fed on her pain for the gain of the orgasm for which it now seemed her whole eighteen tender years had been lived in lead-up to, while she continued to continually swear, obscenely demanding they finish her with whips on her beautiful legs.

    The torn tatters of Seraphima’s dress had ridden up her, which is to say, in her upside down state, slid down her supreme smoothness, only stopped from covering her face, by the huge obstructions formed by her magnificent down dangling breasts.

    But, in her struggles to increase her pain, Seraphima’s dress finally fell off her fabulous bosom, and her heavy tits, hauled down toward the ground by god blessed gravity, displayed the flawless unmarked complexion of their deep black undersides, unkissed by the lashes Seraphima now longed for.

    Now Abbess Mercy knew the sound of rising crisis, and caught the note of Seraphima’s cries.

    When the note broke that told the Abbess that Seraphima’s cum was inevitable fate, such was the erotic girl’s orgasmic state, and in the moment of Seraphima’s arriving crisis, Abbess Mercy tossed the long holy grail, held firmly in her hands, so that a golden stream of her blessed piss, and the spittle that had joined it, rose up like a gentle whip’s lash, and curved in a parabola, to splash into Seraphima’s wide-open cunt, where, as Abbess Mercy intoned a gracious unction, it stung the tatters of Seraphima’s torn hymen, and killed the poor girls ardour in a chilling, acidically-burning, instant.

    And finally there was no finality and no finish to furnish Seraphima with the cum she deserved, the cum for which lifelong she had kept her hymen preserved.

    The holy water had cooled Seraphima’s cum from coming, and now dripped its residue to the ground, where it joined Seraphima’s blood, Seraphima’s sweat, Seraphima’s cunt-juice, and Seraphima’s tears of persisting preponderant prolonged profound sexual frustration …..

  3. #3
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    Jul 2005
    Thanks Eve this was one of my favorite stories that you wrote

    and it gets better every time I read it :jo

  4. #4
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    Jul 2005
    Thanks love;good;

  5. #5
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    Jul 2006
    Thanx for sharing this with us

  6. #6
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    Jul 2006
    A great addition to this peice

  7. #7
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    Oct 2005
    Thanks for the great new stuff
    What lies behind us, What lies before us, Are tiny matters, Compared to what lies within us!

  8. #8
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    Oct 2005
    wow....great stuff...thanks
    What lies behind us, What lies before us, Are tiny matters, Compared to what lies within us!

  9. #9

    Seraphima - Part 1 - Chapter 3

    (by Eve Adorer)

    Part 1 - Chapter 3 – Jewel


    In the dark of the movie-house Seraphima’s appreciative eye was on the thighs: thighs nigh naked with high hem’s truthful lie.

    A hint of lime-green thong sung its longing song, a hymn on this undoubted her. A hymn of praise, a cause for gaze between the two expanses of expensively black nylon bestockinged taut fit supremely smooth unblemished thigh.

    The girl had caught her eye. She was crowned auburn, with a tumultuous tumbling torrent of coruscated copper curls cascading to slender shoulders and beyond to where they must have coiled golden gorgon at her feet. The eyes were iceberg green and shone like lasers with her zest, zip, and zoë.

    The face was pale: a ghost but that she blushed so divinely deeply when she spotted Seraphima’s compelled gaze of admiration.

    The stocking tops were half-down the strong thighs and challenging the grip of the suspender clasps, whose stretch ceased just short of slap back snap, as this angel sat with her boyfriend or husband, with her right hand held by both his hands in his lap.

    The visible bare flesh of the upper thighs was near translucent, and would be showing, were it not for the dark, the delicate blue filigree of the intricate engineering that makes girl more supreme than mere machine.

    Was it accident that the angel flashed her pretty left hand to show the rings – engagement, wedding, eternity: eternally infernally enfolding the finger next her smallest left on left hand, branding their diamond gold and silver tripartite circles in Seraphima’s gentle heart?

    Eyes had met. Laser green had smiled momentary momentous heaven into dark-brown. But then this angel had looked down at her held hand with its lovingly manicured impractically long femininely feline nails, clasped so lovingly by, her husband for sure, for sure a male.

    To significantly signify her unavailability and to unforgettable but forgivably taunt and tease, the angel tortured Seraphima by letting her hem ride higher, as she snuggled closer to her husband and stared fixedly at the screen she was obviously not really interested in watching.

    But Seraphima sensed the peripheral vision. She sensed the angel was as attracted to being sexily seductive of another beautiful woman, as she was overwhelmingly attractive without need of wantonly weaving her magical mesmerism.

    The documentary on-screen rolled on. The voice-over implored the high interest its viewers should be taking in the chicken farmers of the Amazon, ruining the rainforest for planting Soya: or some such confusion of calamities. Unravelled and untrammelled, its truth was fundamental, but Seraphima’s mind was on a factor far more elemental.

    Dare she touch?

    Seraphima’s heart pounded, her mouth was dry. Her pink tongue showed its gorgeous contrast with her constant-kiss-poised negress’ mouth, as she moistened her lips, with her heart on her sleeve in metaphor and in her throat for sure, for more courage this girl to adore.

    It could be an accident: the girl’s left hand was only millimetres from her own long flexible fingers: the dark of the cinema would disguise…..

    No! It was crazy!! One just did not behave like that in decent society!

    Yet the soft, transparent, blue-veined, warm phantom-white hand, with its imprisoning rings for entanglement, espousal, and epiphany, was so adjacent.

    The lover’s kissed. Man kissed wife. And Seraphima tentatively touched, and then gently grasped the angel’s lovely hand. And it did not move! It was not removed! Seraphima was not reproved!!

    Seraphima just could not believe what she, Seraphima herself, had just done. She was holding the hand of the erotic exotic autumnal auburn angel. She could feel the rings three, and the affirmative answering squeeze as she gently pressed her fingers around her erogenous prize.

    Letting out a shocked and surprised gasp, Seraphima let go her treasure as the girl turned to her, post her husband’s kiss, to be sure Seraphima was alright. And the look of sweet gentle love that the auburn angel conveyed with her crystal green eyes in all her natural nature, bowled Seraphima heels-over-head clean over in love.

    The angel’s thighs were now completely bare of a skirt so rare that to call it even a micro would be to maximise exaggeration of its size.

    In answer to the angel’s look of concern, there was, to the onlooker, the undoubted sight of the gorgeous negress looking down at the exposed white smooth taut bare flesh above the angel’s stocking tops.

    “Are you okay?” the sweet angel whispered, with a face adorned with fecklessly dancing freckles, and glowing with love.

    As she lifted the chair-arm that divided the seats adorned by Seraphima and herself, her handsome husband looked on, apparently sharing the concern that Seraphima seemed to have been choking.

    Seraphima treasured the sweet zephyrs of the angel’s breath as she squeezed back a reassuring smile, and noticed the angel leaving her hand free to be held once more, even as she, the angel, turned to pay suspiciously close attention to her husband’s kisses, touching his face with her right hand, to keep his attention upon her.

    As sure as Seraphima could be that the husband’s attention was distracted, Seraphima touched the angel’s bare thigh flesh. There was no flinch. The angel put her free hand on Seraphima’s; far from to discourage.

    As Seraphima stroked the smooth hot flesh of the angel’s upper thigh, encumbered by the suspender clasp from the full caress she longed to employ and enjoy, she too pretended to watch the documentary on the screen.

    The flickering picture now showed a farmer scattering Soya to feed her hens.

    Seraphima’s caress burnished the angel’s burning bare flesh under its stretched suspender, and the film showing a farmer scattering Soya to feed her hens, was accompanied by an interjection from the sporadic commentary.

    Returning again with its bucolic English voiceover, as Seraphima caressed the smooth thigh, it affirmed, presumably in reference to the Soya and one of the greedy gobbling hens shown eating it:

    “See there now: you don’t have to ask if she likes it! ….”

    Suddenly, the angel touched Seraphima’s loving hand with obvious gentle urgency. Seraphima reluctantly withdrew. Without turning a curl, let alone her face toward Seraphima, the copper coiffured angel, clear from her wifely clinch, began to scratch about in her handbag, on her lap, soon finding her sought for handkerchief despite the gloom of the cinema room.

