Melody Smith's Schooldays
by Eve Adorer
Chapter 14 - "The Wicked Wench"
Two months beyond my punishment before the whole school for an accusation of
masturbation that had in fact been no more than a split-second's straying of an
entirely innocent finger, all the talk in the air at the academy was of the
upcoming vacation. The chatter and excitement among the girls was inescapable.
Here we were, near five hundred burgeoning young women isolated in the wilds of
Scotland far away from home, and longing to see parents, siblings, old friends
and, in my case, my adored pet: Benji.
At such times, my heart went out to the girls that had come to the academy from
foreign parts. We had charming Americans and captivating Australians among our
number, as well as lovely girls from the Indian subcontinent and delectable
dolls from Japan, Korea, and China.
The vacation upcoming was to celebrate Easter, which that year was in early
April and what passes for early spring in the northern areas of the British
Isles. As it was mid-term, it would only be the bare three weeks and thus these
poor fellow pupils would have no chance of getting home and back. For them the
opportunity to see their parents and families must await the longer summer
break.
I was therefore to be among the lucky ones. Home for me was in southern England,
just over five hundred miles away: a long train journey or short air flight. I
would, out of preference go by train. I was afraid of flying in those days. An
only child, my folks would be so pleased to see me, and then there was also
Benji.
I had not seen Benji since the previous September. My Alsatian must be fast
becoming a grown dog now. Benji had been and still was the joy of my life. I had
worked in kennels for a time during holidays from my former school, and Benji
was a loveable rascal of a stray some cruel boy or girl had abandoned on the
highway. He had probably been given as a pet within a family that could not
really afford to keep him.
Don't get me wrong. He had not been treated badly. But Benji had not been too
well trained, so he was a little wild and unruly. He was undoubtedly a rascal,
and "Rascal" might well have been his given name, but that he wore a collar with
a tag confirming him as "Benji". So Benji he had been and Benji he stayed.
I had had to leave Benji as a consequence of gaining my place at St Catherine's
Academy for Girls. I had only left him on sworn assurance from my parents that
he would be looked after as well by them as if I were there to do the duty
myself. I cried when I had to leave him. I know it's silly, but I was so upset.
I would not have come up to St Cath's if my father had not sworn that Benji
would be alright.
But the break from school was still someway off. It was still a week or so away
rather than imminent within days, and there was another school tradition I was
to become involved with. There was also another instance of the head girl's
cruelty toward me.
It was part of our teaching that we girls compose weekly letters to our
respective parents. Though it was always monitored by the prefects or staff, we
had free use of a long telephone call home once a week; we also had email. But
at St Catherine's the old-fashioned snail mail trail was still a weekly routine,
with considerable emphasis placed, as much as on content and grammar (something
I never mistressed), on calligraphy, for the letters we composed were forbidden
to be tapped out on a computer.
I was, this particular evening, sitting in the prefects room working in
preparation for a test paper in English to Spanish translation that I was due to
sit the next day, along with the other girls in my class, as one of a series of
examinations to check our learning progress was on target.
I knew that I was looking delicious. A girl knows when she is beautiful, but
even with a beautiful girl there are times when she is, for some indefinable
reason, even more radiant and compelling, and such was the case with me that
evening.
I could not help my beauty nor would any girl there have wanted me to do so.
I was sitting upright on a wooden chair, in heelless pirouette shoes, big toes
pointing strictly vertically to ground, with my red fishnet-stockinged calves
consequently curvaceously contoured, first guiding the eye heavenwardly to knees
lightly touching in their seeking of the modesty necessitated by the extreme
minimality of my split-sided black micro-mini-dress.
Thereafter, my awesome thighs, carved classically, curved the captivated eye
compellingly toward where my naughty nestled virginally vulnerably, hidden below
the vee between their topmost massive smooth
beyond-stocking-tops-completely-naked soft girl-flesh.
My dainty hands were with pretty finger and thumb holding a page ready to turn
it, as my heavenly heavy bosom rose and fell with the light sweet scented
natural unselfconscious breathing of my concentration, but oh so very
distractingly, as my breasts, boldly ballooning my white blouse, blessed my
every breath with their bountiful gently-moving, deeply moving beauty.
My long blonde hair trained to the ground in a waterfall of goddess gold behind
the back of my chair. My face was angelic in its prettiness, with my kissable
lips pursed pouting as I pursued my passion for language and literature. And my
eyes lighted the room with the concentrated glow of my young-womanliness,
intelligence, and youthful vivacity.
