2084

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 7 – Imbalance

Love was not without its price. But that price was surely way too high in anyone's opinion bar Amanda's. Amanda no longer smiled.

Amanda no longer smiled. Amanda no longer laughed. Amanda's gorgeous face no longer shone with the shear joy of being alive: of being a girl. Amanda's lips still cried out to be kissed, but her gentle eyes did not sparkle with the champagne of her shear girlity anymore.

Now, only an occasional ray sparked this daughter of heaven, so that lightening flashed once more from her lighthouse beacons, with the return of her nucleonic radiant radiation: shear devastation: the look that would turn the hearts Amanda, the “she” in the word “she”, the “girl” in the word “girl”, had already melted, into vaporised love and longing for her.

Amanda was girl, and girl is, of course, naturally used to leaving total devastation in her wake. Amanda could not help that her very presence caused earthquake, or that her absence thereafter only heartache. She could not help that she brought joy and lifeworthlivingness. She was girl, and girl lights and warms the world incomparably; not the silly sallow sun: girl is the sun the moon and the stars.

The only worth of the sun is its gravity to keep the earth in orbit. And the only worth in the earth continuing its annual sun circle cycle, is that it contains girl, the creature created by creation for procreation. The finest creation of creation: creation herself: the ultimate of perfection: the proof that perfection is attainable: the goddesses that princess our humble lives.

Amanda no longer smiled. Love can be such a serious business.

The cruelty meted out to Amanda at Michaela's dinner-party had only increased Amanda's love for Michaela: the highest love of all loves had pierced Amanda's heart: the love of a girl for her fellow perfect perfection: another girl.

It was not that Amanda was incapable of loving boy. She had adored the joy of boys' favourite toy in her dark tunnel. Amanda had willingly given bum. Amanda had felt no shame in having her beautiful bottom fucked.

Her boyfriend, Simon, had given her the joy of enduring the slow poking of her tightest pocket. That constant feeling of being spilt asunder by a spit that her body would eject were it able, but which forced itself upon her and within her, be she willing or un, as it ploughed the valley between her fabulously provoking undulatory mountains: the monuments with which her every mere motion teased and tested with taunting temptation.

A girl with a bottom as pert and provocative as Amanda's was bound to get it fucked: that she should get it shafted and enjoy it was a bonus. No rapist could have resisted turning Amanda over to pound her pert posterior. Simon had had the joy of cumming in her deepest darkness, ripping and paining her for his gain, again and again, and Amanda had been gently and sweetly game for this game.

Amanda's bum should have been forbidden fruit, but she delighted in knowing she had been naughty with it. To be at a party holding hands with a boy, talking with her fellow-girls about love and sex, knowing that no other girl there would dare have given a boy the ultimate joy of his toy in the tunnel of deepest darkest sin, did not abash the superlative Amanda, who felt no blush or shame in giving boy this game, and would, even there and then be rubbing him, surreptitiously deliciously, with her delightful derriere, so he would know she was there bare below the thin material of her dress or skirt or jeans, materially handy and randy, ready to go, even as his crop was being teased inexorably aloft by Amanda's every womanly warm wild wiles, wriggling, wiggling, stationary never, all-too-knowingly stroking, stoking, and provoking: being girl in fact: being girl in deed: indeed being girl.

And yet Amanda's pleasure at having her beautiful brown bum fucked, had never ever been replete with a cum for her. There was only sacrifice in it for her; and its blood, and its pain.

Amanda's brilliantly keen mind would never have admitted that she just loved having her bum impaled, because it was a secret sacred indulgence. Amanda's bum was forbidden fruit not plucked but fructuously fucked, and thus tasted all the sweeter to both the penis that poled it, and to Amanda's subliminal wicked inner-girl-innocent-and-sweet-mischievousness.

To have her sphincter sundered with no more preliminary lubrication that her lover's spittle was sacrifice. Pain was certain. But Amanda was a girl who needed pain. Not openly would she ever admit to such, but secretly, so secretly it was even hidden from Amanda herself, Amanda was made even more beautiful by pain and sacrifice, and gave her beautiful brow bum bountifully to be “nailed”, so that man might thereby live.

And, just as she had no shame, and why should she, at having her bum shagged, so Amanda had no shame at loving girl. Amanda was a giver. Amanda received by giving. If her incredible beauty provoked another girl, Amanda gave. What right had Amanda not to give the gift that the goddess who created her had blessed her with the benefit to bestow?

But Amanda's love for Michaela was perversely reversed. Even at twenty, Amanda was experiencing the first time she had ever had her love unrequited by another girl. It hurt. Amanda no longer smiled.

Amanda wanted to save the purest pure gold of her girl's smile for Michaela, in order to show the love for which Michaela was oh so obviously oblivious. But Amanda would thus just bank her smiles and earn no interest; just as her interest was spurned by Michaela.

Insofar as Michaela saw Amanda at all, it was as a slave. Amanda was Michaela's slave in fact. One did not pay heed to slaves. Slaves had no right to feelings for goodness sake! Any rights slaves had had, they had foregone by letting themselves become slaves in the first place. If one began to worry about slaves, one could only do so at the expense of those who really mattered in this world, and that would never do.