    The boring movie continued. Moments later, Seraphima next now felt the touch of the angel’s fingers on her hand, and something within them that was too rigid to be the lace edge of a tiny kerchief.

    The angel put her fluttering fingers under Seraphima’s and left something on Seraphima’s seat. Seraphima saw its glow, and grasped it in know. Was it carte blanche?

    As she surreptitiously placed the prize behind the elastic of her own right suspender, Seraphima’s heart pounded and her breath heaved her heavy breasts to high heaven, Seraphima was so deeply moved.

    Seraphima had never got used to the noise, the dirt, and the heat.

    “Size of the tits on yer lass, you’d be a good milker foras to give the other girls their snap – their feed, yer know. We can bring it on fer yer. It ‘urts like ‘ell, I’ll tell thee mind, but we pays the tit-girls double what you’ll get”, the northern-English lassie was sweet and gentle beneath the gruff bluff and rough language.

    Seraphima hung her head, embarrassed.

    “Okay luv. I’ll tek that as a ‘no’. We’ll fit yer in wi’ ****t else, but yer mon gonna hafter get that hair cut afore yer much older, more’s the fuckin’ pity, cos it’s damned gorgeous too… Wish mine ‘ud curl like that…. But, if it did, us ‘ud never get our ‘elmets on would us?”, she tried to joke and lighten Seraphima’s obvious nervousness.

    “Strip thy sen off then lassie, and lets give you the old medico once-over eh? Don’t be shy luv. We’re all of us lasses together ‘ere”, the gentle rough diamond coaxed the shy Seraphima.

    Seraphima stripped out of her microskirt, six-inch-heeled mules, tee-shirt, and will o’ the wisp-sized thong.

    As Seraphima’s undressing progressed, the girl interviewing her, had her back turned, and now did a one-eighty before exclaiming astounded and astonished: “Oh my god! Oh my fuckin’ god! That is so…. so fuckin’ beautiful! Oh jease, it’s down to your fuckin’ feet! Oh my god! That’s just incredible. You’re a honey, and what a fuckin’ wonder you got hidden in yer knickers!”

    “Look!” the girl looked around, as if to ensure there was nobody else in the room, even though she already knew that there wasn’t.

    “Look! Health and safety rules ses you mon gotta get them pubes shaved off, but I ain’t gonna say nothin’ long as you keep them hid in your knicks. Okay sweetheart?”

    As she out-graced gazelle to pick up her uniform, Seraphima’s impossibly curled devil-dark-brown pubic hair, swinging seductively slowly between her lovely legs, brushed the thus blessed floor between her flawless feet.

    “Thank you”, she sang sincere contralto, over her slender right shoulder to the young northern woman.

    “Yer won’t thank me none when yer down there lass”, the northern girl mused, sympathetically.

    “Yer sound posh, like you was a convent girl or summat”, she speculated.

    “What’d yer do: get discovered ‘avin it off wi’ a lad?”

    “Na. Don’t tell us. But listen on lassie. Some of the ‘arder chicks down there don’t hold back none. When they feels like ‘avin a feel, they’ll ‘old yer down and tek what they want, wiv no questions asked….. if you get my meanin’. A girl as gorgeous as you is and with that fantastic tail dangling from yer mons….. Well, you’d just best watch out they don’t jump you, that’s all”, the interviewer warned.

    Seraphima now stood dressed ready. She wore only a pair of schoolgirl style knickers, and a strong sports-bra to keep her heavy breasts in check. She had put her own mules back on her feet. On her head was a white reinforced plastic helmet, with a forward-facing battery-powered flashlight lamp mounted on it front centre.

    The totally impractical pristine white of Seraphima’s bra and knickers glowed in sparkling contrast to the incontestable beauty of Seraphima’s shining Nubian black.

    The bra was filled almost beyond its straining capacity by her capacious bosom, and fought not to let her breasts escape and escapade renegade on her chest.

    Her knickers were pulchritudinously pouched out where she concealed the coils of her pubic hair, as well as by the provocatively profound locus found, that her pubic hair grew around.

    “Yer goes ‘ome dirty, but yer comes to work clean. That’s company policy mind”, the northern girl, Seraphima’s supervisor, parroted from the memorised instructions she gave the new starters by the dozen a day it seemed, such was the turnover these days in this industry.

    “We ‘ave no showers ‘ere, so yer goes ‘ome in yer muck. They’ll not tek yer on the ponygirl coaches nor in the rickshaws, so yer’d best get used to walking the streets in yer dirty knickers, and yer’d best live nearby if’n you don’t want to walk or cycle too far when yer knackered at t’end of the shift”.

    “When I says you come to work clean, that means you and your clothes. You only gets issued the one bra and the one pair of knicks per year, so you gotta wash ‘em to sparklin’ every time yer day’s done, cos yer gets fined a week’s pay if yer comes to work in dirty keks.”

    “The shifts is twelve hours wiv no breaks. If’n yer get thirsty or ‘ungry, yer can get a suck of milk out of one of the tit-girls to keep yer goin’.

    If yer need a pee or a crap, yer takes yer knickers down and does it where yer can. But you lose an hour’s pay each time.

    “Yer tool, is that there shovel. Lose it luv, and yer jobs gone and so are you. And yer don’t get paid none neither, cos yer wages owed is taken to pay for its replacement.”

    “Yer job is to shovel the mined stuff onto the conveyor. You use the shovel for the smaller bits, you load the big lumps wid those pretty hands of yorn”.

    “The conveyor’s a moving belt that never stops, so neiver do you, ‘less yer wantin’ pay deducted, that is”.

    “Pay is one-dollar an hour, tek it or leave it. It’s the same wage they was payin’ the girls back in the 1890s, and the management says if it did for them then, it’ll do for the likes of you now.”

    “But there’s a bonus scheme. For you shovelers, whoever clears the most tonnage in a shift, gets an extra dollar. But watch out for the catfights. Some of the other girls ‘ll try and do you ‘arm if they think you’s getting’ ahead of ‘em see.”

    “You woks 365 days a year, lessen it’s a leap-year, when you woks 366. Any questions?”

    Seraphima listened astounded. She’d known the life of a girlminer was tough and poorly paid, but not that it was as harsh as this.

    “Yer’d best get goin’ luv. The shift starts at six. You gets off at six this evenin’. Just follow the other girls into the elevator cage, and, once you’ve walked the mile to the coalface down below, you’ll soon pick up on what yer gotta do …..” the northern girl concluded.

    “Eh, and tek them off yer feet!” she called, after noticing Seraphima’s sexy mules, “Yer goes down there barefoot or not at all. We can’t risk shoes as might cause a spark to explode any damp – that’s what you’d call ‘gas’ I reckon – down there. So tek ‘em off luv, there’s a good girl”, she added as a departing instruction.

    As Seraphima now walked barefoot to the door, to join the hundreds of other girls heading into Colon and Sphincter Incorporated’s Five Mile Deep colliery, two appreciative eyes followed her gentle sway.

    “My god but yer a beautiful mover sweetheart!” her supervisor sighed.

    Shear need for survival drove Seraphima through the twelve hours of unrelenting hell in the mine. Her beautiful body ached in every delicious curve, curve, and curve. Till her soft skin hardened over time, her hands and feet blistered and bled.

    Expelled the convent after the disobedience that had led to her ritual deflowering, Seraphima had been forced to take up the only employment available to girls in her day: that is girls who did not want to walk the streets as a hooker. She was forced into the girl-made hell of a coalmine.

    Her mind was numb with the screams of the drills hewing the coal just ahead of where she worked, girlhandling the fallen lumps and chunks onto the greedy conveyor that took it aloft. Her delectable perspiration blanketed her so that coal dust caked her from her head to her pretty toes. She could scream and holler out loud all she wished, for no-one could possibly hear her above the endless din. Instead, she screamed and hollered in her head.