I was heaven: I was girl.
My concentration was broken by the silence. As I sat attracting distractingly,
every girl in the room was compelled, one-by-one, by my astounding outstanding
loveliness, to look at me and enjoy the vision of heaven on earth I honoured
them with. And with the turning of each head to drink the sweet wine of my
winsomeness, they fell silent in admiration and awe, until I heard their
silence.
I was proud of my beauty. There was nothing in it for me to be ashamed of. So it
was not with shame but with pleasure and charm that I hung my head and lowered
my book with a shy look to ground, as I blushed livid crimson at the dawning of
realisation in me, of the silent audience admiring my unsurpassable girlness,
and the eight pairs of eyes quietly ravishing my figure and face, gliding up and
down, and down and up, tip to toes of me, via my lavishly long legs, as I
blushed and felt tiny tears of embarrassment start in my eyes.
My cunt was honeying, as I looked up with my face still suffused crimson in
gratitude for their admiration of my wonder, when the head girl walked in and
instantly broke the hyper-high, supremely sexually charged spell.
"It looks as if your parents have written to you from Italy, Smith".
I rose in an instant, on legs compulsorily havened by the tiptoe heelless
ballet-pirouette shoes my dainty feet were shod in, and glide-wiggled
mesmerisingly on the tip-tops of my big-toes within them, long strong leggily
over to the head girl, to whom I then curtsied as per the School Slag's standing
orders, thus tensioning the wonderful muscles of my legs as I flashed high
thigh, thigh high in my humility.
I then advanced a dainty hand, with perfectly girlicured fingernails crimson
nail-varnished, to take the letter the head girl was clearly proffering, the
letter on which I recognised my father's handwriting and an Italian postage
stamp, only for the head girl to whisk it out of my reach.
"Let us not be too anxious Smith", she sneered.
She had no consent to treat me like this. I was the School Slag, but even the
School Slag had the right to the same external contact with friends and family
as the other girls, as long of course, as she made no attempt to reveal what her
duties as the Slag entailed.
"Please may I have my letter head girl?" I stage-whispered in my nervousness,
the nervousness I always felt in the presence of this bully.
"You may" the head girl answered coldly, "but only if you agree to take part in
the Easter winemaking".
I had no idea what she meant. A quick flash went through my mind of girls with
the hems of their dresses rolled up, bare foot and bare legged, tramping on-the
spot in half-barrel tubs loaded with red grapes. I wanted my letter. I wanted to
know why my folks were in Italy, and I longed to know what they had done with my
beloved Benji.
This flash of storybook-like memory of winemaking, I combined with the eroticism
I knew the School Slag was clearly expected at all times to provide, and I
assumed that the girls were to have the pleasure of watching my lovely legs as I
trod grapes, perhaps even naked, with the blood red juice oozing between my
delightful toes and smearing my exquisite calves and thighs.
"Of course" I answered, not noticing the smiles on the faces of the other girls.
"Of course what?" the head girl taunted and teased.
"Of course I will take part in the Easter winemaking" I answered in a tone
seeking to please.
"Good", said the head girl, still retaining my letter, "And you can have this,
when we've secured the vintage".
My heart sank, and I turned my lovely face to look for help from the prefects,
but all eight of them that were there, looked away. All of them that were there
were as much cowed by the bullying head girl as I was as the School Slag, so all
eight of them looked away.
............
It was the next evening that I found out what the head girl had been talking
about.
All that day, and consequently that evening still, I had been dressed in
wine-coloured clothing. I knew this to be something of an old school ritual. I
was part of an old school ritual and I was taking part in an old school ritual
connected with the spring.
My top comprised a cut-off, torn-off would be almost more appropriate, crop-top
t-shirt the bottom end of which was only just over my wonderful breasts, which
were of course, entirely bare. When I say only just over, I mean that it barely
covered my nudity and the under-curvature of my individual breasts was clearly
visible.
Half white and half wine-red, the two colours divided at my cleavage and
one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees opposite around my back. Over my right breast,
where the material was red-wine coloured, was the single word "Red" in white
lettering. Over my left breast, where the material was white, was the single
word "White" in red lettering.
This t-shirt would have left my arms bare. But this day my arms were not to be
bare. Instead on each arm, running up from fingertips to my armpits, I wore long
gloves. On my right arm the glove was white. On my left arm, the glove was
wine-red.
Under my skirt I wore suspenders that were, as you have no doubt already
guessed, half white and half wine-red and on my legs I gloried in stockings that
were also of the wine and white colours. On my left leg, the stocking was white.