……………

Despite her unfortunate choice of wife in ex-convictess Serena Siabon, Professor Michaela Redhead had arrived socially.

The highest calling for the moneyed, intellectually gifted, and / or artistically talented woman, was and still is, the Clitton Club. Founded in 1684 in London, the Clitton Club had opened a subsidiary in Glasgow in 1884, and Michaela had been admitted as an associate member at the Glasgow offshoot's double-centenary year.

One had to be careful about seeking to join such a prestigious organisation. One heard so often, though it was meant to be kept completely secret, of women who had been blacknippled. Women who had sought election to the elect, but had had their selection rejected by the full-members in plenary session, by one member or more slipping into the secret ballot box, the conical marker of her choice: white for “yes” not being the choice over black for “no”, and with no second chances allowed.

The Clitton Club was decidedly not for every woman. The Clitton Club was the most exclusive club in the country: be the country in question England or Scotland.

To be discovered making even indirect-indirect enquiries about joining the Clitton, was to ensure ones being blacknippled: shunned and expelled forever from what one had never in fact even been allowed to enter in the first place.

A girl got into the Clitton only by being selected and elected by the existing membership. Only the cleverest and best were invited. One did not turn down the invitation to join either; any more than one turned down an account with the extremely exclusive Lady Love Lady Co Bank Limited.

In this at least Michaela admired Amanda. To arrive fully on the very highest of the high social scene, one had to be at least an associate member of the Clitton. To arrive at the Clitton in anything less than the sleekest and slickest of automobiles was to risk a back-step. For Michaela to have the supreme advantage of owning a girl-car pedalled by the extreme supreme graceful wonder of a girl like Amanda, therefore sustained her, Michaela, high in the esteem of her fellow members.

A clearly envious, indeed jealous, admirer was observing to Michaela one evening outside the Clitton, discussing Michaela's girl-motor: Amanda, braless and in rubber crimson hotpants, her nipples plugged to stop her milk seeping……..A dowdy frumpily dressed young girl, a member of the Clitton: a full member and not merely an associate member, which latter was Michaela's only achievement to date, walked around the vehicle within the frame of which Amanda was bound, with her beautiful legs tiptoed on the peddles four-feet-apart.

Amanda was being admired. Amanda was being admired not as a girl, so much as a piece of machinery: the literal driving force of Michaela's girl-car…….

“Very sleek: very sleek indeed! One has always thought of getting a bleck one oneself”.

“Totally, but totally scwumptious legs on it: waaarther!”

The bleck ones are so much more ethletic they say! But is it worth paying the extra mark-up for one though: thet's what one really wants to know: what?”

“What'll this one do I wonder. Bet its got stemina: the bleck one's are so good in the old stemina stakes, even when only naturally espirated like this little model.”

“Got huge tit-tanks on it too. Bet it does demned good miles-per-litre. Must be very self-sufficient with the old fuellers: what!”

“Bet it's better on the long rens, then the odd little shopping twips about the old town: eh?”

“With those legs it must do forty-miles-per-hour easily on the apen-road.”

I suppose it's worth the secrifice of the extra corst for a bleck one”.

They heve to be a little temperamental these sporty models though, what? And this one looks a frisky little number. What is it I wonder; eighteen or nineteen perheps?”

“Gorgeous masthead. If it weren't a mere motor-gel slut, those superb lips would be worth a kiss any-day: Waaaather, eh?!!”

“Maind you though: Melissa hez a bleck one. She say's it's a sullen little slut, and a beggar to get going from cayled especially on a demp dey!”

This was the only side of the conversation that Amanda could hear as the frump and Michaela strolled around her, because she was being obliged to listen to a conversational monologue, from this very attractive brunette young-woman in brown tweed micro-miniskirt and matching jacket: gingham shirt tight-buttoned full length to her neck beneath the jacket, self-support brown woollen stockings half-up her very pretty thighs, and with a monocle over one sparklingly startlingly grey eye.

This pretty girl, from the English upper-classes was no more than sixteen, but she dressed as if she were forty. She was evidently full of admiration for Amanda and all but thinking out loud, as Michaela just listened, having no other choice, to this frump's ruminative rhetorical recitation.

Michaela had arrived socially. She may only be but an associate member for the present, but full membership of the Clitton beckoned come its due time. It needed the retirement or death of one of the one-hundred core-committee: the so-called “elect”: the full members of the Scottish Branch. Michaela was young: time must literally tell in her favour.

“You really ought to do something about those tyres Michaela. Those treadless “slicks” you have on the bleck girl are jolly well illegallers don't you know: what?” Amanda heard, as her mistress and the dowdy but very attractive frump sauntered into the club together, leaving Amanda to wait among the girl-cars parked on the main road outside, until such time as Michaela might choose to end her evening: most probably, yet again, in the early hours of the upcoming morning.

“Would you like to take her for a spin?” Michaela quietly enquired of the frump.