    Her only succour came from the tit-girls. The rumble of the falling coal hewn by the drills and pickaxes. The smack of the sledge hammers that split the larger chunks into girlhandleable lumps. The whir of the cycles peddled by the long strong legs of the girls paid to drive the conveyor belt. The flickering lights when the girls peddling the dynamos grew tired. The cursing of the girls hewing the coalface, when the dynamo girls slowed and their drill power thus faded. The scrape of her shovel among the other half-dozen girls feeding the voracious belt. The perspiration that rivuletted down her body. The showers of coal dust that fell from the roof above her. The rattle of falling roof-coal chunks hitting her helmet. The pain of the chunks that hit her bare shoulders. Her aches and pains from the weight of the coal she must lift to put on the conveyor. The strain on her legs as she squatted, all erotically powerful haunches, to lift another heavy chunk, embracing it in her loving arms, pressing it to her fit flat belly, hugging it to her divine breasts, caressing it with her touchingly tender hands.

    The coal dust filled atmosphere that the light of her lamp could hardly penetrate, but rather reflected the beam back at her. The grunts and curses of the girls swinging their pickaxes into the coalface. The coal dust filled atmosphere she must breath. Her eyes stinging with dust. Her ears ringing with cacophony. Her nostrils blocked with dust. Her mouth eating dust. God how she longed for one of the tit-girls to come around again, and how eagerly she took the comfort of suckling on the proffered nipple, first licking off the coal dust that caked it to expose its smeared exquisite pink, and then drawing the warm white nectar into her hungry and thirsty mouth with her constant-kiss poised Nubian negress’ lips. This was her only relief in a never ceasing twelve unrelenting hours in this girl-made hell on earth: the hell on earth of the coalmine.

    Seraphima was at least fortunate in her digs – the rooming house she shared with six other girlminers. The lovely young women there would let the exhausted Seraphima fall into the shower and then her bed, washing her knickers and bra back sparkling white again for her, ready for the next day’s twelve-hour shift.

    In exchange, Seraphima contributed to the household, her new-found skills at preparing inexpensive vegetarian meals, and the ability to make the very little money the seven girls had, even when pooled, stretch to healthy food and the occasional treat, such as a chocolate bar to divide between them. She also did all the housework in the apartment when she was not down the mine.

    At the expense of hardening the skin of her bare feet, and the palms of her dainty hands, the physical burden of shovelling coal for twelve-hours a day for the past six months had honed Seraphima’s lovely negress body to an even higher peak of extremely shapely perfection.

    Her one leisure pleasure was the nearby cinema. Lovely as her companions in the rooming house were, Seraphima liked to get away and have some time in her own company. Movies took her into a dream-world for two blissful hours, before a night’s sleep before she must return to the hell that was hers: the hell that is mines.

    A week had passed since the girl with the cascading hurly burly abandon of twirling swirling rusty-red ankle length hair, laser-green eyes, and soft bright-pink lips on her ghost-pale freckle speckled face, had surreptitiously passed Seraphima her business card, with the obvious intended invitation for Seraphima to call.

    Ever since, Seraphima had been too frightened to phone. The auburn-haired wonder was self-evidently from the monied classes. Unless she could afford the bribes, no girl could find a job these days, so the sunrise haired wonder must be of ‘independent means’, or living off her fabulously lucky husband’s earnings. That very fact put Seraphima at an overwhelming disadvantage.

    Love supposedly knew no boundaries. But Seraphima knew that that was just a saying. The auburn angel had had her in transports of love and, if she was honest, lust.

    Seraphima had wanted Teasetta at first sight. ‘Professor Teasetta Loveschild BA MA MBA PhD LLD – Faculty of Jurisprudence – All Desires College – University of Camford’ - was the name on the card. The phone number was for here in Spindon: indeed for an address not a mile from where Seraphima was now living.

    Weary, and bleary-eyed, barefoot and caked with dirt, wearing only her filthy bra and sweat-soaked knickers, so black with coal dust body and clothes, that she looked as if she were naked, Seraphima trudged the streets back from the mine to her home, taking as last, her regular shortcut across the public playing fields for the offspring of the rich.

    The screams were musical. They were not of pain, nor of fear. They were plaintive plainly of no more than mild protest. It was formulaic protest. It was protest that the schoolgirl was conditioned by her upbringing to make. But it was protest that she was denying the sincerity of, by showing no more than token resistance, in pushing her hem back down, after the older girl had already put her hand up her skirt to feel her intimacy through her knickers.

    The two frolicking girls wore the same school uniform. The pretty little negress with her hair in ribboned tails fought the hand and arm off, but screamed again, when the older girl, clearly predictably and completely preventably, danced around behind her, and took hold of her breasts through her contour caressing white blouse.

    It was just explorative loveplay. The screams of the little negress doll, had attracted more girls whom her face mouth figure legs thighs and other charms had bewitched during the day in class at school. The spellbinding little negress knew that they were lining up to have a feel of her in their turn, but made no attempt to run away.

    As Seraphima drew near, and thus became the cause of its ceasing, the playful pleasing teasing and screams of excited pseudo-protest, halted.

    Playing the innocents, the girls now stood around the garden-hut in which the little negress angel would soon be willingly unwillingly dragged, stripped naked, and intimately kissed and stroked, just as she had been last evening and the one before, and the one before, and before that.

    As the wonderful Seraphima drew near, the little negress looked up, her eyes aglow with veracity, vitality, and vivid vivacity, and simply said, shyly: “Hi”.

    Seraphima smiled at the gorgeous teenager. Then, as she, Seraphima, graced past, among eyes drinking to intoxication on her swaying rear, she heard the girls talk and giggle among themselves.

    “Isn’t she just so gorgeous?!” came the unmistakeable voice of the former protesting screamer.

    “Oh for god’s sake, Hinanamia” came an instant snobbish response, “She’s a bloody girlminer! One should have some standards! Trouble with you Hinanamia, is that you’d chase after anything in knickers!”

    The swingeing stinging hurt of this became the last words Seraphima overheard on her weary walk home after another twelve hours deep in the bowels of the earth.

    As she lithed into her lodgings, and onto the old newspaper scattered on the floor between the entrance door and the shower, to catch the filth all the girlminers came home covered in, the forgivably mischievous voice of a fellow-lodger called Seraphima from the kitchen:

    “Hey Seraph’ you had a phone call from a Teasetta Loveschild? She said to call her right away, and no excuses! Girl, did she sound sexy, and like wow! How did you meet such a honeybun?….. No. Don’t tell me: as if you would! You are the secretive one aren’t you!?” the loving mid-distance voice teased.

    Later that evening….

    “Seraphima?” came the velvet-sugar momentarily querulous voice at the end of the phone line: the voice of Teasetta Loveschild.

    “We met in the Bijou Movie House”, Seraphima reminded shyly.

    “Oh god! Oh how lovely! I’ve been longing for you to call. Sorry but of course I didn’t know your name. ‘Seraphima’, that’s so sweet I could and should have guessed it. The name is so apt”, Teasetta enthused with disarming and wholly genuine charm.

    “Seraphima, I’m just dying to see you again. I’ve got tickets for the premier of ‘The Hothouse of the Eastern Sun’, you know, with Maria Menonti and Yvette Xeneta, ‘featuring their first ever screen kiss’ as all the cheap newspapers put it. It’s at the Bijou this coming Friday at 8.00 sharp. There’ll be another girl with us, one of my young students, Aranga Bernisia? She’s really sweet, you’ll just love her. She’s got no place to sleep at the moment, so John and I are letting her bunk up at our home… The seats are numbered, so you’ll be in the row just behind Aranga and me. I hope you don’t mind, they were the only seats left. But we can chat in the bar afterwards: free cheese and vino there, don’t you know. I’m dying to get to know you, you have such a lovely face and such gentle hands. See you in the cinema itself on the night. My chauffeuse will drop the ticket at that darling little home you share with the other girlminers. I do think you are so brave working down a mine. I could never ever do that. Anyway, must rush poppet, John is sat with our ponygirls chomping at their bits. Got to go to another boring sales night at his out-of-town studio. You know the kind of thing. I’m just there for my high heels and short skirt, flashing my legs to please: quite the token little wifey among all those rich bitches that make up the art-buying world these days. But angel, do be there. The time is on the ticket. Back row corner in the balcony for you my darling girl. I’m longing to get to know you… See you in the Bijou prompt at eight Friday. Please forgive, got to go else John’ll murder me. And me a part time judge too, what a sensation that would be when it got into the newspapers eh! Kiss kiss sweetheart. Please, please, please, do come. Love your gentle hands angel. Bye…..”