On my right leg, the stocking was wine-red.
My make-up included red-wine coloured eye-shadow and dark-red-wine lipstick. And
then there was my skirt.
My skirt was so sexy. It was broad-striped in wine-red and white alternates. Its
top was a tight fit around my hips just above where, at the back, my hips became
my buttocks, but from the top it simply flared out in a stiff almost unyielding
wide circle with the hem so far out from me, like a rigid open lampshade or
open-ended bell, extending downward in depth no more than would a miniskirt, but
flared so far from its origins at my hips, that the whole glory of my suspenders
and stockings and the wine-red garter I wore atop the left stocking and, above
all, my girlmost attribute, the part of me that confirmed my undoubted girlness,
my virgin's quim, my love mound, my mound of Venus, my naughty little naughty
with its totally nude shaven shining gentle infolding tight lips, were on
constant blatant display.
And on my feet I wore foot-curving ballet shoes. My feet were curved, arched at
the sole in almost a semi-circle, by some kind of metal reinforcement within the
soles of my ballet-shoe type footwear, so that I stood murderously tiptoed
almost beyond tiptoe and so that my calves were arched even more divinely and my
buttock cheeks extremely heavily heavenly sexily deeply side-concaved. One shoe
was of course white and the other wine-red. On my right foot, the shoe was
white. On my left foot, the shoe was wine-red.
My glorious golden goddess' hair tumbled down to the hem of my stiff flared
open-bottomed skirt and beyond, looking for all the world like the train of a
fairy princess at her wedding.
All day I had felt so horny. To walk around dressed so that I was almost more
naked than if I were in fact naked turned me on terribly, and I had had no
concentration whatsoever for my test papers. Indeed, as I wore a skirt in which
I could not sit normally, special arrangements had had to be made for me to
place my beautiful bottom and precious purse petals on a high stool. Sitting
thus, I displayed all my stockinged legs and had finally been asked to sit at
the back of the examination hall so that I did not distract the other girls.
Even so, I noticed that the teachers invigilating had no reservations about
constantly ogling me and whispering to me as they passed by, that my legs were
supremely beautiful.
Horny all day I was feeling incredibly horny still as I swung my divine legs in
balletically poised dainty-tiptoed foot-angled-out perfection-of-femininity
steps. I was wiggle-walking to the prefects' quarters and my room. My wonderful
body with my naturally swaying bottom, each hemisphere rising and falling as it
was tensed and relaxed alternately as it bore my weight in the step and let go
in turn, my back arched, my breasts flowing freely and jiggering in their soft
firmness, I was a cornucopia combination of captivating curves.
I was girl. Girl has no plain surfaces. The world is curved; the galaxy is
curved; the universe is curved; heaven is curved; girl is curved. It is a girl's
curvature that makes our eyes pass so easily over her. We look at her and long
to know what is around the next supreme corner. And she is so curved there are
constantly more curves to corner. And if her curves take our eyes back to where
our eyes started their ecstatic journey, we are compelled to go over her again
in longing to lose our eyes in her amazing curves, her maze of curves, the
curved maze, her compelling constant curvature.
My lovely back-of-knee length hair fluttered in the breeze and lifted and flowed
from my head, twisting rising and falling gold filigree in any stronger wind. I
looked proud and haughty, super-tiptoed in my enforcedly curve-soled shoes,
walking without heels to rest with, on my big toes, the whole weight of my
divine body on my big toes within my shoes, the whole weight of my divine body
crushingly on my big toes.
I was not really being haughty but I was proud. My erect body super-tiptoed made
me look down on the smaller girls, but my genuine pretty smile and blushing
thanks at the torrent of compliments and appreciative whistles as I glided by,
affirmed I was my sweet innocent self and epitomising the dutiful School Slag by
providing the focus for the erotic needs of developing young bodies and minds.
No sooner was I in the prefecture, than the delightful dark-haired brown-eyed
Josephine, with whom I was still in love, gently grasped my gloved hand.
"Come on angel" she smiled lovingly at me, "We are to walk over to 'The Wicked
Wench' for the annual winemaking festival. All the other prefects and the head
girl are long since there already."
Despite Jo's delightful smile, I suddenly felt a little fear.
"It's out of bounds and I'm too young to drink...." I began to protest.
Jo's sweet face could never look threatening, but her brow furrowed momentarily
delightfully as she instructed, "You will do as you are told Melody. Do I make
myself clear?" I will whip your bum if I hear any more from you by way of
protest.
