2084

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 6 – Of Service

"…Cab 357: go to George Square and pick up a Ms Serena Redhead, and her husbandgirl: that's George Square for a Ms Serena Redhead please 357…….", came Sugar's pleasant friendly tones in Amanda's earphone.

"………357 on its way now………" Amanda obediently replied, as she set her erotically powerful, powerful legs to work once more: Amanda the long-leggy-legged Girl-Cab motor.

And as Amanda's beautiful legs circled the cycle as she cycled the circle to cycle the circuitous route to her next call of duty, the astounding beauty of Amanda's captured captivating body proved once and for all, that were there an eighth ninth and tenth wonder of the world, they would each and all be a girl: just as all the others are, were, and must be forever for ever!

Amanda was human. Amanda was emotion: Amanda had brains, a heart, feelings. She was more than aware of the humiliation she endured strapped to this machine for the sole purpose of employing her legs purposely erotically as well as, almost coincidentally it sometimes seemed, functionally.

……………….

Yellow Pretties had grabbed a huge hold on the market as soon as their first machines had appeared on the streets. Elspeth Zanori, the founding owner of the Le Rosbif restaurant chain, had another super-success on her hands.

The mundane journey by rickshaw had all but become a thing of the past. Why endure the boring slow jerky tug of a girl pulling you along in a rickshaw, when you could enjoy the smooth speedy ride, and the wonderful view of luscious legs in emotional motion, from the seat of a Girl-Cab?

Besides, a Girl-Cab carried two side-by-side, and a woman could cuddle, caress, and kiss her girlfriend as they were speeded along.

Girl-Cabs were now the fashionable vehicles of choice for couples. Amanda had often been hired for the evening. Waiting outside the best restaurants on standby whilst her hirers enjoyed their tryst, could mean long tedious hours; unless another cab was on hire to the same location, so the cab "motors" could park nearby each other and have a surreptitious girly-chat.

Pretties were also used long distance. Glasgow to Edinburgh was a favourite. Visiting American girls also loved to tour Edinburgh, and would hire the likes of Amanda to transport them for the day, or even a whole weekend.

On such long journeys, there was an additional stipulation in the contract of hire, that the Girl-Cab's "motor" must be refuelled by giving it one nosebag of food in every 24-hours; but, even though the nosebags were provided with ready made-up contents in them, it was surprising how often the women hiring the cabs forgot to feed the cab's motor.

Fortunately, they had her own milk to draw on, but sometimes, or so Amanda had heard, cab's motors were taken advantage of, and girls on a night out would take the engine's bra off, and suck its tits to drink its milk for their own pleasure, and then not put its bra back afterwards, so that its milk would eventually begin to dribble down its breasts and drip to the floor, helplessly, hopelessly wasted!

A cab returned with "damage" such as this, was supposed to have been compensated for, by the $10 deposit left by the hirers being withheld. But that was rarely insisted upon: Yellow Pretties had competition and the customers might go elsewhere next time: or so the thinking went.

Over time, the rickshaws had found their niche in the market. Short hauls were rickshaw territory; medium to long hauls the all but sole province of the Pretties now.

But rickshaws had only kept their one remaining niche by charging so little they could barely make a profit, and by making the girls that pulled them, do so nearly completely naked, as an attraction. By contrast, Yellow Pretties' prices had doubled, till rivals, particularly 'Chequered Pretties', had driven the market price down again.

Chequered Pretties had added "complimentary wine" to their attraction. An additional pipe had been run down from the black-and-white-check rubber-knickers of the girls made to be the engines of Chequered Pretties' cabs, so that the engine's pee would fill a bottle: a bottle on offer free for the passengers to enjoy at will.

But "Wine Divine", the weekly column authored under the pen name "Bacchanalian" in the prestigious national paper for Scotland, 'The Scotswoman', had complained …………

"Novel only in the means of its delivery and arrival, 'taxi wine', shall we call it, is decidedly nouvelle naïf and novice. We all enjoy the ochre and sepulchral nose of the wine of a well-worked girl, but to serve such a wonder in its pre-youth and unchilled, is a travesty verging on the criminal. And to deliver such a joy of enjoyment through crude crass tubes, is to invoke a distinctly rubbery poise nose and subliminal noise, in what, were we in the spirit world, should be comparable with the very finest of fine crystal-clear cognac.

What an unfortunate contrast with the latest Californian Girladoc, produced by free-range girls imbibing the purest springwater and selectest fresh citrus fruits, as they are hard worked treading the luscious grapes they are urged to glory with their silvern silken sprinkles as they tread their busy way all day.

This sennight then, I have tasted splendid blended heaven, and bland boring hell."

………..And so Chequered Pretties had found themselves pouring gallons of actually extremely good girl-wine away.

…………….

As her supreme dream legs pedalled Cab 357 to pick up the two passengers she had been directed toward, Amanda reflected on her enforced subservience and the use she, an extremely gifted and intelligent young woman, was being put to.

She was just a functional decoration, her lovely legs stretched to tiptoe, and folded to tit height, and stretched to tiptoe, and folded to tit height, and stretched to tiptoe, and folded to tit height, and stretched to tiptoe, and folded to tit height, as she pedalled, a compulsive attraction to draw passengers on by turning them on.