“Would I ?!! Waaather!” came the answer, “But one is too young for a dwiving licence….”

“You don't need a licence to drive on private land. I'll bring her over to your estate” Michaela smoothed.

“You wouldn't!? Oh what a sweet gel you are Michaela!”

“Not tonight if you don't mind Cecile, but I'll let you take her for a solo spin if you wish” Michaela coaxed purposefully: her support for full-membership, on which Cecile, as a full-member already, had a say and vote after all, never very far from mind in what she said and did to and for Cecile.

“Michaela! Oh Michaela! That would be so scwumptious! Oh please!” Cecile was heard by Amanda to gasp-gabble, as the two members, one “full”, one as yet but an “associate”, strolled nonchalantly into the Clitton's main entrance.

Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope was, by far, the wealthiest girl in Britain: heiress to the Tiapaolin (pronounced “Marpin”) estates. It was said that her mother, the Duchess, coincidentally favouring Japanese girls, owned two slaves for every day of the year. It had been the Duchess of Tiapaolin who had seen through the so-called “2084 clean-up laws” making soliciting for the purposes of prostitution a punishable offence.

“A dollar a feel!”

“A dollar a feel: it's shaven!”

Michaela had not originally set out to cultivate Cecile's support. It had just happened that the two girls had hit it off so well together: Michaela the brilliant intellectual mind, and Cecile, no dullard, but whose comparative lack of academic attainment was only the result of a tendency toward the laziness that such a fabulously wealthy girl could indulge.

Michaela herself was, of course, from a family of wealthy farmers who owned vineyard-girls and herds of girloxen. More than one-quarter of the girl-milk on the supermarket shelves came from the estates farmed by Michaela's mother: so too, almost, with all the best selling girl-wines.

Michaela's family was therefore “trade”. In olden days, the likes of Michaela would never have been allowed to truly mix with the likes of the Duchess Infanta Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope of Tiapaolin, but even the full Duchess herself, the sexy frumps mother, had had to lower her standards. The Duchess now owned the state brothels, having snapped up the shares when the government had decided to raise money by privatising them.

The Duchess had seen no conflict in owning brothels and living from the income from them, even whilst promoting legislation to outlaw prostitution. After all, the street hookers she had successfully sought to have banned, were competition for her brothels. This was so, even though the brothels were for the men of the country to have their relief in, whilst the street girls plied their trade with other girls. The Duchess knew the risk that even the bovine menfolk of post 2084 Britain, might one day latch on to using the street girls for their weekly one-minute-at-most one-sided pleasures.

“A dollar a feel!”

“A dollar a feel: it's shaven!”

……………

The Clitton Club, even at its entry, smelt of mulled wine, cigars, and leather.

“Good evening Miss Cecile and Miss Michaela”, Amanda heard an obsequious very feminine voice, voice to the two Clitton members as they entered its familiar luxury.

“We have your usual table should care to honour us by dining within our humble portals, my ladies”.

“We'll take dinner at 20.30,” Cecile peremptorily instructed……………

…………….

After dinner prepared by the new French chef, their seat in the smoking lounge comprised twin Nubians. Cecile and Michaela nestled comfortably in the chair these unfortunate girls were forced to form. The Nubians lay on their backs on the floor. They had had their thighs drawn up and strapped such that they were tied to their upper bodies, and to the floor. Their lower legs were bound at the ankles and tied to the wall against which their heads also rested.

The backs of their beautiful long thighs and of their lower legs combined, thus formed, respectively, the seat and the back of a black “leather” chair: the black “leather” chair on which Cecile and Amanda settled back, replete from a meal concluded with milk fresh and direct from the super-firm breasts of a fourteen-year-old virgin schoolgirl. This milk-girl had been so sweet: pretty as any picture, and so incredibly shy.

Despite herself, Michaela with her micro-miniskirt lifted off her perfectly poignantly pert bottom, let alone her excelling excellent thighs, found the warmth and smoothness of the thighs of the Nubian slut forming the seat of the chair on which she perched her highly erotic highly intelligent beauty, was turning her on, as was the sight she and Cecile glanced at casually, as they discussed their comparative prowess at golf.

As Cecile and Michaela sat on the naked Nubians chair, they watched a girl swimming in a wine-tank. Michaela had been indifferent to the idea, but Cecile had wanted to taste the little angel's fear-wine. Cecile's instructions not being possible to disobey, behind the scenes the lovely shy fourteen-year-schoolgirl, whose milk the girls had sucked after their meal, had been immediately stripped more completely naked and forced into the tank.

The tank was full of Scottish mountain stream water. The water flowed into the wine-tank insistently steadily from a header tank, and from its being pumped in a circle via a chiller, from the lower tank back to the header again, and so round and round.

To breath, the girl must swallow the water so as to ensure a control valve in her tank would stay open to let air continue to come in. To keep from the bitter chill of the wickedly cold water, the girl must swim. If she failed to swallow the water continuously, the valve that let in air for her to breath would close, and she would drown. The girl must also retain her wine. If she peed in the water it would fill the tank to close the air-flap valve, and she would undoubtedly die. As it was she must fill herself with water such that her bladder would be as near popping as any party balloon on a piping-hot day.