I gasped and blushed scarlet as the impact of the thought of having my bummy
beaten by the delightful Jo impacted my horny mind. I was still blushing at
knowing that she knew why I was blushing when I looked into her gorgeous brown
eyes and answered, "Yes mistress."
"There is nothing for you to worry about darling", Jo coaxed, with genuine love
for me in her gentle voice. "Deneel is doing the honours this year. You will
need to know what happens though for when it's your turn."
"Deneel was your predecessor bar one as the School Slag. She's almost as pretty
as you", Jo teased.
"Once a School Slag always a School Slag of course. They say that she's had to
come all the way back from touring Japan just for today. They also say she'll
lose her place in the company. But she has to obey the orders of the Old
Cathrinian's Hellgirl Club, for whom she must still Slag on demand even though
she is twenty now, and long since left school........."
All the while this conversation, if a one-sided fear-of-my-future provoking
monologue can ever be classed as a conversation, was going on, Josephine was
gently leading me by my gloved hand, in my swinging bottomed majestic all
curvaceous steppy-leggy super-tip-top-tiptoed wiggle-walk glide out toward the
school gates and The Wicked Wench. The Wicked Wench was a public house hired
exclusively once a year around Easter by the Hellgirl Club, a club established
some one-hundred years since, and still exclusively comprised of existing and
former prefects and teachers from St Catherine's Academy.
And as I wiggled irresistibly sexily along, I just knew that all eyes were drawn
to the beautiful tight side-dimpled bottom topping my ballet-tiptoe-torsioned
legs, longing to catch a glimpse of my heavenly completely shaven naked naughty
flashing between my girlmuscular thighs, and I felt so horny, so very very horny
at my own sexiness, my girlness, my being the extreme essence of girl: my being
girl.
It felt so strange to be out of the school gates at night, as opposed to in my
regular morning fitness runs. Butterflies turned in my belly, as I wiggle-walked
out of the gates in my nearly non-existent top and the fully-flared-out
all-revealing lampshade bell-skirt, blushing again at my awareness at one and
the same time of my near nudity, my sexiness, my vulnerability, my horny state,
my fear of what was coming, my fear I would be punished for going out of the
academy's bounds without a teacher's permission, the knowledge that I would
probably be the only one at The Wicked Wench who was under the legal age for
drinking alcohol, and the horror that I might be made to drink in breach of the
law, and thus be expelled from the academy with a blackened character as a
consequence.
As we drew closer to our goal, I heard loud laughter and a sad clear voice
protesting sweetly, "Please not again", followed by cheers and rhythmic
clapping, and then more loud cheers.
It all sounded terribly threatening, and I would have resisted going further had
it not been for my trust in Jo and the fact I knew that I would have my bare
bummy beaten if I did not obey her charming command.
"Maiden Mead", Jo announced, as if I should understand what she meant.
As we approached The Wicked Wench public house, a gorgeous auburn-haired girl
was leaving to attend to something in her car. This girl was definitely leaving
the public house to attend to something in her car, but then she caught sight of
my captivating body long-leggilly gliding toward her and she instantly stopped
in her tracks to ogle me.
"My goodness me!" she uttered in her open-mouthed astonishment, "I'd heard she
was stunning. This must be the new one. It is Melody isn't it?" she asked Jo.
"It is Melody", Jo smiled at the astonished young woman.
"I'd heard she was gorgeous but my heavens she's more than that!" came the
response as this admirer walked around my pirouetted body "What a pretty face,
incredible legs, and what wonderful hair. She's a dream!!"
I hung my head in deep blushing pride.
"You girls at the old acad are so damned lucky. I can't complain. In my time,
well, toward the end of my time anyway, we had Deneel. She's in there now, and
still very beautiful. She was the first girl I ever took to bed, Deneel", the
girl reminisced with obvious pleasure showing in her misting eyes. "Have you
bedded her, I mean this one? My god how could any girl sleep at night with her
in the same world let alone the same room or the same bed."
Jo was blushing and made no answer to what instantly, from the lack of a
response from her, was converted to a rhetorical question.
"How's it going in there?" Jo asked shyly, wanting to change the subject.
"Let's see. It's five in the afternoon now, and they started at six this
morning. They've done the five and are nearly ready for the sixth and last",
came the answer. "She's heavy on the red. Poor kid's been at it all day. I don't
know why they stick to just once a year myself." Then the young woman laughed at
herself. "Silly that. I'm a trained economist. I know the sale price is as high
as it is because they stick to once a year to make it even more special, and
then I ask why they just do it once a year......I'm such a clot sometimes....."