Of course she knew she was lucky. After the hell of twelve-months hard labour, as a dropout student, a failed waitress, and a self-dismissed personal maid who had breached her contract, society would have had her cast on the scrap-heap and had indeed done just that.

She had had such chances in life as, from 2084 onwards; society offered a girl of her origin and consequent class. She may be a classic beauty, but she was an unintended and unwelcome side-product of the brothels, and a female side-product at that; so society had no use for her other than the uses it had offered her and she had singularly signally failed to adequately fulfil.

Was what she was forced to do now, her last opportunity to make herself useful? Being enslaved like this was at least better than working the coalmines. But for this too, her body was being abused, even to the extent of her being brought on to lactation in order to provide for the long range and long hours she was expected to cover as the motor of her Girl-Cab.

…………………

Amanda peed in her rubber panties as she cycled supremely orgasmic circles with her long legs. Amanda peed in her rubber panties because she wanted to do so. She wanted that night, as every night now, to offer her slice to Genutha, prepared the way Genutha loved it: steeped all day in girl-wine.

At least Genutha was love; or was she?

Amanda enjoyed sex with Genutha, whose tongue was wickedly accomplished. She felt deep affection for the sensitive vulnerable girl. But perhaps Genutha repeated the story of her caning at school, and how ashamed she had been at cumming under its taste, just a little too often. It was appalling and appealing; but it was now fast going past palling.

Amanda's spiritual and characterful depth and dimension, also contrasted so with Genutha's hollow shallowness.

Amanda lay in bed with Genutha every night now; when neither of them was on 24-hour duty that is of course. But Genutha had no conversation other than which film starlet or singeress she had had in the cab that day, or the latest happenings in "Celebrity Wrestling" or "Tart Town", the soap opera currently taking the TV ratings by storm.

At least Genutha and Amanda could both agree that the girl acting the part of the Girl-Cab motor in "Tart Town", had no idea what she was doing, and that no Girl-Cab had pedals that short; but the rest of Genutha's conversation was for Amanda unreservedly the equivalent of an undeserved dessert of desert dissertations.

No: this was self-indulgence. Amanda knew she should be grateful for the little she had, and Genutha's skilful tongue, the thought of which, as Amanda pedalled, was making Amanda's clitty pulse in her slitty.

She must think of something else: something perhaps, like the very attractive redhead she had just spotted in the near distance: the redhead who must surely be the would-be passenger she had been directed to pick up.

…………Oh my goodness it was Siabon!

The realisation had dawned on Amanda's subconscious mind before she gave it voice in her foremind: it was Siabon. Oh my goodness it was Siabon. Siabon who had been Amanda's fellow hard-labour prisoner not yet five months ago.

Amanda's loving heart filled with joy as she drew the cab up alongside her passenger to be. She wanted to shout out a loving greeting, but knew it was not her place to do so, and something about the look on Siabon's face said that, although Siabon knew it was Amanda, Amanda must keep her own counsel.

"Cab 357 picking up Ms Serena Redhead at George Square" Amanda whispered into her microphone.

"Cab 357 received and understood. Ms Redhead and her husbandgirl are to be taken to Claremont Gardens: repeat Claremont Gardens. Okay Amanda?" Amanda heard in her earpiece.

"Cab 357 to take two passengers George Square to Claremont Gardens", Amanda confirmed in sweet contralto answer.

Sadness had overtaken Amanda once more. Here she was with Siabon, for some reason calling herself "Serena Redhead", entirely within greeting distance; and yet Amanda was obliged to stay silent unless she was spoken to.

Then, when another girl appeared on the seen, Amanda had hardly noticed her.

Amanda had hardly noticed the new girl. But that was only at first, for this girl was absolutely astonishing. A cool calm clearly collected confident maybe 26-year-old blonde, with her hair cropped to shimmering shining cut-corn-stubble, she wore a 'business suit' in dark blue and black pinstripe, skirt and jacket both, black stockings, the tops of which were stretched by suspenders peeping below the hem of her very-mini miniskirt, 7-inch heeled black kid-leather stilettos, and a white blouse, buttoned to the neck and at lace-cuff-bestrewn wrists, with a necktie Amanda recognised as being that of a graduate of Maidenhead College, University of Camford: Amanda's own alma mater.

This Amanda knew was Michaela Redhead, the youngest fellow of Clitoris Hood College, Camford, a girl who had graduated with a double-starred double-first from Maidenhead College at sixteen, and had been lecturing at H****** in the USA, when Amanda had been up at Maidenhead.

Amanda felt her heart melt. Oh girl! Oh girl!! was Michaela beautiful!!!

Amanda had seen Michaela's portrait when she had dined at Clitoris College Hall as a guest of her then girlfriend. Now she could see Michaela for real, and Michaela was incomparably incomparable.

Suddenly distant Genutha and close-at-hand Siabon were both forgotten, as Amanda found herself staring almost open-mouthed, longing to be noticed, only turning her longing eyes away from Michaela momentarily, to check that she, Amanda, was displaying her lovely legs at their most dangerous languorous best.