The poor little angel would be drinking without thirst: drinking till she was sure she must burst. She would be drinking and swallowing desperately, wallowing in the oh so bitterly cold Scottish stream water, and gulping it with her heavenly unkissed lips, so that it would pass through her virgin schoolgirls' body and thus, the mere product of a Scottish highland trickling stream, be transformed to the soft silken smooth pleasure of a girl's treasure: her golden piss, her silvern pee, her pussy piss, her she-pee, the wine of the goddesses from the carafe of a goddess: the wine accompanied by the swish hiss of her piss singing as a girl pours her largesse, unreining the rain with which she reigns the world: her golden treasure, richer than avarice with its specific spices and its spicy specifics, purer than the honeybee queen's honey, her potent pee: her waters filled with the aroma of feminine hormones, the nectar of nectars: her girl's wine: her girl-pee: girl-wine: the wine of all wines: the intoxicant pumped from the upper heart of her cunt: the wicked trickle she produces to seduce us to worship her, as if she need add such a gloriously glistening incidental to her infallible unfailing recipe.

Once the poor girl's terror and horror and fight against hypothermia was over, and the timing of that would be at the whim of club member Cecile: her wine would be garnered. The dreadful trauma would ensure that the schoolgirl's wine would be deliciously tinge-tanged with her terrible fear of the certainty of death if she failed to drink, or if she let go her pee in the tank.

When, at long last, her shivering quivering body was fished from the tank, and she stood, thankful to be still alive, dripping Scottish mountain stream water and her angel's tears, goose-pimpled, teeth chattering uncontrollably, her legs shaking, her knees twitching a St Vitas, she would be ordered to release her pure gold personal waters, for Cecile and Michaela to sip and enjoy, from a carafe accompanied by the amazingly crafted crystal glasses the Clitton Club was famed for.

“A dollar a feel!”

One of the statuesque Nubian girls bound up to form the club's smoking lounge chairs, let out a gasp of terrible pain, as an obscenely fat woman sat on the backs of the Nubian's fabulous thighs, and leaned back on her glorious calves, pressing the black girls toes into the wall she was backed up against.

Michaela heard this not. The Nubian would undoubtedly be whipped later for her insolence. Michaela thought about that not. Michaela was distracted.

The club's servants curtsied to Cecile and Michaela after, to Cecile's dismissively airily wafted general directions, they had positioned the tank with the schoolgirl in it fighting not to drown, so that Cecile and Michaela could enjoy watching the schoolgirl's struggles and thinking of the joy of her wine in due time.

Michaela was distracted. Cecile put this down to the rich meal they had just jointly delighted in.

At the click of Cecile's fingers a cigar-girl approached and curtsied. As with all the club's servants, she wore the club uniform of tank-top, pleated micro-mini-skirt and ballerinarising shoes, all in crimson kid-leather. This girl was one of Cecile's favourites. Again, as with all the club's servants, her head was shaven completely bald but, unlike almost all the other girls serving in the Clitton though, this girl had not had her slit shaved. Her pubic hair was an incredible delight. It dangled, fully one-foot down in long pitch-black curly ringlets of impossible intertwining complexity. She bore a tray, bearing her wares, horizontally at her waist's very slim midriff level, the tray hanging from a single crimson strap looping around the back of her graceful neck.

“Your wishes my lady?” the girl with the wonderful pubic hair whispered as she curtsied submissively.

“Havana and anoint it. Give it five”, Cecile snapped dismissively.

Used to being spoken to so cruelly abruptly, the girl took a large Havana cigar from its protective tube, bit off its end with her lovely white teeth, swallowing that she had bitten off, and then proceeded to moisten the bitten-off end of the cigar, by inserting it into her vagina and gently working it within her to arouse herself and thus give it her intimate flavour.

Table-girls crawled on their bound up legs. Each table-girl had had her ankles strapped to her upper thighs near her crutch. She wore crimson leather kneepads and crimson mittens. On her back was strapped a lipped rectangular dark oak elaborately carved tray, that formed a table for which the girl was literally the legs, when she crawled into and “stood” on the points of her knees and the flats of her pretty hands, in position, her beautiful breasts gravitationally pointed by being gracefully pulled, by no means disappointedly, straight down.

In anticipation of the cigar's ash and the wine from the girl in the tank being eventually served, an exceptionally pretty black-girl table-girl wiggled across, crawling into place to act as Michaela and Cecile's table, the loveliness of her pert mouth lips almost a match for the unmatchable poised pout of the unmitigatingly kissable lips of the glorious Amanda. The Clitton prided itself on such observant quiet efficiency, and the extreme beauty of the cream of the dream slave girls it employed to serve its honoured customers.

Then, an extremely long-legged six-foot-five-inch tall Russian girl, next wiggled over, and placed a crystal glass ashtray on the girl-table, curtsying as she did so, and as the cigar-girl continued to masturbate herself among her superlative pubic tangle, readying Cecile's upcoming smoke. Such super-efficient foresight was what the Clitton Club was world-famed for.