    The voice alone had Seraphima enraptured. It was warmer than a kitten in a mink coat, with a hint of the same lovely loving mischievousness. With the monologue duologue concluded, and Teasetta having downed at her end, even the irritating buzz in the earpiece of the phone handset sounded like a serenade to Seraphima.

    “Our Seraphs in love”, came the gently teasing voice from the flatmate who had given her Teasetta’s message: the gentle voice being followed by a sisterly loving kiss on Seraphima’s forehead, as she took the handset from the poleaxed Seraphima’s long slim fingers.

    “Hey Seraph! Remember me?”, the same girl teased the stunned Seraphima moments later, and then lovingly giggled as she handed Seraphima a handkerchief for Seraphima to dry her sweet tears, as she clasped her sobbing body in a sisterly comforting hug.

    The scarlet mini-dress with its breasts and bottom contours caressing tightness, was Seraphima’s best. She had fallen in love with it at ‘La Prix’ on the Spindon High Street, and saved her meagre wages for weeks to buy it.

    It was a contest between this bright red dress and her bright yellow thong, as to which formed the sexiest contrast with the glorious Nubian black of Seraphima’s gorgeous complexion: a contest in which there could only be, and were only, two equal winners.

    Seraphima had been forced to trim her hair to boyish curls. Her pretty little ears were thus revealed to joyous applause. It was impractical to wear long hair in the mine, and more practical to wash close-cropped curls. Besides she had to wear a hard hat all day at work. Her other hirsute wonder remained though.

    She thought the silly little pillbox hat and the hand gloves, both of which matched her panties, a little over-the top, till her loving flatmates persuaded her otherwise.

    On her lovely face, she wore only her wholly holy natural beauty and her constant-kiss lips. She was bare-legged, as she could afford neither tights nor stockings. On her feet she wore the mules she had tried to keep on, when at the mine on her first day.

    “How do I look?” she asked shyly.

    “Heavenly”, came the only possible and true answer.

    When Seraphima handed in her ticket at the entrance kiosk at the Bijou movie house, the new girl behind the counter removed the stub, and stared at her in wide-eyed wonder, as she returned the ticket itself to Seraphima.

    “Please ’scuse me askin’ miss, but you are ‘er aren’t you?” the stunned youngster whispered evidently hesitantly, dry mouthed.

    “I mean, its got ‘Sara Pimma’ or ****tt like that written in on this stub, but you gotta be Yvette Xeneta ain’t you: ‘er what’s in the film tonight?”

    Not waiting for an answer, sure she had the starlet’s personal company, the part-time earning schoolgirl leaned conspiratorially forward: “‘Ere woz you really kissin’ Maria Menonti for real, like they ses on the telly? …….She’s just so gorgeous!! …..”

    The innocent closed her eyes and seemed to dream she was kissing Maria Menonti herself. Then, realising what she had just said, and wanting not to be hurtful, and to cover her faux pas, she added: “But you’s gorgeous too Miss Xeneta……… gorgeouser if anyfink…!”

    Seraphima smiled love as she slunk past, and headed for her upstairs back row.

    The usherette showed Seraphima to her seat in a cinema already with its lights lowered. The seats were staggered and banked, so that Seraphima sat on her divided-heaven behind, between, and above Teasetta, whose mesmerising tousled tangle of copiously twirled copper tresses were unmistakeable. The blonde girl next to her, on Teasetta’s right, wore as far as Seraphima could judge, as her eyes got used to the gloaming gloom, motorcycle leathers. This must be Aranga, the student, Seraphima concluded.

    Neither girl acknowledged Seraphima’s presence. That hurt Seraphima, but she put it down to concentration on the ‘modern-day classic movie’ that was about to start.

    As the titles went up on the screen, Seraphima looked down at the delectable Teasetta. Teasetta was a study in lime-green, a colour that paid honour to the inestimable glory of her old-gold hair.

    Seraphima could not see Teasetta’s feet, but the tension of her calves and thighs told that she was wearing very high heels, perhaps even twelve-inches. Teasetta’s lime-green stockings had tight tops only just above the angel’s knees, and she wore extra-long suspenders that centrally caressed along supremely white, supremely smooth, supremely shapely, supremely strong, extremely near naked thighs.

    A very outré o******** musk was a decided olfactory factor, strongly suggesting that Teasetta wore no panties, and was heavily on heat, enduring her monthly bleed.

    Teasetta’s skirt was just a tiny pelmet. It was so short it was nearly non-existent, and, quite evidently, she must be blessing the seat she adorned with the supreme honour of her completely bare bottom, as well as seeps of her weeping holy blood.

    Teasetta’s blouse was buttoned up to her neck, more tightly that a virgin maiden’s. Her pretty hands were by her side, and, Seraphima could clearly see, she had Aranga’s rough suntanned left hand, with its chewed and dirty fingernails, firmly planted on her right thigh, under the elongated suspender, lewdly caressing her nude nakedness.

    At the arrival of stunning negress, Yvette Xeneta, holding the hand of the lovely Italian starlet Maria Menonti on screen, the all-girl audience cheered and whooped. Every eye was on the onscreen action it now seemed: every eye included the two laser-green orbs of the astounding Teasetta, but not those of Aranga or Seraphima.

    Seraphima’s eyes were transfixed at what she could look down and see from the spaced seats of the back row, as Aranga caressed Teasetta’s beautiful bare thigh endlessly, or at least till she was sure she could attend to the buttons.

    Although she had fought girlfully to resist it, the overwhelming o******** aroma from Teasetta’s heat, and the sight of the lovely angel being girlhandled by the rough Aranga had caused a darker yellow to appear in Seraphima’s panties, as she wept her crème-Français.

    She watched now, with the fascination of horror, as in the dusk of the cinema, Aranga slowly but surely unbuttoned Teasetta’s blouse from her tiny waist, up to her long slim neck, and then eased it aside to openly publicly expose the full glory of Teasetta’s naked breasts.

    The breasts were exquisite. They were not large: indeed no more than a single handful each. They were not even pendulous, being firm enough to be prominent and defy the gentle persuasions of gravity. Of a white that gave the south pole a dirty name, they were tipped by coral pink nipples, shaped, for all the world, like perfect strawberries.

    Teasetta showed no sign of hurt, as Aranga purposely flicked her nipples, but went clearly rigid as Aranga leaned across, and then sucked and bit her left nipple till it bled, before licking the blood eagerly, and purposely so that Seraphima would have a perfect view.

    The reaction in Teasetta’s nipples was astounding. Peeked, they swelled peaked, and poked out painfully aroused, a rigid inch from her beautiful little breasts.

    Equally astounding was the reaction in Seraphima’s honeypot, as her proboscis clitoris uncurled and tried to bend up and out of her, but was treacherously and thus torturously betrayed from doing so, by the tightness of her tiny yellow thong.

    Some would call it a ‘drink on a stick’, others an iced-lolly. The iced-lolly seemed to have been produced from nowhere. It was childish in its space-rocket shape. It looked as if it must be a hideously sweet lime in flavour.

    Clearly fresh from a freezer and some kind of thermos conveyance secreted at Teasetta’s feet, when Aranga touched it there, it stuck to and burned Teasetta’s tortured and bitten extremely excited left nipple, and the poor girl audibly gasped.

    But her gasp was but one of six-hundred, as at long last, on the screen, Yvette Xeneta kissed Maria Menonti. And there were as many sighs as sobs as Xenata got down on one knee to ask for Menonti’s hand in marriage.

    With so short a skirt it was surely impossible for Teasetta’s thighs to become more bare, but somehow the laws of nature were defied, as Aranga eased her forward in the seat.