Michaela's cornflower-blue eyes hardly looked at Amanda, but Amanda was hooked: Amanda was hooked lined and sinkered.

"What a very attractive cab-girl", Amanda heard Michaela saying, as if in Amanda's dreams, as she felt her pulse racing, her heart pounding, and her purse purring.

At the soft sweet sound of these words, Amanda instantly lowered her sweet eyes in flush of blush like a newly-teenaged girl given her very very-first compliment.

"Serena Siabon Redhead, you are one darn clever little honey!" Michaela continued as she kissed Siabon on the forehead with lips that Amanda looked up with shy deep-brown eyes to see, praying to have that mouth preying on her own willing oral orifice.

Amanda had been out of circulation. She had not heard the gossip and the 'tut tutting' behind the headline: " Boffin Prof In Ex-Maid Marriage Scandal ". The newspapers had made a meal of it.

Michaela had a heart as gentle as her brain was brilliant. Seeing Siabon was being beaten up by prostitutes, who had thought Siabon was seeking to steal their patch in the Glasgow "pink light district", she had driven them off with her swordstick, and quite literally swept Siabon up into her girly arms.

Michaela had then called a Girl-Cab, taken Siabon home to comfort her, and they had wound up in bed. And they had been in bed almost ever since, save for an hour at the altar when Serena Siabon O'Neil, had become Serena Siabon Redhead, a transformation sealed with a kiss.

The lovely Professor Michaela Redhead, might have been brilliant of mind, but too long a time staring at electronic books had clearly kept her ignorant of the wiles of winsome women on gainful warpath.

Siabon, being an ex-convictess, had decided to revert to using her first name in thin disguise of who she really was, and her recent herstory, and was now answering to "Serena", her given name too, but a name she had hitherto always hated, in favour of first use of her second name: "Siabon".

Serena Siabon had never asked what Michaela had been doing drifting around in the pink light district, and Michaela Redhead therefore did not have to confess her enjoyment of feeling guilty about enjoying tawdry sex.

And, for her part Michaela's thinking presently was, until the urge to despoil herself took over again: 'Why would she, Michaela, need now to pursue tawdry sex on the streets when, to her mind, in regard to her wife of but one week's standing, she was now enjoying tawdry sex at home?'

Of course Serena Siabon had said "yes" to Michaela's proposal of marriage. Serena Siabon was otherwise without work, food, shelter, or hope: she had just been thrown out of gaol.

And Serena Siabon's confidence in the love of Michaela was growing too; perhaps too quickly if Serena Siabon did but reflect, as she was not wont to do………

………."Honey?" this the voice of Serena Siabon who, along with Michaela, was now sitting on the rubber covered bench seat of Girl-Cab 357, fascinated with the glory of Amanda's extremely supremely lovely legs, as Amanda propelled her passengers smoothly along.

"Honey?" this the voice of Serena Siabon once again.

"Yes sweetheart", came the warm calm tones of Michaela, sending a coincidentally echoing excited shuddering shivering quiver down Amanda's shapely spine.

"………..Nothing", answered Serena Siabon.

"………..What kind of nothing sweetheart?" Michaela teased gently, feeling herself to have won that particular exchange of womanly guiles, before it had got past the opening serve.

Finding herself outgirlmoeuvred, Serena Siabon knew she must now get to her point quickly, or else lose the game and, probably, this particular set of girl and husbandgirl metaphorical conversational tennis.

"……….Well…remember how you said we could afford our own auto, and how you could pick up a good second-hand Girl-Cab for next to nothing on the dollar scale………" Serena Siabon wheedled.

"Go on: say it………." Michaela lovingly laughingly teased.

"If not as just a car, we could use her as a maid……….She's got great legs", Serena Siabon teased in return.

"But we don't even know if she's for sale, and why this one anyways?" Michaela mock exasperated in response.

"Please! Please! Please! You could find out……….", Serena Siabon goaled.

Then came a silence and Amanda's legs nearly turned to jelly as she thought of the kiss Serena Siabon was undoubtedly receiving from Michaela, full on her oh-god-how-lucky lucky mouth.

…………………

Being discussed was disgusting. Amanda heard her body being discussed as if she had no right or say in her sale. That was right: she had no right: right?

Amanda of course knew that Serena Siabon was merely really, trying to help her fellow former prisoner. Serena Siabon would know that Amanda had to be "an illegal". Serena Siabon would know that, having been before the courts and served her hard labour, Amanda was denied employment, even unpaid employment, even the employment she endured as a Girl-Cab motor.

"I'll wear the white silk stockings please Amanda".

Amanda cycled with lovely long leg strokes from long lovely legs, knowing she was best advised to take the help Serena Siabon was engineering for her; but feeling she was letting Sugar down by so doing, if she so did, and knowing she must betray Genutha who loved Amanda; if Amanda not she in any way more than naturally Amanda's gentle way.

"Oh please look at my naughty slavering shiny slippery shaven succulently sliced slit!"