We moved on. Jo giggled divinely when we reached the narrow doorway of The
Wicked Wench and found that my lampshade skirt was too wide for me to enter
without a tight squeeze that almost threatened to crush the hem.
The restriction of the doorway successfully negotiated, I wiggle glided dainty
pretty-leggy stepping into a room where, perhaps because the day was so bright
outside, I had to have my eyes adjust themselves before I could really see what
was around me.
Though my eyes had to adjust, the eyes of those already there could see me very
clearly, and a hush fell. A hush fell. A momentary hush fell, as all eyes
focused on my face and my body, and then a cheer went up and tables were thumped
and wolf whistles blushed me to deep crimson once more.
"Sweet heaven, what a honey!" came an American accented voice.
My eyes were adjusting if not yet accustomed as eager girls sought a tall stool
for me to rest my deep dimpled bummy upon it. I thanked them for their kindness,
and lifted myself leggilly, to place my bare bottom on its sweat-making white
leather, the hem of my stiff open-bell skirt lifting to show my everything, so
that I must cross one divine thigh over the other to hide my nude shaven mystery
from compelled eyes and dainty noses seeking its site its sight and its scent.
My eyes were now fully attuned to the dim insides of The Wicked Wench and I
looked around at the faces of the young women admiring me, and to try and assess
what was going on: what the woman we had passed in the car park had been talking
about.
Jo sat alongside me as chaperone, and I felt comfort from her delightful and
lovely loving presence as she held one of my gloved hands.
There seemed to be nothing remarkable. The bar girl was very pretty. Her face
looked familiar. First of all I thought I'd known her as a neighbour in my
hometown, then I recalled she was, or at least had been, a cleaner at the
academy. So, that would be where I remembered her. I had not seen her lately.
Perhaps this was her new job and she'd given up the cleaning work.
The head mistress was there and several of the academy's staff. There were no
men there. Someone had been drinking a lot of cheap white wine. There were six
or eight bottles on just the one table, with one bottle as yet unopened. That
gaggle of girls, whoever they were, would have a heavy hangover on the morrow
that was for sure.
Then she came into view. She was staggering and she was staggering. My mouth
fell open in the instant of my first seeing her. She was stunning. I looked
around for confirmation that all other eyes were compulsorily stalked as mine
were by the presence moving toward me. I looked around also in disbelief that
the wonder that was wandering waywardly my way was real.
It was unbelievable that she could be real. It was unbelievable that she was
believable. She had my senses reeling. She was immeasurably exquisite. I felt
tears start in my eyes as heaven graced toward me.
She was what? She was a negress. She was five-feet seven maybe, and maybe 115
pounds at most. She was naked or almost. Jet-black hair below her shoulder
blades ran in the tightest of coiled scattered natural curls captivatingly
gloriously tossed over her face and one eye as if fresh scattered by a violent
storm.
And her face: oh her face! Heaven must have such a face. Her face was heaven.
Her high cheekbones bestowed eternity-outlasting beauty. Her eyes were as wild
as her hair. Deepest of deep deep brown they flicked shyly side to side as if
just overwhelmed by a looking glass vision of the veritable vision that was her
very own visage. Her mouth, oh that mouth, those lips so generous so gorgeous so
sweet and so loveable, forming as they did a permanently proffered kiss in their
gentle repose on her stunning face reposed.
This girl looked as if she were nature. She was nature personified. She was
tamed wildness.
Her figure was naturally divine. She had divinity from nature but had obviously
been sculpted by dance. There could be no doubt that this angel was a dancer.
Her body was lithe and supremely finely muscled from trained use and constant
renewing exercise.
Her belly, curved and smooth like the Venus she either was or if not outshone,
swept up to small firm perfect protuberances: angel's breasts, crowned with
chocolate pink nipples proud prominent and pertly pointing atop each heavenly
sub-mountain.
She moved with the puma's grace. Trained constrained power was packed in her
perfect limbs. Her legs, steepled like my own in the pirouetted permanence of
rigid curved-footed tiptoed torsion, were sculpted and delectably muscled
delightfully by dance. Her arms were long, slimly graceful and femininely
lightly muscle-toned. Her buttocks rock hard compact and deep side dimpled from
her tiptoe towering, were free of even an infinitesimal scintilla of surplus
fat.
She was a ballet dancer. There could be no doubt that this black beauty was a
ballet dancer. This pirouetted performer had been perfected by dance.