    As Aranga touched the solidly hard frozen iced-lolly on the lips of Teasetta’s cunt and Teasetta leapt in reflex, Seraphima gasped as loudly as Teasetta herself cried out with pain and joy, only for the joint cry of total astonishment to be drowned by the loud sobs of girls crying as Yvette Xeneta and Maria Menonti on screen, were pronounced girl and wife by the tribal priestess.

    The burning bitter cold of the iced-lolly touched upon Teasetta’s touchingly touchy organ had made her near leap from the seat, and heads to turn, and see the copper-tressed wonder in distress to ponder.

    When those that turned disturbed to look upon the distinctly disturbing Teasetta, as the cause of disturbance, saw she was stripped and exposed, and that her left nipple bled, they smiled at this evidence that love was running its course, no matter how coarse, and that there was no cause for the alarm clause to pause their applause.

    Teasetta’s gasps and squeaks of pain and pleasure, as Aranga nextly and now slowly slid the cruelly cold comestible into, to challenge the capacity of her cunt, were accompanied by Teasetta’s shudders and headshakes that even for love’s sake Teasetta could submit to being so abused.

    And yet the sighs were highs in the crescendo of the music of time telling the tale that the temptress’ allure begs a cure for the desires she inspires in we lesser mortals, and to abuse her so, is to ennoble her all the more, for it shows the poverty of our mere mortality that she tempts us to torture, and that that torture only enhances her intrinsic entrapping entrancing enchantment the more.

    The burning cold in the humid heat of Teasetta’s holy hole as the ice-cold sweetmeat was inexpertly slid silently slowly inexorably into her shuddering sheath, climaxed her to cries crisis from the cruelty of it climactic climatic chill.

    She could have fought it off, yet she surrendered to its cruel coldness knowing it showed the heat of love. The bitter ice filled her cunt and she shuddered as her sheath was frozen as if she were frigid, a fact so far from truth as to comprise calumny.

    This angel was girl in every atom’s atom of her being. She was hot to have the cold spear rape her. She knew her allure was only enhanced by the humiliation of being so publicly ravished. She was showing what she could take for love’s sake, and that to make her suffer this humiliation, was to raise her above any other girl there that night or in the world beyond who could not give her incontestable gift such a challenge so unwillingly wilfully willingly undertaken.

    The iced-lolly up her to the hilt in her sheath, Teasetta turned her head to beg that Aranga kiss her as she, Teasetta, came, only for Aranga to torture her angel all the more, by denying her the balm of a kiss for her overwhelming charms, in preference to watching the autumn auburn angel gasp and cry and shudder and judder with the tone of the tons of her openly public cums.

    When Aranga withdrew the iced-lolly’s stick, the stick alone, and it was clear how rapidly Teasetta’s womanly heat had melted the lolly: to her everlasting shame Seraphima orgasmed too. And she orgasmed again as she smelt the warm musk of Teasetta’s cunt, and thought of the joy for Aranga, who was leant with her head between Teasetta’s glorious legs, drinking the melted lolly’s juice, mixed with Teasetta’s honey and the salt of her menses, straight from Teasetta’s post orgasm cunt.

    And she came again as she smelled the warm musk of Teasetta’s cunt and a gentle hand touched hers. The hand of a girl in a tiny pelmet skirt, the hand of an auburn haired goddess, wearing tiny white panties: hair in tumultuous tumble trailing in a train to her feet.

    Seraphima had had a cum for the first time in her sweet young life. She had felt heaven and earth move, if only a little less than her very being moved earth and heaven.

    As she looked adoration into Teasetta’s ice-green eyes, Seraphima knew she was irretrievably in love with Teasetta.

    “Sorry I’m too late for the film darling”, Teasetta breathed and breezed. Aranga has a rotten head cold and couldn’t make it. But at least you managed to come”, Teasetta’s husky voice kittened, to the totally exhausted Seraphima still waking from her wet-dream: Teasetta’s voice without the slightest lightest hint of suspicion, let alone irony.

  10. #10

    Seraphima - Part 1 - Chapter 4

    (by Eve Adorer)

    Part 1 - Chapter 4 – Rule

    The film over, they were sat in the bar at the Bijou cinema. Their legs were arranged such, that the exquisite contrast of Seraphima polished Nubian black reflected Teasetta’s spectral white.

    Teasetta had her right thigh inside Seraphima’s parted legs, and thus Seraphima her right thigh inside Teasetta’s.

    Seraphima was a little embarrassed. Her dress was exceptionally short, and she feared that the girl she loved might see the gusset of her panties, stained by her multiple cum.

    In reality, as opposed to the wet-dream, Teasetta wore white. Her crisp cool cotton blouse fascinated as her bare breasts tantalised a tarantella inside it.

    She was careless of the hem of her skirt, as she might as well have been, since there was so little of the skirt to worry about.

    She wore white schoolgirl’s socks, which were not folded below, but covered to just over her knees, leaving her strong smooth thighs completely bare.

    Her hair, Teasetta’s glorious flow of florid spun gold, tumbled recklessly in flowing abundance, some falling over her shoulders and into her lap, and more flowing down her back to where she either sat her light delight upon it, or it coiled, carelessly caressing the ground like the red carpet such a princessly creature should have walked on all her days.

    The shiny scarlet lipstick she wore, made her lips look moist: a moistness redolent of another potentially moist orifice with equally lovely lips.

    Seraphima could not but help looking between Teasetta’s elegant legs as Teasetta openly flashed to her that she was wearing the very tiniest of tight white panties, which her proximate pod-lips were bulging out prominently.

    From between her legs, Teasetta’s natural aroma flared Seraphima’s super-sensitive nostrils, and spun her head with the giddiness of its eroticism.

    As Teasetta took a sip of the expensive fermented girlpee she was enjoying when not talking, Seraphima watched fascinated by every move her love made. Down the glass holding Seraphima’s untouched iced cola, condensation descended wetting the coaster it stood upon.

    As Seraphima listened to the husky silk that was Teasetta’s voice, Teasetta would touch Seraphima’s knee with her right hand second finger whilst making a point, then run that finger up Seraphima’s bare thigh and away, before turning to her glass again.

    “Mmm, oh gosh. This is really delish! Say what you like about the old Bijou, but they do stock some absolutely perfecto girlwine”, Teasetta enthused.

    “Mmm, try some. You really must. This one’s mixed with cumhoney, its really deliscioso!” Teasetta sincered, as she offered her glass for Seraphima to take a sip.

    Seraphima gently raised her gloved hand in decline. She wanted to stay sober, all the more to enjoy this heaven, before the hell of six in the coming morning, when she must once more go down the mine.

    “Adore your outfit”, Teasetta smiled, “The colour suits your complexion perfectly”.

    Seraphima hung her head with tears in her eyes in blush at the joy of this sweet compliment to her compliment of clothing.

    “Mmm, what was I saying. “Mmm, mmm, yes…well, anyway, it’s my birthday coming up Tuesday, twenty-three already, I just can’t believe it. Well John said what do you really want for your birthday to me. And I said I’d love a dresser. And he says but you’ve got so many dresses they are falling out of the wardrobes already. And I said a dresser not a dress you idiot. And we laughed. He’s such a lovely man. We’ve been married for three months now and it’s been pure heaven…..”

    “…..Anyway, he says he’ll get me a dresser and do I want to come with him to Mesdames Carpenter and Carpenter so as to be sure he gets the right wood-grain, size, and style. And he goes on about how the girls there hand-make to order. And I pretend that I’m going to strangle him and he kisses me, and I spell it out, that I want a dresser, not a dress and not a dressing table, and we laugh cos he can be such a silly…..”

    “Anyway, he says ‘Oh, that kind of dresser: a maid’ and asks do I have a girl in mind then. And I say I know a really lovely one, but she’s a girlminer. And he says that’s stooping a bit low, and he was a bit rude about girls who work in coalmines, so I won’t tell you that bit.”