The sale was agreed. Sugar knew too that it was for Amanda's best. But Michaela and Serena Siabon could not have the Girl-Cab framework Amanda was mounted within, even second-hand. That was the property of Yellow-Pretties. However, Sugar knew the circles where old cab cycles went for recycling, and a second-hand new framework for Amanda's height and build was eventually found.

Amanda had never ever felt like this before.

…………………

Amanda had never ever felt like this before.

Amanda's new position was legal. Amanda was no longer an illegal: she was now a slave.

"Whereas Amanda Heavensent (also known as the maid 'Mary') an unintended by-product of the 'Sensation Brothel' of Sauchehall Street in the City of Glasgow, having served her term as prisoner of the state in the year calendar 2084, and being thereby and therethrough deprived of all rights legal common citizenry and humane, it is hereby declared that the said Amanda Heavensent is made the slave absolute of Professor Michaela Redhead and her wife Serena Siabon Redhead of 'The Old Manse' Claremont Gardens Glasgow Scotland, pending only upheld objections. All intended objections shall be referred, on Girl-Ministry Form SLA36/24/36 – 'Enslavement Objection Registration – Pre-Court' - to Messrs Smith, Smith, and Smith, Attorneys at Law, within 30 days from the date of this notice, the expiry of the said 30 day notice whereafter objectionless giving effect absolute to the enslavement aforesaid."

This was but one of 200 such notices appearing in the Saturday edition of 'The Scotswoman' newspaper, under the name address and other details of "Messrs Smith, Smith, and Smith, Attorneys at Law", alone. Other legal firms had other girls listed by the hundreds also. Other pages in the paper showed already sometime-since-enslaved girls up for subsequent resale.

From 2084 onwards, girls were entirely regularly enslaved in this manner. All the law required was that no objections be raised within the thirty days required of a publicly published notice in legal form.

However, if objections came up, it could be an age getting a hearing at the Girl-Courts, and thus, more often than not, the case was not pursued: cost and time and trouble being judged to be hardly worthwhile. There were plenty of other girls available to enslave, so why bother with one that was going to cost money and time to secure? The fact that the poor girl in question would probably have to resort to prostitution, or else starve, was of no consequence. Objections were an obstacle not worth leaping. Objections just made a girl, quite literally, more trouble than she was worth.

"I'll wear the white silk stockings please Amanda".

It had been six-months now.

Amanda's notice in 'The Scotswoman' had resulted in no objections. The majority of potential slaves were nodded through like this. Amanda was now five months become, since thirty-day notice expiry, legally a slave enslaved.

Amanda curtsied to Michaela, and rose tiptoed supremely and extremely-extremely on extremely supremely dreamy legs, stretched on tiptop-of-tiptoe in her curved-back–soled steel-reinforced balletic shoes: shoes in which she could only balance, and only just balance, as she must and as she was forced, on the top-tip-top-tip-top of her big toes, and her big toes alone, so that her big toes took all 100-pounds of the all-girl Amanda, as her body glided and side-to-sided her bottom, with swishes and swaying producing sexual enticement, inducing incitement and excitement.

Amanda was bare-legged brown strong and bountifully boundlessly beautiful in her little maid's outfit.

Michaela liked Amanda dressed chiefly cheaply to cheapen her.

Her one concession to expense was Amanda's glass brassiere. Michaela loved breasts: she was a "tits girl". Amanda's enormous endowments were supremely erotic to Michaela, and she wanted them on display, day-by-day, all day, in all ways always visible to enjoy.

Around her supremely naturally slim waist, Amanda wore an open-bell skirt. It was of bright-yellow rigid plastic, swelling stiffly out, so as to hide nothing of the delights Amanda would hide were she able, beneath it.

Amanda's skirt, micro-mini and sinfully sinny, rigidly belled like an opened flower inverted, with her tension-dimpled-bummy as bell clapper or flower's stamen and pistils. And it skirted her with a hem down to bottom of her bottom height, but so far out from her bottom that were she to bend, she would send a sensational message unavoidable, of her vulnerable availability for penetration by the nation, had it the notion.

"I'll wear the white silk stockings please Amanda".

Amanda wore a glass brassiere. Her supreme bosoms were contained and lifted and thrust before her, in the finest of blown-glass half-globes that shaped her tits profoundly roundly and massively, and from which her enormous nipples were pressed through purposeful holes, hard sweating and swollen, and showing their sensational aureole brown-pink, with her milk being dammed with plugs, so that her tits swelled to fill the transparent glass bells, as she suffered a lactating dammed damsel's damned hell.

Amanda was to serve table for Michaela and Serena Siabon, and had been made to go without being milked for three whole extremely painful days now.

Of necessity, to keep her in milk, Amanda as slave, had hitherto been milked twice daily by Serena Siabon. Serena Siabon, as a wife-girl, had charge of the Redhead household's servants and slaves, of which Amanda was but one. Amanda's milk contributed to the rich and varied diet of the Redhead household. As Amanda was not allowed to touch herself, her breasts must be squeezed dry twice per day by Serena Siabon, or the Redhead household's chef, a charming French girl, Nanette.