Michaela was distracted.

Michaela rose from her half of the twin-Nubian seat, and glided over to where a girl, one of five, was bent over at the waist like an inverted “L”, tied with her pretty mouth fixed to a steel rail gag that she shared with her four companions: a rail gag that occasionally spurted into the lovely mouths of the five girls, water that they must drink to “top them up”.

From the rear of the girl of Michaela's choice, and her four fellow beauties, protruded a pipe that entered her slot. These pipes were also supported by a rail. Michaela picked up an exquisitely-fine bone-China cup-and-saucer, and casually operated an upright lever at the end of the pipe protruding from a black girl's cunt, to draw off some of the chosen girl's wine: hot and fragrant, and fresh from the girl, a truly lovely negress.

This was a pee-girl, this was a “tea-girl”. Michaela seemed lost in thought as she walked around to the front of the same girl, put her delicate cup below the negress' right nipple, and squeezed her breast to infuse milk into the hot wine, to make hot wine tea.

And yet, after but one sip of the deliriously delicious concoction, Michaela simply put her cup-and-saucer down on the tea-girl's achingly artistically arched slim back, and returned herself to her seat on the smoothness and warmth of the lovely shining black Nubian girl's thighs.

“A dollar a feel!”

“A dollar a feel: it's shaven!”

……………….

The Girl-Police loved to patrol outside the Clitton Club, and Constabless Miranda Fulsome had just found the perfect find to make her evening worthwhile: a girl-car with illegal bald tyres.

All those rich bitches inside the club, with all their fine wine and fancy cigars, were a target for resentful revenge in the minds of the poorly paid Girl-Police. After all, you joined the Girl-Police so as to avoid becoming a victim of those vipers. Most Girl-Police constablesses were from poorer families. Many of their sisters had ended up as girloxen, or in the Duchess of Tiapaolin's brothels.

If they wanted to keep their jobs, the Girl-Police had to do the bidding of their superiors, but part of their jobs was, in the clear view of the Girl-Police themselves at least, to ensure that the cliché that: “all are equal before the law”, had meaning, by treating “the toffs” as they called their superiors in scoff, unequally, in favour of finding all they could by way of wrong needing righting, so as to avenge their sisteren.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome had a particular motive for revenge. Her fourteen-year-old kid-sister, Apina, had been chosen to have her milk brought on, so that she could be used as a tit-girl inside the Clitton Club itself, giving her lovely little virgin's titties to the toffs, for the toffs to suck-off her kid-sisters milk, as an post prandial pleasure.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome was an angry young woman. Had she known that, even as she was writing out a ticket for the girl-car with the illegal tyres, her lovely little sister was fighting against the bitter cold water and being all-but drowned in a wine-tank, the Clitton Club might have seen a wild and angry invasion from one very strong young woman Girl-Police officer.

Miranda Fulsome checked the vehicle's registration number over her radio: finding the owner's name to put on her charge sheet. She then, having completed the multi-part form, tore off the front page, licked the glue with which it's reverse side was painted, and slapped the sticky side on Amanda's lovely left thigh, so the girls back at the station house would know the charge, before radioing the tow-truck to have this girl-car taken into the station house pound.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome had moved on when, two-minutes later, Michaela Redhead appeared from the club's oak-panelled doorway. Slinking across to the parked-up Amanda, she immediately noticed the ticket on Amanda's gorgeous thigh, and simple ripped it off and, without reading it, screwed it into a ball and tossed into a rain-drain.

“Balantine Street” Michaela ordered and, obedient to her love's every whim, Amanda began, once Michaela was suitably suited and seated in the seat, to peddle with her stupendously lovely lower limbs in the direction Michaela's order dictated her girl-car must go.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome was around the corner, sitting with companions on the tow-truck, as the lovely Amanda peddled her mistress to her wished-for destination.

As the gorgeous Amanda pedalled her awesome legs by the tow truck crew and Miranda, taking an unofficial chat break, Miranda all but instructed: “I think we're on to summat if we follow dem”.

“You ent a sarge yet, Mirra me gel, I ent gonna tek no orders from you”, the truculent truck driveress insisted, inevitably truculently, but with friendly jest in her rough gruff tone.

“No”, Miranda Fulsome uttered distractedly but audibly, “But I ‘eard where der goin'. We cud get a two-in-one ‘ere: a prozzy, and a fuckin' illegal motor an' all!” she joyed, her voice rising slowly as she reached her goal in her imagination.

“Oh, all fuckin' right den; but you is fuckin' doin' all der fuckin' paperwork!” the truck driveress insisted, as if offering a deal.

“Done!” Miranda laughed, and the truck began to follow the rapidly disappearing but never disappointing Amanda.

“Where dey off to anyvey?” asked the driveress.

“Balantine Street”, Miranda answered quietly.

“So vye didn't you fuckin' say so den?” comicked the truckess, with glee that catching two-girls-with-one-stone was indeed in prospect, and a “tallyho!” was in order, as the hunt for sinning cunts was on.