    “But he says, okay then if I insist. And I say I do insist. And we laugh. And he says what’s her name then? And I said I didn’t know, but it was the black beauty from the cinema. And he said: ‘Ooh yes please!’ and I hit him cos he was being so very naughty. And then I phoned you. And I had these tickets going spare, and so I came to get you, so you can be my dresser, if you want to be”, Teasetta gabbled in husky horny honey kitten tones, as Seraphima watched her mouth and longed to kiss her.

    “I can’t wait to tell Clarissa that I’ve got a personal maid. John and I are going up in the world, and that cow Clarissa was very unkind about me, behind my back, to John’s mummy, telling her that I was a little gold digger with no brain. I mean me! And I’ve graduated from Camford!”, Teasetta continued.

    “You have to have my clothes always at the ready; do my laundering; wash my hair; run my bath; do my makeup for me, and all that kind of thing I’m too busy for these days….” Teasetta enthused.

    Seraphima’s gentle heart sank. She had let herself become deluded that she was on equal terms with this lovely young woman, and she was being told, she was not. She was being reminded that she was of the serving classes. She was being told, if not in so many words, that her chances of making love to and with Teasetta were less than an infinitesimally small but very round zero.

    “John’ll be really shocked when he sees it’s you. He was admiring you in the cinema back that time. He told me you were ogling me. He dared me to let you touch me. John finds that such a turn-on. Poor dear, he works so hard…”

    “I think it’s rather dirty myself. But, when I lied to him about how much I’d enjoyed you caressing my thigh, it certainly got him going in bed afterwards.”

    “I want you exactly because you’re a lesbian see. To be honest, we’re having a little problem in bed, John and me. It’ll get him going to see you touching me, and you do have very kind hands…”, Teasetta unintentionally taunted.

    “You’ll have to share a room with the other servants”, Teasetta concluded, with an assumption that Seraphima would accept the post as her personal maid, turned to a decided presumption.

    “Oh silly me. I almost forgot. We wouldn’t pay you of course, but you’ll have a meal a day, access to my gymnasium, as long as you use it when I’m not there, uniform provided, and one day off every three months or so…. Oh, and with there being other servants too, you’ll have someone of your own kind to talk to…” Teasetta added, unwittingly hurtfully.

    “Run my bath for me please Seraphima!” Teasetta called from her bedroom in the early morn.

    “Of course my lady”, the glorious Nubian negress confirmed.

    To dress herself and then perform her initial household chores, and to be at the ready for when her mistress chose to rise for the day, which was usually around five-thirty, Seraphima had risen at four.

    Seraphima was in brilliant tangerine: tangerine shining all the brighter in contrast with her deep dark ebony wonder.

    Even though she was stood to attention in the servants’ quarters with nobody to see and witness, in disciplined reflex, Seraphima, dipped a deeply delicious, very thighy curtsey, both just after her mistress’ command, and just after her own answer.

    The voice with which Seraphima spoke was flatly mechanical and robotic, for Seraphima was unable to communicate other than through the throat microphone transmitters built into her sunshine-yellow choker.

    Seraphima was unable to communicate other than through the throat microphones, because her mouth was gaped open in a succulently inviting ‘O’, by the gumshield that popped her teeth wide apart and presented her oral orifice and oesophagus as a pleasure zone readied at all times for an invading cock. Her ever-moist bright pink tongue lingered long to lick and lash a penetrating penis to potent pleasure, her larynx to suck the ejaculated pearls of saline wisdom into her stomach: for such pearls should always be injected deep inside girls.

    Seraphima was marked as a servant, by the fact that her head was shaved completely bald: a shaming and demeaning process that still brought tears to her eyes when she recalled her close-cropped curls dropping on her bare breasts when she had been first shaved by the butleress.

    Teasetta loved to have her newest servant dressed to please and tease her husband John. She had been very careful when choosing Seraphima’s outfits from the ‘Naughty Slave’ catalogue. She had purposely chosen garments from the ‘Constant Masturbation’ section.

    Today, Seraphima wore a tantalising tight tangerine whalebone reinforced basque, with a steel hawser concealed within, that had forced her delicious waste down to nine-inches, giving her wiggle a wonder wider wander as she walked.

    The uplift cups of her basque raised shy Seraphima’s handsome bosom sky high and horizontally out to maximise the exuberance pertaining to the containing of her potently proud perturbing protuberances.

    Within the basque, to control and tame her tantalising tits, Seraphima’s nipples were clamped by hidden clips that bit her nips with their serrated teeth.

    These same clips pushed an axle through to the outside of the cups that barely contained her fulsomeness. On these axles were fitted bob-weights. A steel spring coiled down from each cup to waist height. At the end of both springs was a spherical gold weight. As Seraphima even stood and merely breathed, the springs with these weights expanded and contracted and teased tormented and tortured her nipples. When she graced a step, it only added swing to the springs and sting to her permanent temporal teasing torment.

    Seraphima’s exceptionally exquisite pubic hair was braided into two plaits that dangled between her divine legs. These plaits were tied off near their tips with delectable tiny sun-yellow bows that tickled her ankles.

    Between her thighs and her love-lips ran a teaser. She wore no panties, but had her divine lips divided and ruled by a cruel rough roppette that ran from the rear of her basque, between the tensioned cheeks of her beautiful bottom, and up to the front of her basque via heaven’s valley. This roppette was pulled up hard and tight within her. Knotted at frequent regular intervals, its rough ribbed rub as she roamed, chafed her outer and inner lips, and taunted her clitoris, curled tightly within its hood.

    Down from her tangerine basque front and at very cheeky rear, ran the ribbons of her elasticated suspenders. The fronts took the low road, the rear ones the high highway. The fronts were down her thighs. The rear suspenders were stretched over the holy hillocks of her preponderantly prominent naughtily naked buttocks, before they stretched in high tension to tug her stocking tops into vees, that matched those at her front.

    Seraphima’s sun-bright yellow stockings on her nude Nubian negress’ legs threw her dark-chocolate blackness into seriously deliriously delicious delightful contrast.

    Following the seams of her stockings, from the tops of her stocks tight round her strong thighs and only just above her dimpled knees, so that her extra-long suspenders knew maximum suspension in their tension, the eye would be compelled, wholly willingly, to pass the path of the curvature of her gently smoothly muscular calves, down to her slim ankles, and then to her seemingly impossible shoes.

    Seraphima wore fifteen-inch heels. Heels were all she wore. She wore ‘K’ shoes.

    But for the upright of the straight back of the ‘K’, which was missing, Seraphima wore ‘K’ formulation shoes.

    The heels of her feet were embraced by the heels of a tangerine leather sling-back shoe, and her superbly slim ankles fixed around by a gold-buckled strap.

    From the rear of the heel holding her foot’s heel ran the sloping upper leg of the ‘K’. The steep slope of the upper leg of the ‘K’ contained her dainty foot on perilous tiptoe of her big toes.

    From thence, rearwards, ran the lower sloping leg of the ‘K’, forming her shoes’ rear heels.

    Vertically down from her big toes at the front of her shoes, ran the lower straight leg of the ‘K’, to make her only other contact with the ground Seraphima made holy.

    The rear heel was fifteen tapering inches, that ended in a ground grip of an astounding maximilty of minimality, being only one half-centimetre in diameter.

    To match this, and give her only other support as she stood and walked, her big toes were forced into the balance to the tapering rear heels, which also touched ground with similar minimality of tapered touch.

    Steepled thus, Seraphima’s long legs were tensioned taut teasingly pleasingly, and her buttocks deeply incurve-dimpled: two shining-back mirror-black compelling completely curved concave caves.

    Thus, Seraphima wore ‘K’ shoes.

    To top off her garments, around the fore of her humiliatingly shaven head, Seraphima wore a frilly sun-yellow lace headband, with embroidered words on it, declaring her to be a: “Dresser”.

    “Run my bath for me please Seraphima!” Teasetta called from her bedroom in the early morn.

    “Of course my lady”, the glorious Nubian negress confirmed.

    Seraphima spoke through the microphones in her choker. The house was wired to pick up her transmissions. Her robotic voice conveyed her compliance, with a courteous curtsey before and after she spoke, and now her glorious legs must convey Seraphima to the presence of her mistress.