Amanda had been taken as a slave, and her owners wanted not only her milk, but also her wine and her chocolat. Amanda thus had continued to take her lactation pills, so that her breasts filled: so she could fulfil and spill her white delight in glass or saucepan or basin, for her owners to consume or use to make the delights they were to have served by Amanda this very evening, including cheese that Amanda had been made to make from her own milk, tincture drizzled with her own wine and a soupcon of her own chocolat, as the semi-concluding course

Amanda was in agony: agony not only from her swollen breasts, but because she was deeply deeply in love.

Amanda had never ever felt like this before.

Amanda's breasts hurt terribly, with a constant ache of pain from their swelling, with her ducts being full of the milk she had purposely not been relieved of at Nanette's instructions. The little chef, still an apprentice but clearly highly talented, wanted to produce 'Latte Rouge' and had instructed that Amanda's nipples be plugged, and that she not be milked for at least three days prior to the feast.

This need not even be mentioned to her gourmand mistress, Michaela, whose rapid rise in the ranks of academe was assured, and who saw the free-range given to her chef to produce the delights she did at dinner parties, designed to impress, as necessity not needing second thought on her part.

To prepare her delights Nanette had also insisted that Amanda be fed, for one whole month now since, only on pure milk-chocolate, and distilled rainwater. And these instructions too, had been obeyed to the letter by Serena Siabon. Amanda's obedience being without question least of all enquiry of Amanda: as Amanda's cooperation was unquestionably guaranteed, as Amanda had no choice.

Amanda had never ever felt like this before.

Amanda was in adoration of Michaela. She longed for a look, she craved for a touch, she cried and sighed for a word or a whisper of a whisper of a wisp of one syllable that would allow her to reveal the love she felt for this wonderful but wonderful blonde.

Amanda was a slave also enslaved by her love. She must contain and restrain every grain, and go insane, for not saying or showing what she was not allowed to say or show, and would never know if her love knew.

Amanda could not look her mistress in the eyes to flash her love by Morse's loveliest lamps. Nor could Amanda smile her love with her lonely lips, negress-kiss-compelling-come-on-and-kiss-me-mouthed though she was. Amanda had no right to speak unless she was spoken to first, and no expectation, remotely possible, that she would ever be allowed to say this side of her grave to Michaela: "I love you".

Amanda was a slave and her mistress had more right to spit on her, than Amanda to tell her mistress, even in the slightest way subliminally, the sensation she had, from her pounding pulses and heaving heart whenever Michaela appeared, let alone when she neared.

Amanda had never ever felt like this before. Her love was for the stronger woman with the higher intellect. She wanted the protection that Michaela's confidence, gifted accomplishment, and guaranteed earning-power afforded. But above all she also wanted merely to touch Michaela in the minimum of minimalist way: oh god please make it today!

If only Michaela would notice her and see her as more than merely a lovely face and sensational body. Of course it was an honour and a pleasure to treasure, to be on display all day the way her mistress wanted her. But this would ever be the overture, and the opera would never begin for Amanda, so in need of the sin of touch upon her love's cream dream skin.

Amanda was in agony. She was deeply deeply in love.

"I'll wear the white silk stockings please Amanda", Michaela ordered, and Amanda curtsied and wiggle-swayed her way, in her one-inch hobble, tiptoe wiggling, with her bottom supremely deep side-dimpled, simply to fetch her mistress' choice of the evening's stockings.

At the dressing table's draws, eyes lowered, Amanda bent, and her straight legged bending lifted the hem of her bell-skirt clear of her rear, and she cried inside: "Oh please look at my naughty slavering shiny slippery shaven succulently sliced slit!"

Amanda knew she was flashing her vertical smile, her trump card, the centre of her love, her warmth her moistness her succulence. Yet she knew too, that though it drew Michaela's eyes, and she could sense their delight, as they glanced the heaven between the sigh-high thighs of Amanda's bent over body, she, Amanda, must not linger as she longed to, to seduce, for she, Amanda, had no right to the love she felt so profoundly.

Were she free she could have been saucy and naughty, and wiggled her bottom, and lingered to let Michaela's eyes have feast.

Were she free she could then have straightened and turned and smiled, or let her shyness prevail, and leave Michaela to assail her with an embrace and kisses that would cause dual juices to flow, and knowledge to be sought with hands and fingers and loving lips.

But Amanda was now a slave. Amanda was now owned. She was human only coincidentally. Amanda was an item of goods of marketable value. Amanda took divine human shape and supreme human form, but these merely added to her market value, rather than marking her out as remarkable, in any sense that would have value among the people that now owned her and used her.

As a slave, Amanda must be celibate. Amanda knew that she might never ever again make love with another girl. Amanda knew that her sensual feelings were of no account: that her physical needs for sexual release were unanswerable, because she had no right to have them answered.

Amanda was a healthy girl who simply loved to masturbate herself to the highest of pleasures; but it was now totally forbidden her.  Michaela had warned Amanda that she would whip her if ever she were caught touching herself.

Michaela loved the power she had over Amanda. Michaela did not know that her power came in considerable part now, from the astounding pounding love that beat in Amanda's poor heart for her.

The power that Michaela enjoyed, was the darkness of psychological submission she could impose, with gentle politeness and kind consideration.

