(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.