………….

Glorious old-gold autumnal in torrential twisting flow, it tumbled, a veil, a cape, then a train, from crown to ankle, in a mesmerising tangle of coiled curled springs of teasing taunting haunting glistering glory, her tired ghost white freckle-frolicked face telling the entire story of a girl new to the streets. It mattered that it was tangled, knotted, and matted, and she not clean, days gone no wash, no spring-daisy fresh as she deserved, now deserted sweat-stained and smelling strongly wrongly: hungry, oh so very hungry!

Cheaply chiefly in cast-offs dressed: twelve-inch stiletto heels with pointed also stiletto toes, precariously poised, on precipice stilted, so tall, so slatternly, she slithered slim with her bottom bewitchingly twitching its ‘come-hither to my quiver' infernally infurnacely eternally sexual siren beacon beckon.

Goose-pimpled from over-half-starvation, and the cool chill of the night on her shop-window near nakedness, her voice tremulous with fear as her body tremendous curved within curves of compelling charm, poured out of the micro-micro-mini-skirt, in hand-me-down black, unsuitable for her ghost white complexion: the micro-micro-mini-skirt that formed a band around her buttocks and no more above and only just below, bare else, bar trunk with bountiful chest in sweat stained nipple steepled twice, white tee-shirt, points-provocative-nipple-poked peaking peak peeking, and those impossible-to-walk-in shoes: this was girl as poor whore.

“A dollar a feel!”

“A dollar a feel: it's shaven!” ……….she desperately rejection-expectantly whispered to the shadowed sweet-scented brunette in the girl-cab seat with her girlfriend: the girlfriend the brunette wanted to see being sucked-off by the whore of her choosing: the girlfriend, losing love, so desperate not to depart being part of her love's life, that she would willingly submit her whole soul, as readily, or as well as, her holy hole, to be sucked by even Satan's slattern to please her love and keep her love aflame and alive.

Then she gasp-shrieked with tears tearing her eyes, as the owner of this, the tenth girl-cab or girl-car she had had stationary before her that eventide, and had leaned into to beg, kicked her unwanted to the sidewalk, and her semi-bare bum was slapped by the pavement onto which she was rejectedly suddenly dumped, as the girl-cab crawled on down the line of her fellow girls, her fellow prostitutes as they would be, were her prostitution ever to be consummated by her finding a customer: the girls flaunting their wares on Ballantine Street, the pre and post 2084 beyond-sinking-further, sunk-and-stinking, despond-slough-end of Glasgow's notorious pink light district.

Amanda, not new there, knew there was where she was headed, and felt the tears of her gentle nature nurture in her glorious goddess' deep-dark-brown orbs, as she contemplated seeing once more her pitiful sisteren, sunk so low as to solo the streets with sallow sunken cheeks, helloing with smiles bad-breathed, and bodies cheaply, fully-unflatteringly, flaunted: daunted by death, pending their clients not spending: haunted by the day they were not hunted for cunt even at starvation's single dollar, for a feigned enjoyed feel, and an actressed orgasm, minimised by the maximised need to move on to the next customer's dollar: praying for to be prey to their fellow girls' prying fingers, and survive for just another day.

“Mercy!!!”

Amanda's long strong supremely lovely legs cycled slowly the circles of the four-feet-parted pedal pads, to which her big toes were pinioned to give her legs swooning shape of extremely sexy sexuality and sensuality, as their sweet brown-sugar strength and fitly toned length, lithed live lissom erotic stretches, and thighfull Eiffelled searful sighfull sightful incitefull eyefilling eye fulfilling folds, to behold impossible without the desire being inspired by such an earthly heavenly earthy orgasmic sight: the sight of a beautiful girl with beautiful legs, both functional and decorative, in their nuclear powerful performance of such meaningful, other meaningful, simple menial, but congenitally genitally side-meaningful work: the site of the sight, of absolutely the, but the absolutely most wonderful means of emotional motion: its locale the locomotion of her legs: a girl's legs.

Amanda used her wonderful legs so naturally with the pedals. She did not mean to taunt, she did not mean to haunt, she did not mean to tease, but heaven was blessed, as her legs and dainty feet caressed the pedals, to which for now belonged her long longing luring alluring belonged: as her legs pleased to poise and point and anoint the world with the beyond artistic blessing beauty of pure girl, as she pedalled her mistress, Michaela, toward Ballantine Street and Michaela's meet with the meat that was mete to be met there.

Amanda tried to make her mind go numb as she was ordered to slow her pedals to a poised curb-crawl, so her mistress could spy out a slut with whom to lower herself as she longed, having this longing drive long since arrive, seemingly in parallel with her bachelor graduation as a brilliant MSc, but still in companion and parallel a virgin untutored in any degree of love.