Michaela had in fact never yet whipped Amanda. Six strokes of a rattan cane had never yet kissed Amanda's squirming bummy, raising wicked welts and making her bottom bleed.

But Amanda knew that when Michaela told her she would be whipped if she were caught touching herself, Michaela really and truly meant it. And the threat of punishment she had never yet experienced at Michaela's hands, was mentally more ensuring of Amanda's obedience, than if she had in fact been whipped by Michaela in realisation of the promise and threat.

Amanda's swollen unmilked breasts hurt horribly, and yet the pain was forgotten almost as if enjoyed rather than endured, as she bent straight legged to flash her wickedly wanton shaven slice, before Michaela's wide shot pupilled eyes, as she, Amanda, bent to pick up her mistress' choice of stockings.

By her glass-cupped brassiere, Amanda's breasts were thrust out like conical mountains. They filled the bra's cups to overspilling with their natural enormity. And through the circle holes at the ends of her bra's cups, Amanda's huge nipples poked and provoked: pained with the plastic plugs in her nipple holes to dam her, and condemn her to hold her milk fast within her ducts, though it would pour forth were it obedient to nature rather than Nanette the chef's purposeful nurture.

And to be so swollen hurt. Amanda felt as if her breasts must burst. Amanda thought it a marvel that her nipple plugs did not shoot out like bullets from a gun, such pressure did she have mounting in her mountainous bosoms.

Amanda's nipples shone with the moistness of perspiration, representing as they did, the only means of her lovely skin breathing, where the rest of her breast was glass encased. And her nipples were showing the pain she was in, in each tit, and both tits.

And Amanda straightened and turned, and tiptoe-wiggle-hip-swung her long leggy legged way to her love and her mistress united in one, and humbled her head, as she lowered her chin to hide her eyes from sin within, to curtsey and present the white silk stockings to her mistress.

"Put them on me Amanda please" Michaela ordered.

Oh god was ever torture more cruel than Amanda's now, for she must bestocking her mistress and her love, without meaningfully touching her lovely legs. Her mistress watched Amanda's nimble long slim fingers roll one stocking up, for its role of being unrolled up the leg of a supremely attractive girl to adorn her: she that Amanda adored.

And Amanda's face must be red-Indian emotionless, but not insolent, or suggestive in the least of anything other than willing obedience, as she wiggled to side her love, sat with bare leg and foot reached out outstretched, to put the rolled up stocking over toes dainty, and unfurl it slowly on leg saintly.

Amanda was used to performing such duties. She had shaved her mistress' legs and bikini-line only that morning, and more recently this evening, fitted her mistress' choice of brassiere and rolled her micro-panties on to her. But there was something extra-especially erotic to Amanda, about the rolling of fine stockings on to Michaela's curvy legs.

Of course there would be touch. How could Amanda perform these intimacies without touching her mistress? And at each touch Amanda's poor heart would leap, and her pulse race, and her face fight not to show, the electricity that shot her through with a whole quiverfull of Cupid's arrows, as her touches must be businesslike, and accidental, and coincidental to the function she was to perform, though mental torment to the love whom she was with white silk stockings to adorn.

This was torture to Amanda. She could not say, she could not show, she could not convey with touch, her touching love for Michaela, a Michaela so oblivious to the lust and longing she had stirred in the glorious negress, that she was even now merely talking on her mobile phone, even as Amanda fixed the suspenders to the second of Michaela's stockings, and wriggle-wiggled around in front of her mistress and longed for love, to curtsy and await her next order: her heart's pounding compounded and her breathing astounded, as her face must not fluster and her thoughts not muster to other than her slave duties: the duties to which she was equal for the mistress to whom she was not.

"Thank you Amanda: that will be all for now", said the sound of her love's loving warmth, in a voice that filled Amanda's dreams, till she wet-dreamed of schemes impossible.

"Thank you my lady", Amanda whispered routinely, compulsorily neutral of the high emotion she felt, as she curtsied to the love of her life, and went to get herself prepared to serve table.

…………………

At table before guests Amanda bent and bowed, and was bowed by the bow, as she poured generous flows of her very own chilled silken soft sprinkles: her salt-citric-Sauterne, into a guests' glasses to recharge her mistress host, and her mistress' guests.

The wine of girl, Amanda's wine, was being sipped with reverence, as the guests replete, finished with the penultimate item on the menu: "Bisque Femme au Fromage".

"Bisque Femme au Fromage" A baked biscuit of Amanda's chocolate based chocolat, slivered with slices of cheese manufactured from Amanda's milk, and then marbled with the marvel of her menses: cheese made from Amanda's milk and then charged through with droplets of her monthly discharge, before being salted with the supreme sensation of trickles of her girl-sweat.

At table before guests Amanda bent and bowed, and was bowed by the bow she wore, as she poured generous flows of her very own chilled silken soft sprinkles: her Sauterne, into guests' glasses to recharge her mistress host, and her mistress' wife, and her mistress' guests.

Amanda wore a bow. Amanda was a violin with a string within playing her to sin.