I gasped out loud when I saw her. I gasped because she astonished me. I gasped
because she astounded me. I gasped because she enraptured me. I instantly
instinctively turned to Jo for confirmation that I was really seeing what I was
seeing, but all I saw were Jo's eyes transfixed by this same girl, this girl of
girls, this epitome of girl, this pulchritudinous perfection personification.
I gasped again as the poor girl staggered, and I would have gasped once more if
I had been aware how much my honey was anointing the white leather on which my
perfect purse was poised, because of my desire for this heavenly vision.
Then I raised by pretty gloved free hand to my mouth and cried out in pain for
her. I cried out in sympathy for her. I saw her back. As Deneel staggered I saw
her back. She had been whipped. This glorious creation had been whipped, and her
poor back was bleeding.
I moved to get off my stool to tippy-top-tiptoe over and comfort her, but Jo
grasped my hand. "Pain is necessary for the perfection of the product", she told
me.
I still wanted to comfort this adorable creation, but Jo sensed my movement and
restrained me by taking a firmer grip on the hand she held.
"This is Maiden Mead time." Jo said. "She is very lovely isn't she? Deneel is a
dancer with the Ballet *****. They're out touring Japan at the moment."
"Who is Maiden Mead?" I asked gentle Jo, trusting she would not punish me for my
impertinence.
"You mean 'what is' not 'who is'", Jo responded in a conspiratorial whisper.
I raised my eyebrows and smiled to put the question in the "what is" in place of
the "who is" frame, and Jo simply smiled back as her face showed she was
composing a compact answer to lighten the darkness of my ignorance.
"Maiden Mead, is an extremely expensive exquisitely indulgent luxury. Neither
you nor I could afford it. It's been a product of the academy since it was a
nunnery. The nuns took a vow of poverty, but the nunnery that was the
predecessor of the academy had to be kept in repair somehow, and that meant
making some money from such earthly assets as the nuns had."
"I tried to look as if I understood what Jo was telling me and, as a
consequence, she told me no more and I remained mystified momentarily.
Then I recalled what Jo had said earlier when the horror of poor Deneel's
whipped back had stabbed pain into my heart for Deneel.
"Why is pain necessary? Jo turned to me..."For the Maiden Mead, you said
pain....." I reminded her.
"Ah yes" Jo responded, "The girl has to be in constant pain. She is usually
heavily whipped and then has her wounds salted before production begins. She
must also be menstruating of course. That's why it's tinged red. It's the very
essence of a girl you see. The pain is like for lobsters that go pink when they
drop them in live in boiling water. The pain makes the product perfect. It
ensures the girl is concentrated on producing the concentration you see."
I was no nearer an understanding than before I had begun to ask, and I was not
going to risk Jo's patience by pestering her again, so I sat silently and
pondered.
Deneel moved among the girls as if she were in a dream drugged or drunk. On her
staggeringly stupendous legs she staggered. She was clearly in pain and had
obviously been drinking alcohol very heavily.
"Please" she shyly uttered, "Please...."
"She's saying she's ready for the next one", Jo announced to my baffled mind.
"The girl we met outside said that this would be number six. I wonder if she
meant the end product or its immediate preliminary......", Jo mused.
The perfect Deneel stood swaying slightly, her ballet trained perfectly smooth
girlmuscle outlined legs parted. I noted she was near the table where I had
spotted the wine bottles.
"Please" her lovely negress' lips whispered, "Please...."
Two prefects grasped her arms to steady her and the headmistress moved toward
Deneel with some kind of funnel on the end of which was a clear glass bottle.
"You said you were ready last time" the headmistress curtly snapped, "You'd
better produce this time in full or I'll have you whipped again!"
At this, the headmistress gently removed a sealing self-adhesive bandage plaster
that completely covered Deneel's lovely nude love lips, before placing the
curved funnel over Deneel's beautiful shaven brown sex. And Deneel, furrowed her
pretty brow, before closing her eyes, and then letting go her urine, into the
funnel and thus the bottle.
"That's it sweetheart. You're doing just fine. Let it all come" the headmistress
encouraged. This is number five and one more round will be your duty done my
angel".
Then turning aside to one of the prefects holding Deneel the headmistress
audibly pronounced, "She's on a heavy month with the menstruum. This'll be a
classic and probably a premium I'd say".
The funnel was held in place till the last drip of urine was captured.
"You are an angel my darling" the headmistress praised. "One more round my
love."
I could hardly believe what happened next.