Michaela had a need to debase herself. Michaela enjoyed the risk of being discovered to enjoy whores. Michaela wanted sex without pleasure for either combatant. Michaela wanted to be soiled: her wet-dreams were that she was the whore, and she only wished she were brave enough, to attempt the contempt incumbent upon selling herself on the street, with no need to, as these poor creatures, her fellow girls, they to whom Amanda was bringing Michaela slowly, ever so, ever closer, must, by the economic imperative and the survival drive compulsion.

Oh goddess in her heaven, who was this stunning beauty? Michaela had never seen this whore before: she must be new and Michaela knew she liked new, because new meant debasement: for the poor girl forced to sell herself was still full of her humanity, and not yet a nail-hard, casehardened, experience-seared street-walker, with her cynicism sharpened to bluntness.

This whore's walk showed she was new: she walked as if she were a free girl, and thus must yet learn to become unprovocative, by attempting tempting provocation through feigned fake swinging of her bottom between nation and nation, as she patrolled her sales pitch station.

Michaela watched this girl as she showed the hurt in her toes, steepled as she was in cruelly uncomfortable pinprick pointed tiptoe shoes, with twelve-inch heels tipping her calves to stupendous curvature.

Her flesh was so white: so white, so pale: so transparent, she was apparently an apparition, she was so ghostly. She was further pitiful in her paleness probably from days without proper food, as she was yet to earn even a pittance prostitute.

Michaela drank with dark pleasure, the rear view of this whore's saunter, a view haloed by the whores clearly unkempt and unclean fall, of stupendously stupefying curled coiffure of a colour Fall-leaf-copper, from her still queenly raised head, till its coiled ends tangled where it dangled her handsome ankles, a train in training, the floor to adorn come a soon dawn.

A momentary flash cruel of this girl made to crawl, her ankles tied to her head by her own hair, to force up her head so her mouth could serve service to Michaela's slot, as the girl's eyes were wide-open-pulled with her scalp being tugged hard back by her unroped bondage with her own natural abundance of autumnal gold, wetted and whetted Michaela's slit as she gasp-dreamed of it.

Then another eventide-wet-dream flash of this girl's golden glory, pristinely serviced and burnished, as her only, but absolutely her only garb at wedding altar, caused Michaela to mentally moan with longing to lower this whore, and whore herself too, all too utterly below the gutter.

Michaela watched bewitched by the swish of this girl's natural bottom swing, as she swanned gracefully. And the girl turned, hearing the wheels Amanda pedalled, the golden autumnally haired pallid pale soiled but unspoiled beauty turned, showing the face of a beneficently befreckled angel, with shy shining greener than green eyes.

Tears were trickling down Amanda's adorable face. Amanda did not need for this girl to turn to recognise Rosetta. Oh goddess in heaven, how had Rosetta, Amanda's first love, come to this? Oh what hell was 2084 society when a woman as so beautiful in nature as so in appearance, could be as so despoiled, as so lowered, as so despised, as so deprived, that she must sell herself on the streets to her sisters so?!

Depraved though it might be, there was just something about the sizeable sighable enormity of Rosetta's stupifyingly stupendous thighs, so creamy and so ghostly-white, and so in complete compliment with and to, Amanda's perfectly contrasting wonderful dark brown, atop the cycle before her, that turned Michaela finally on to getting this soiled temptation over, and having a feel of her heaven havening in harbour between her powerfully erotic legs.

Rosetta, so tired, so hungry, so worn and weary, so reduced by her being sacked by her cruel mistress, because no longer trusted with her mistress' daughter, whom the mistress had caught kissing the irresistible Rosetta, or “Eve” as she was called when working as a personal maid, did not even notice let alone recognise the lovely Amanda, silently sobbing with pain for her poor broken former schoolfriend and first-ever-lover and love, now one-week since reduced to prostitution, and still to gain her first client.

Her face dying for trying not to show fear of further rejection, or the desperation of her need for money, Rosetta leant forward to the rear of the girl-car, for which Amanda was the motor, toward a longed-for client she could not see for the tears beginning to spill from her lovely lustrous green eyes, as she croak-whispered to the shadowed Michaela: “A dollar a feel! A dollar a feel: it's shaven!”

Michaela's sensitive nose was momentarily flared by Rosetta's unwashed smell. Michaela could smell Rosetta's unwashed slit, and knew she was filthy. Poor Rosetta had had not even a roof over her head this week past, let alone the luxury of means of keeping herself kempt and clean.

“Let's see your tits”, Michaela ordered…………. and, as Rosetta reached up to release her top so that her bountiful bold bosom would tumble and flow and swing and settle, and then rise and fall vibrate and side-to-side with the vesper whisper zephyrs of her angel's breath, as if the she that was Rosetta herself lived independently from her tremulous titanic titular twins with their tempting teats, and the two too each and both semi-independently from her beautiful sister, the Girl-Police surrounded the scene.

“Mercy!!!”

……………………

Michaela was, of course, off, scot-free. The Girl-Police purposely ‘did not notice' as she dismounted from her girl-car, leaving Rosetta under arrest for soliciting for the purposes of prostitution, and Amanda being demounted from the girl-car, because it had unroadworthy bald tyres, an offence for which Amanda, though it was in no way shape or form her fault, could, and would, be punished in order to “punish” her owner.