Amanda's huge bosom glass-cupped bra-encased, forefronted her front, without affront to the onlookers, who sensation sought, and saw the tremendous tits, full and painfully swollen, bounteously near seemingly to bursting, with Amanda's unmilked milk.

Amanda snaked her hips as she wiggled on toe-tips in curved balletic shoes, that carved her legs to curves of conspicuous consequence in their consequent femininity, as her shoes fantasticated them fantasticality: for Amanda's legs were among the beautiful of the beautiful, even without their enhancement steepling to lend curves to their gracefully disturbingly sexy and sensational stunning curves.

Amanda was hobbled at the ankle with a ratchet hobble, making her place each tip-top-of-tiptoed foot exactly before the other, in alternative turn, in order to be able to walk, for no release from the ratchet at each ankle was given, till she met this enforced stipulation, making her wiggle the more, in sensationally sexual bum rotation, as she carried her tray of food or glasses of soft sweet wine to her guests, her superiors.

With the three-inch wiggle-ratchet on her dainty ankles, Amanda must pass one orgasmically wonderful long leg before the other, to swing-rotate her hips even more that she did in nature to adore, as she daintied the floor with her flawless 100-pounds of wholly holy female femininity.

The ratchets were in each ankle cuff, with a rigid bar between the cuffs. The wearer must pass one dainty foot exactly in front of the other as she walked, as only by doing so were the demands of the one-way ratchets fulfilled. The ratchets would only allow one foot to be advanced at a time. They would also only allow a forward step: the girl wearing a ratchet-hobble could only walk forwards one step at a time, and must advance her chosen leg, the choice of two equal beauties, beyond the grip of the ratchet dictating forward motion, till the ratchet had fulfilled its function, and allowed the advance of the other lovely leg.

A girl in a ratchet-hobble must walk adagio, performing by even this most natural of human motion, her locomotion in slow motion, causing emotion and commotion as she danced in veritable ballet in sway, on her obedient way.

And thus did Amanda's hips swivel all the way all the day, as she ground her slit with her thighs, by rotating her legs routinely before her, to tiptoe balance, as she swivelled her next enormously strong and enormously beautiful limb exactly before her in turn, to 'stand' momentarily, legs crossed and feet in exact aligned line, before she could bless the ground she adorned with her grace, with her next swivelled tip-top-tiptoe robotic erotic step.

And Amanda was being played by a bow, as she swayed to persuade that this wonder of wonders could only be what god made, as you prayed that your eyes should not be blinded, so as to be unable to see this she of shes.

And Amanda was being played by a bow, as she swayed and stepped one lovely foot robotically erotically to the fore, to adorn the floor, as her tiptoes blessed it with her delightful light-full lightness.

No wasted poundage she in tiptoed heavenliness not heaviness, with sweet finesse in her all-girl mass: a mass worthy of prayer to thank the goddess who made her thus this, a walking kiss.

Amanda was being played by a bow like the violin she out-shaped with her curves: with her neck more swan than a violin's upon, and a waist less waste than that instrument's unblessed comparative excess.

Amanda was being played by a bow like the violin she out-shaped, being more curved than Cremona's finest contrastingly useless ukulele. No Antonio Stradivari could shape such sensation as she, or string and stretch sinew with such worldly other-worldly supremity.

In the rear and at the front of her tightly squeezed waist, was the bow that played her. This bow was long. It was a longbow. This was no pretty bow as in ribbon tied; it was a bow for arrows as in hunter's hide: and it hid its string snug in her snick.

The tight wooden hoop-band at Amanda's waist-rear, included one tensioned half of the bow out horizontal at the middle of her back, the other alike torsioned half, being at the front of her. In essence combined, they comprised two strong, curved, multi-ply Yew wood, spring-wooded arms, of a bow that was fitted at Amanda's front and rear, between which a string could be drawn and intentionally tensioned tight.

And the longbow-like bow ends, Amanda wore thrusting out fore and aft of her, were originally curved upwards prior to their bending from stringing.

And the longbow-like bow ends Amanda wore, had been bent down and strung with a strong bowstring, and the string's tension released to slap into her snick and tease and please her, and play her like the very least vile of viols, as her every movement ran the bowstring within her moist most intimate instrument, and was instrumental in her mental torment, as it drew along inner-lips soft and supersensitive to the music it plucked from her, as it fucked her, and as her moisture consequent, rosined the string that played across and up and down her sex's sexual wings.

And Amanda's natural wiggle was enhanced as the bow string supremely tight, taught her walk the pleasure of pain from the rub of the insistent persistent longbow, strongbow, bent and pulled up within her intimacy, to play her like a one-girl orchestra, with every little move she made.

And the ratchet-hobble necessitating Amanda's erotically robotic adagio steps, played into the violin bow's intentions, as its tension rubbed her intentionally constantly, to constantly consciously arouse her publicly, and thus to defile and humiliate her, and thus to add to her sexually complicated uncomplicated compliment of compulsive eroticisms.

The bowstring was hard up Amanda's nick. The bow arms front and rear bent back from being curled up prior to the stringing, so powerfully did they pull upon and tension the string drawn up within Amanda to delight the onlooker, who could only imagine the pain this torment must be causing, the angel who wiggled on tiptoes in a slow glide before them, to serve them subserviently, with the delights of her unsurpassably lovely face and unexceedably wonderful negress-brown body.