"Seal her," the headmistress instructed to a girl behind her, and a fresh
self-sticking plaster was used to cover Deneel's delectable cunt lips against
the escape of her menstruum I assumed, rightly.
"We can't take a risk" said the head and beckoned another girl to whom she then
handed the funnel after taking it from the top of the urine filled bottle.
Deneel, knowing she could not escape what was coming next, bent back her head so
that her tight curly hair fell like a mesmerising waterfall behind her, and
gagged as the funnel was placed in her wonderful mouth.
I gasped audibly as I watched what was happening and I creamed on my stool at
Deneel's sexually compelling comeliness.
Handling the bottle she held as if it were the nectar of the goddesses, the
headmistress began to pour and poor Deneel to cough and gurgle. It was horrible.
It was terrible. How could they do this to such an angel? Deneel was being made
to drink her own urine!!
I rose from my stool perch to go and aid the girl over whom I was head over
heels with infatuation.
"Hold it Melody. You mustn't interfere. This is Maiden Mead making day. It's a
tradition going back hundreds of years. It's not your place or mine to
interfere!" Josephine insistently grasped both my arms to sit me back down as
she instructed me thus.
"It starts with the white wine", Jo began, in order to fully enlighten me.
"Deneel's beautiful body processes a couple of bottles of the wine. Then, after
a time, she produces her own wine, and what was cheap white wine has become girl
wine. For perfection, Deneel's own wine, mixed with more white wine, must be
processed through her a minimum of six times over. Each time more white wine
washes her liquid gold and her mouth spittle into her, so she can convert it all
to girl wine too, mixing the fresh white wine with the girl wine that has
already gone through her before. This is the last cycle. And the product of this
cycle needs to be made into mead, and that is where you come in my angel. One
bottle is laid down every year. It has to ferment for ten years. We sell it by
auction on the internet now. Last year's bottle fetched a cool hundred thousand
dollar spot price when it was laid in the crypt to begin its ten year
fermentation! ......"
"You see" said Jo, "You see, except for her milk being impossible to obtain
because she is arid, it has to include every delightful girl-liquid Deneel
produces, her blood, her sweet sweat, her spittle, her menstruum, above all her
pee, and there is just one more that you need to help her produce when the times
comes for her to release the white wine and fifth-cycle girl-pee she has just
had poured into her. When she has processed those, this sixth and last time in
the heavenly still of her gorgeous body: mead needs honey".
The pee poured into the angel Deneel was followed funnelled into her, as she was
held fast by two strong prefects and as the headmistress did the slow pouring,
by another whole bottle of white wine. This was the eighth bottle she had been
forced to drink at the rate of nearly one bottle every two or three hours. Was
it any wonder that the poor girl staggered on her supremely superlative superb
legs?
The funnel was removed and Deneel released, only for her to have to be grasped
to save her cruelly whipped body falling to the ground with goodness knows what
harm to her perfection that risked. Even though nowhere near her, I reached as
by reflex to catch her and protect her, and thank goodness so did those who
could do for real that which I longed to do from the perch my pretty purse
perfected by its pressure upon it, as I sat sexily adorning it: my high stool.
Once more I wanted to rise from my stool, which was now heavily anointed with
the outpouring of honey from my naughty that my desire for Deneel's stunning
beauty was causing me to torrent. Once more I wanted to wiggle-step prettily
over and rescue the perfect negress as she struggled in her pain, her enforced
drunkenness, and with her beautiful body being used and abused as a processing
still for the wine that was the essence of girl: wine that could only be
produced by girl: Maiden Mead.
Deneel must have been near the end of her endurance. My eyes filled with tears
now as I caught full sight of her back. How horribly they had whipped her. She
was criss-crossed with open stripes of livid red that were still bleeding. And
they had salted her! They had rubbed salt into her open wounds to increase her
pain! Oh how I longed to kiss her wounds and sooth and comfort her!
My eyes were glued to Deneel's every move as she was allowed to tiptoe
wiggle-walk as gracefully as her drunken state would allow her, among the ogling
girls, who were as transfixed by this vision of heaven as I was.
Deneel was so inebriated by now and this eighth bottle of wine she had had
poured into her, that she had to hold onto tables and the bar to move around.
Nobody spoke to her, but all the eyes in the room being upon her, must have told
her that she was being adored, even though nobody dare look this vision directly
in her guilt making incredible deep dark brown eyes.
After but half-an-hour she opened the delectable lips that formed a
dark-petalled permanently proffered kiss on her adorable face in repose, and
pleaded with a, "Please", that she needed to urinate, only to be ordered to hold
her pee or else be whipped.