    Since the three-months that Seraphima had been Teasetta’s personal maid, It must be one-hundred times a day, that, walking on her transports of delight, the devastating negress had had to climb the spiral staircase that wound its bore around its core, to take her delight into the light of the world in which she was forced to serve.

    Was it to show off the completely compelling curvature of her superb legs that the steps of the staircase were so wide spaced? Or was it to torture her dainty feet the more, as she must traipse its treads with her double-heeled ‘K’ shoes? Or was it to maximise the spring and swing of the dangles that dandled and tormented her nipples as they bounced sprung and swung? Or was it to emphasise the intimacy of the rub of the ropette in her divided sexual slice?

    Seraphima was a very girl girl, and felt these torments of her feminine charms alarmingly arousingly. She loved being on her incredibly high heels. She adored having her waist slimmed to a trim nine-inches so that, as she swayed her way to obey, she wiggled a million-miles wide, side to side, with her deep concave dimpled rear.

    But her mouth held wide open to invite the injection of the salty male oyster, shamed her. Her shaven head confirming her lowly status embarrassed her, and so too, her near nakedness in the proximity of the other servants and, more so, in the presence of her master: Teasetta’s husband John.

    But to see an angel rising irresistibly up to heaven, transported on the utmost of wonderful conveyances, all one would have needed to do, would be to lie on one’s back and watch Seraphima’s legs step the delight fantastic as she adorned the stairway that wound corkscrew up from servants’ cellar to the ground level floor, and then the bedroom floor, of Teasetta and John’s town mansion.

    Once she had arrived at her morning station, Seraphima turned the gold taps of the terracotta bath in the marvellous pink-shot-marble tiled bathroom reserved for Teasetta.

    As Seraphima bent over to turn on the taps her huge bosom, spilling out her basque, was only just arrested from swinging free by the constraints of her nipple clips. Her Nubian negro noir moons shining black, her long legs a tense cornucopia of compelling curves, she felt her master’s hand on her supremely smooth bottom once more.

    It had been like this since Seraphima’s first arrival. Since Seraphima’s first arrival she had caused John exceptionally heavy arousal. He had wanted this Nubian nymph ever since he had encouraged Teasetta to let Seraphima stroke her bare thigh.

    John had been secretly overjoyed when Teasetta had proposed employing Seraphima as a servant. He had all but won an Oscar for his pretence that he did not know what his wife had meant, when she had asked him for a “dresser” as her birthday present. Even had she not proposed Seraphima, he had intended to point Teasetta that way. That it had turned out that Teasetta had the same girl in mind had been a joyous bonus.

    On the first occasion that John had touched her, by taking hold of her pretty hand, Seraphima had made the mistake of begging: “No sir please! Oh please sir, no!” And the radio microphones at her throat had caused her plea to shout out of every speaker in the wired walls of the house.

    “What’s going on?” had come Teasetta’s sleepy voice from the bedroom.

    “Nothing darling!” John had called back, “I was just giving your dresser a hand!”.

    Suspicious, once John had gone to his studio, Teasetta had whipped Seraphima with a cane on her bare buttocks, and warned her severely not to try and use her charms to seduce her husband.

    The very next day, John had run his fingers over the vicious ridges in Seraphima’s savagely beaten bottom and whispered: “You got these stripes for me my angel didn’t you? You’re incredibly brave. I adore you all the more for your taking it like a girl!”

    Now Seraphima knew better than to call out, lest she be found out, and John was taking more and more advantage of her near nakedness, and enforced dumbness.

    The bath slowly running, John gone to take his shower in his own bathroom, Seraphima wiggled her wonderful rear to near her mistress, whom she must disrobe of her nightdress, and cover with her towelling dressing gown, to escort to the bath for her bathe.

    As Seraphima entered her owners’ bedroom, Teasetta murmured
    “Good morning Seraphima”, as she rose and stood from the bed, and her curls of golden copper, flowed and flounced to the carpet they thus caressed and blessed.

    “Good morning my lady”, Seraphima’s mechanical voice intoned, as she curtseyed and thus, as she transferred her one-hundred pounds of pure girl to the fore of her forwarded foot, tortured her big toe in her ‘K’ shoe.

    Seraphima now reached to undress her love. And, as she savoured the homely fragrance of her mistress’ body, salted with the patina of the perspiration acquired from her warm slumbers, Seraphima mentally sighed for her suffering that she could be so near and yet so far from the woman she adored.

    “I’m on the bench today. I have a very naughty girl to judge in court. Do be a dear and find me something to wear: I mean something suitable for the occasion”, Teasetta slurred, still sleepy, to her trusted servant.

    “If I may make so bold as to say so, my lady looks superb in a turquoise two-piece”, Seraphima proposed.

    “Perfect!” Teasetta yawned, “You are a treasure Seraphima, how did I ever manage without you?”

    “Should my lady wear a white silk blouse with opal buttons, some turquoise twelve-inch heeled sling-back stilettos, with matching handbag to carry? And for her undies: a pure white silk bra, panty, and suspenders set, and white nylon stockings with a zigzag seam theme?” Seraphima proposed by humble hint.

    “Of course. Your choice is, as ever, impeccable”, Teasetta praised.

    Seraphima gentled the fresh towelling robe over her mistress’ naked shoulders and walked submissively behind the autumn haired angel, lowering her head to look at the toes of her cruel ‘K’ shoes, to avoid eye-contact with John, as he made his way back to the bedroom after a shower and shave in his own bathroom.

    As Seraphima and Teasetta entered Teasetta’s bathroom, the computer controls had stopped the taps at the choice depth of water, and were now keeping the chosen temperature. Nonetheless, Seraphima wiggled in front of her mistress to bend over the bath, revealing her rampantly randy rear, the glory of her supremely straight extremely shapely legs, and her cleaved cloven pod, as she bent and graced a pretty hand in, to check the water’s temperature.

    Seraphima then wiggled behind, to remove her mistress’ robe and, as Teasetta kicked off her mule slippers, take tender hold of her mistress’ titian tresses to keep them clear of the water, as her mistress curved her luscious legs, to step over into, and then lower herself into the bath.

    Knowing her mistress loved to luxuriate, a wait was wanting and duly observed by the superb Seraphima, whose gently heaving bosom seemed to show the pounding of her heart from being in the presence of the girl she loved.

    Seraphima adored the beauty in the bath. As she stood, awaiting her mistress’ next command, she dreamed of the night before this, when she had shampooed, washed, brushed, and combed the impossible complexity of the superabundance of curls that presently cascaded from the bath’s side to the floor. And soon she would be once more with brush and combs to coax those curls into behaviour becoming their adornment of this pearl of girls.

    As she controlled her sigh, her chest heaved nonetheless, and Seraphima thus suffered the swing of the weighted springs that teased her nipples.

    And, after her daydream thoughts, and the continued constant masturbation of her nipples, as she moved forward to pick up the black soap with which she would firstly wash her mistress’ golden-down blessed forearms, the ropette inside Seraphima’s love-lips was no longer hurting. It was no longer hurting, because it was lavishly lubricated by Seraphima’s crème-Français.

    Knowing she would soon soap and bathe Teasetta’s bare breasts and then be intimate with the angel’s red-hair-curl-crowned intimacy, even while her eyes showed her supposed neutrality whilst she was caressing the bare body of the girl she desired to distraction, Seraphima soused her knotted teaser ropette with her minx moisture.

    Yet it was when the angel was stood for Seraphima to soap her legs, that Seraphima’s curled-up proboscis clitoris fought to leave its hood, only to be rubbed to searing heat by the guardian ropette’s roughness, thus turning Seraphima on all the more.

    As her mistress rose from, to cease the water, the seductive siren of the freshwater seas, Seraphima caught the soft red curl curtain, hitherto draped in flawless autumnal tumble onto the floor beside the bath, but that would otherwise fall to Teasetta’s ankles in the water, and lovingly wrapped it in a dry towel tied gently neatly Turkish turban style on Teasetta’s head to save it.

    “Do my legs need shaving again Seraphima?” Teasetta asked suddenly, thus shocking Seraphima out of her reverie.