The bowstring had slapped intentionally in-tension immense, intently tight, and was now dividing the banks of Amanda's unrivalled rivulet spring, with its string making her sing with sin, as she swayed, and it played her soft insides with pleasures she just could not hide, though her face only showed righteous pride in her holy wholly feminine wonder.

Amanda graced across the floor, and the string of the bow she wore, the string tensioned tight with the might of the pull of the two halves of the bow arms before and aft of her, was pulled hard up in her slit, and it had played all eve on her emotional hormones, till mental whore-moans showed in her gentle face, as she was bowing herself like the violin of heaven, with her every wiggle, and bend, and bow, and curtsy, as she slavishly slave for her mistress behaved.

"Latte Rouge" was the last item on the menu.

Michaela prepared.

Amanda's glass brassiere cups covered her immense tits as she stood obediently. These cups of transparent glass so as to hide nothing of the magnificently mountainous scenery in Amanda's upland regions.

Plugs temporarily in her teats where Amanda's sensationally sensitive nipples were boldly visible bare, poking pressed out so hard from the open ends of the globes of glass that contained and restrained her enormous wonders.

"Latte Rouge" was the last item on the menu.

Two underservants held Amanda's wrists behind her, as Michaela rose from the table and came to the "violin-bowed" to near-orgasm girl, of profound negress-brown beauty.

"Latte Rouge" was the last item on the menu.

And Amanda was cupped by a secondary bra of transparent plastic over her glass globes. And Amanda screeched with eyes wide-open as Michaela lifted her truncheon and smacked it down hard to smash the glass of Amanda's original bra within the over-bra. And Amanda nearly buckled at her lovely knees with the pain, as Michaela brought the truncheon down again and again, to smash the glass globe cups of Amanda's now under-bra, and drive the razor sharp shards into Amanda's supreme softness, so that she screamed as she streamed with blood within the hood of her temporary second over-brassiere. Within the hood of her temporary second brassiere, Amanda's breasts were spiked and ripped as the glass was smashed, until it was slivered splinters, that entered Amanda, to rip and tear her to tears of terrible torment. And then Michaela put aside her truncheon, only to rub Amanda's bloodied and bleeding breasts with gloved hands, now that her glass globes were smithereened, so as to drive the shards of glass within the outer bra still contained, into Amanda's sensational breasts more fully and extraction-never-after assuredly, and to increase Amanda's howling with the horrendous and terrifying pain. And Michaela now ripped off the outer bra, its purpose having been served to contain the smashed glass to pain the girl, and took a cigar-cutter with which, each in turn, she casually nicked off the ends off each of Amanda's nipples, in turn also thus pulling out the plugs damming Amanda's tit-nipple-tips. And Amanda's three-day pent-up milk began to flow, and mix inexorably with her streaming fresh blood and her screaming. And Michaela squeezed the middles of Amanda's tits to force her milk the more from her. And Michaela ripped off the remains of Amanda's original bra, so that Amanda's fresh milk and blood trickled white and red down Amanda's tortured brown body, as Amanda screeched with pain, and again with the gain of the dammed-up milk squirting from her, to run the curve under her graceful tits, and onto her firm belly and into her navel, as the guests gathered to lick her profoundly brown body, of the white-and-red "Latte Rouge" the host had tortured from her beautiful maid. And Amanda had whispered as Michaela had worked the glass slivers into her tits. And Amanda had whispered in agony of ecstasy to Michaela, as Michaela had razored her tits with the glass shards in the over-bra, and as Michaela had nipped off her nipple-tips and rubbed and tugged Amanda's tits to torture the "Latte Rouge" from her. Amanda had dared to whisper to Michaela: "I love you my lady: I love you", and had had her face slapped hard for her insolence, even as she had begun to cum, and had the remains of her under-bra whipped off, so that her milk and blood poured, and her body was adored by tongues arduously amorous galore, licking and lapping her red and white mix, and wanting to dare her nicked nipples, to draw the blood and milk of "Latte Rouge", dribbling unstoppably from its succulently suckable sources. And Amanda, highly strung, had felt the gain from the pain of the bow that had strummed her most musical instrument constantly: the tight string drawn up so hard into her intimacy, with which she had been violed relentlessness conspicuously constantly, by its musk rosined string, so mightily tightly pulled hard up into her nick, to bow and scrape her in her inner-lips, inescapably to incapability, in cum-teetered surrender-pending crescendo tremendous. And the pain of her bowing by the bowstring that played her violin within, at last screamed Amanda to high pitch C fortissimo, as her love juices streamed feeling Michaela's lips kiss her bloodied-milk-streaming left nipple: and Amanda had cum with a scream of a dream come true, as her love sucked her, and the string of her bow played her violin violently violatingly vibrato tremolo, as Michaela suckled her of milk and blood, and blood and milk: of "Latte Rouge" to Amanda's perfect pitch high-C fortissimo-fortissimo soprano scream-squeal of ecstatic pain…………