All the while I ran my eyes over and over Deneel's wonder, and that was all the
while, and my naughty was honeying, as I had never known it honey before. I had
glazed the leather of the stool on which I perched so thighilly prettily,
crossing and re-crossing my dreamy creamy long legs to hold in my horneyness,
and was letting out little sixteen-year-old schoolgirl girly-gasps of innocent
sexual arousal at my desire for the twenty-year-old ballet-princess, the black
beauty perfecting the world by her presence in it.
Such was my concentration upon Deneel that I only noticed at the last second
that the headmistress and the head girl were instructing Josephine to let go my
hand, and I was being made to stand long leggilly as I unavoidably must.
"We need honey for the mead," the headmistress reminded Jo, who obediently let
me go.
And, I stood tiptoed on tip-of tip-of-big-toes in my bent foot curved-back-sole
ballet shoe shod pretty feet, my long legs locked back at their dimpled knees,
and thunder in the stupendous power of my thighs, my skirt flared rigidly out to
the hem of the lampshade bell it formed, to be the mockery of a skirt hiding
nothing of the glory of my tightly tensioned derriere so delectable dimpled, my
smooth shining slit so sinfully shaved, and above it my bare belly so flat and
yet curved up to bountiful breasts, and my face so angelic with girlhood's silk
soft complexion, my mouth prettily agape and my eyes showing the sin I was in as
honey was flowing in my naughty. Then I was led, to cheers from the all the
girls In The Wicked Wench to centre floor.
And being brought to meet me centre stage, was the non-pareille negress, Deneel,
her devil-deep-down-brown eyes wandering and wondering, too drunk perhaps to
even notice me, and how I longed for this ballet-tiptoed perfection swaying on
her plus-perfect dance-trained dance-honed girl-muscular legs, to notice me. And
I was ordered to arouse her. I was ordered to arouse Deneel. I was instructed to
kiss heaven on heaven's heavenly lips. And I willingly longingly tried to reach
this angel, but my hem; the hem of my stiff lampshade-flared-out-bell-skirt
prevented me. And so I bent stiff-long-lissom-leggy-legged at my hips and
therefore instantly flashed, openly displayed behind me, my honeying naughty so
sinfully sexily shaven nude to confirm my innocence, the innocence of a virgin
sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, visibly wantonly slavering sex-honey from her
secret slit, as she bent to kiss the lips of heaven, Deneel's lovely mouth.
And I took Deneel in my gloved hands at her shoulders not daring to touch her
cruelly whipped back in my longing to show her compassion and gentleness. And I
felt the searing heat of her, the heat of a girl on heat, the heat of a
menstruating girl, the heat of a menstruating angel. And she became aware of me,
my heaven shone at me with focused kaleidoscopic devil deep brown eyes that drew
me in with overwhelming compulsion of desire and wanton want and naked need as
they glowed with pleading for my tenderness in her suffering, and I reached my
face to kiss her burning lips, I reached to kiss heaven on earth, and she
responded and reached up to kiss me with embrace fire and passion of pursed lips
that caused my honey to trickle from the tightly sealed lips of my love slit, so
blatantly displayed between my wonderful thighs as I bent over straight-legged.
And my love honey dribbled down my legs to pool at my feet. And I felt her
nipples pulse and peak. I felt Deneel's nipples pulse and peak. I felt Deneel's
body yield and I heard her gasp for breath to kiss me again and lose herself in
the passion of desire of girl for girl, of angel for angel, the highest passion,
the passion of all the angels of heaven.
And suddenly we were being parted. We were being spilt asunder. I was being
dashed down from heaven. I was being cast out and down. My heavenly angel Deneel
was being dragged from me. I had made honey run in her heaven's hollow, and she
was ready to have her honey mix with her girl-wine: she was secreting the
heavenly honey needed to make the Maiden Mead. And so she was ripped, aroused by
me, from me, and had the sealing strip torn from her honeying heaven hole, and
the funnel placed to catch her torrent as she loosed in waterfalling abundance
her girl-wine, six-times recycled through her divine body, mixed with her
menstruum her spittle, her perspiration, and now her heavenly honey, her
girl-honey, the ultimate in her girl secretions, to supply the nectar of the
goddesses, to be laid down treasured and guarded with life for ten years to
perfect its power through fermentation: that rarest and finest of supremely fine
wines known only to the connoisseur of connoisseurs within the cognoscente:
Maiden Mead.