    “Oh no my lady. Not after we waxed my lady last night”, Seraphima assured.

    “My lady’s bikini-line may need a touch of the razor by this time tomorrow, but my lady is immaculate in every degree”, Seraphima reassured, meaning every single syllable.

    Wetting and soaping again her duet suite of sweet hands on the aromatic ‘La Parfum’ soap Teasetta had especially flown in from Paris, Seraphima braced herself to caress her mistress’ legs without becoming even more aroused.

    To run her soaped hands over the firm gentle muscularity and the soft complexion of Teasetta’s shapely legs had poor Seraphima captured in rapture she dare not show.

    Such was her longing and lust and love for the girl she bathed though, that her tears could have run like the rivulets of water which she cupped in her pretty hands and then poured down the curves of Teasetta’s legs to wash the soap away.

    Her lush legs washed, Teasetta innocently stood them apart to enable Seraphima to bathe her purse. Seraphima soaped her hands afresh. She both loved and loathed this part of the bathing. To even temporarily take away the natural odour of Teasetta’s love-mouth seemed an unforgivable sin.

    At this point, were her mouth not forced in an ‘O’ for ‘oral’ gape, Seraphima would have gritted her teeth. She must not show how she longed for this girl. She must not touch her in any disrespectful way. She must not caress her. She must not let her fingers play the sweet music this most sensitive of sensual instruments was made for.

    Yet she must not touch so gently that it was ineffective, and thus gave away that she was emotionally involved in what she was doing whilst bathing this beauty, and far from the dispassionate robot she was expected to be.

    She started on the flat belly and then down to the soft russet down on the mons, before soaping to the left of the slightly agape lips, and then, with her right hand, to the left. Then cupping soaped water from the bath below, she douched out the love mouth itself, holding her tongue on the roof of her mouth to stop herself, but nonetheless inevitably sousing the knotted ropette within her own mystery with her musk as she did so.

    It was both sorrow and a relief to Seraphima when the bathing was over.

    Now proffering both her gentle hands, Seraphima’s offer was taken, and four hands held in combinations of black and white pairs, as Teasetta stepped, curving her lovely legs in to prayers of parabolic swerves, her body sweetly rain-dropping and shining with perspiration and the bath’s waters kissing down her perfect complexion, out of the bath.

    Seraphima made sure the golden treasure of Teasetta’s hair was aloft and dry in its saucy looking towel turban…

    And then: “Dry me please, there’s a treasure”, Teasetta asked, unnecessarily, as Seraphima closed in on her love with the warmest and softest of pure white towels.

    For the savagely cruelly bald-shaven Seraphima, brushing her mistress’ impossibility of curls was the height of ecstasy.

    Next eye-shadow and then Seraphima must apply lipstick to the mouth she longed to kiss. The white pearl earrings would be hidden in Teasetta’s coiffure coils, but her mistress would not feel fully-dressed without them.

    This heaven on earth performed, Seraphima was wrapped in raptures as she now stood behind to cup Teasetta’s handful-sized breasts into her brassiere, thus literally living up to her titled duty as her mistress’ dresser.

    With the soft red curls of the sweet scented hair inflaming Seraphima’s passions, straightening the straps on the smooth lightly freckled shoulders was problematic; but it was a problem of the greatest pleasure to resolve.

    Pulling the hooks into the eyes, Seraphima was as gentle as she could be with the two soft-firm coral-pink-tipped consummate compassion containers that fronted the angel without affront, and then turned to pick up the matching suspender belt.

    Seraphima’s tension was mounting once more. If there was one thing she adored more than the highest of high honours of bathing her mistress’ passion-purse and brushing her coiled curls, it was rolling her mistress’ stockings on.

    The suspender belt’s hooks in eyes in turn with those of the embracers of Teasetta coral-pink pinnacled bosom, Seraphima ensured the suspenders clasps, were correctly arranged to arraign down Teasetta’s thighs at front, and to stretch over Teasetta’s proud bottom at rear.

    As she rolled up the stocking intended for the electrifying glory of Teasetta’s luscious left limb, Seraphima felt the static already in the nylon.

    Since Seraphima had to wait for the leg to be proffered, the evident high tension in the stocking seemed to be matched with whatever was distracting the brilliant mind of the gorgeous Teasetta.

    Waiting what seemed an age whilst Teasetta thought through whatever was troubling her, and mindful of her mistress’ busy day not far from its start, Seraphima wiggled around in front of her love, holding the rolled up white nylon stocking still at the ready, and whispered through her neck microphones: “My lady…..”

    “Oh… I’m so sorry Seraphima. The stockings of course…”, Teasetta softly zephyred and raised her bare left leg to put her dainty foot on a cushioned stool.

    Working on Teasetta’s left side, avoiding snagging them with her femininely long fingernails, with practiced skill, Seraphima rolled the stocking over the foot and up the lovely lower leg and then the passionately powerful thigh, high to the front suspender. This she then dexterously fixed the stocking top to, and to the stocking top, just before her mistress lowered that lovely leg, to allow the rear suspender to be tensioned over her tantalising hillock, where it continued to press into the soft firmness of one of her two foothills of heaven after it had been clasped to the stocking at back.

    Seraphima was proud of her skill. These stockings had a zigzag seam, but relative straightness of the seam was still demanded and that demand she had commendably commanded.

    Again her mistress appeared distracted, her mind evidently whirring over the finer points of the girl laws and her necessary imposition of them in the case coming before her that day.

    Seraphima patently patiently passionately awaited the availability of the swerving curves of the right leg.

    “If I may, my good lady….”, Seraphima whispered into her microphones, bobbing a curtsey to the sweet Teasetta.

    “Seraphima? Oh, how silly of me. Of course you may, you darling girl…” Teasetta apologised once more.

    These moments of distraction only increased Seraphima’s adoration of the exquisite Teasetta. Although her status was lower than low in Teasetta and John’s household, such kindness and consideration from her lovely mistress made Seraphima proud to be of service.

    As she rolled the static crackling stocking up the statistical perfection of Teasetta’s right leg, Seraphima could not control the further flow of the crème-Français in her éclair, adding to that long since marinating her knotted ropette teaser. Her satan-searing dark-brown-near-black eyes feasted on the glory of the limb she was adorning. Her tongue, with its pointed tip, reached out to lick her negress lips wide parted in the orgasmic oral ‘O’. Her nipples danced with the arousing attention of the constant bouncing and swinging of the weights on the ends of the bob-springs dangling from the clips on her nubs. Her bountiful bare bosom held high up and out by the bra of her basque, heaved heavy sighs as her love for this angel sounded through the microphones in her choker and thus out of every speaker in the house, as she attached the front suspender clasp of the white right stocking. And her long forefinger nail snagged the stocking, and a ladder leading from heaven down the swooning sigh of Teasetta’s right thigh ripped through Seraphima’s soul as she failed in her art, breaking her poor heart.

    “You clumsy whore!” Teasetta screamed in her intense high tension as she spun and slapped Seraphima’s face, throwing the Nubian negress wonder backwards, with the shock of both the surprise action, and the slap itself.

    And Seraphima’s tentative grip on the ground she made holy by her very presence upon this earth, was tested beyond the infinitesimally appointed decimal-point grip of the double-heels of her ‘K’ shoes. And she tumbled in a flurry of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs. And as she struggled on the floor in a kick of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs, the tears flowed from her lovely loving eyes. And as she fought to regain her feet in a glory of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs, her mistress reached down a tender hand. And, as she reached to help the girl she had struck, her mistress watched the devastating display of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs…

    “Seraphima! Oh Seraphima! Oh do forgive me my darling girl! How could I be so cruel?!” Teasetta cried with tender tears in her ice-green eyes.

    And Seraphima’s tears flowed too, anew. And in a flurry of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs, she was in no hurry to rise from her bicycling of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs, for she was openly secretly masturbating herself on her cruel teaser ropette to increase its pain, and her tears, spurted anew each time she had another cum: because they were not the tears of pain; but the tears of multiple-orgasmic gain….



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