Girl-Police Constabless Miranda Fulsome hated this. She had wanted to see Michaela Redhead suffer the rigours of the law for what Michaela and her kind had done to her fourteen-year-old kid-sister, Apina.

But Michaela was a member of the Clitton Club, and so too was the Chief of Police. And so Constabless Miranda Fulsome had had to: “Yes ma'am” and “No ma'am” to Michaela, and agree to call Michaela a girl-cab, so as to get Michaela safely home.

Miranda would avenge herself on the tart that had lowered herself to become Michaela's slave and the motor of her vehicle, but she metaphorically ground her teeth as she thought of her sister Alpina's sweet innocence, and how she was now being forced to offer her nipples to be sucked to draw off her milk for the pleasure of the Michaelas of this unjust world.

……………………

Astonishingly beautiful green eyes looked into agonisingly wonderful dark-brown eyes, as Amanda and Rosetta stood face to face in the centre of the square where they were to be publicly punished for their crimes.

Women and girls had gathered to witness, and national television had a camera crew in readiness.

A preceding week in prison, preceded by proceedings before a magistrate, was to result in a public flogging, made entertainment so that the state could charge admission, and sell the television rights to the highest bidder: a subscription channel that had cornered the market in “girltainment”, as the entertainment of seeing girls suffer punishment at the hands of the law was now styled in the popular press.

“Minx Television”, the channel with the monopoly, was presently showing a so-called information film, in which a very attractive Asian-Indian beauty was whispering guidance on the “correct” way for a girl to masturbate: a film intended for schools to teach the would be wives under tuition there, how to entertain their hoped-for future husband-girls.

Minx Television's schedule was running late, and so Amanda and Rosetta's whipping must be delayed till the end of the programme showing, the subsequent advertisements, a news bulletin, a weather forecast, and the introduction to the outside broadcast Amanda and Rosetta were to be the centre of. Minx television had paid a million dollars for the rights to show the rite that was to follow. Compared with that, Amanda and Rosetta's anticipatory suffering was of no account whatsoever it seemed.

At very long last, a red light atop camera 1 flashed on, and: “Action” was called into the hidden radio-contact earphones of the front-of-camera crew, by a girl who looked no more than fifteen, but was in fact Minx Television's 25-year-old star producer.

“Have we any leg-lovers among you girls watching at home?”

This was Subretta Patel, a doll of mixed Indian and Chinese parentage, who should have fronted camera more-often in future, but had been granted state leave to have a baby, by artificial insemination, for her husband-girl, and was thus conducting her swansong programme before becoming a full-time housegirl.

“Have we any leg-lovers among you girls watching at home?”

“Yes: I know it's a silly question, but just look at the legs on these two truly astonishing beauties and even if you were not particularly a leg-lover before you must surely be a convert.” Subretta Patel lisped, with sucrose sweetness in a natural sexy whisper.

“I know I love legs, and these girls are like wow! leggy!!”

The camera played on the indeed very very beautiful legs of Rosetta and Amanda, and then panned back to show how they had been bound.

The two girls, Amanda and Rosetta, supreme brown and glorious white, dangled at the end of a wooden joint cunt-divider thrusting an eight-inch-long one-inch-diameter penis-dildo, one apiece, into their super-sensibility and super-sensitivity. Around each girl's waist a tight silk rope was passed, and looped such that its loose end could then be drawn between the mountainettes of her bottom, before being looped through a hole in, and thus tied to one end of, the cunt-divider they shared as they hung face-to-heavenly-face.

One end each of the cunt-divider to which this rope was tied on each and both girls, was at their respective perineums. The divider, based on a two-inch broad, quarter-inch deep twelve-inch long length of splinter-rough wood, was then pulled hard up between the sensitive lower lips of the girls, dividing the gates of their heavens, with its narrow-side pulled hard up them, and thus thrusting into their super-sweet-scented sexual scabbards the eight-inch-long one-inch-diameter penis-dildos on which each supreme dream beauty was painfully impaled.

Between them, at the halfway point of the splitter that divided and ruled their magical majestic magnificences: the shared cunt-divider their respective heavens harboured, there was a hole in its middle. And from this hole in the middle of the balance of injustice on which they teetered in torture, rose a strong chain to a crane that had hoisted them extremely painfully so that both girls could now barely touch the ground, with their respective big toes reaching down to stretch their sexy legs to erotic maximum of curvature, as they dangled very leggily on heaven's weighing scales: scales weighing their incredible beauty in the balance, and not finding it in any way shape or form at all wanting.

The cunt-divider pulled up between them so hard by their dangling from the crane by it, was also curved so as to press at the top of their respective mons, and their clitorises were being bullied by the pressure: pressure their leggy legs fought to relieve, lest lost grip force them into entangle-dangle-dancing till they could gain big-toe-tip toe-hold ground-grip once again.

Each girl: both girls, shone with sweet sweat from the strain of their enforced dance stance. The camera moved in at the director's command and showed the astonishingly erotically agonising site of the sight, of the poor girls having had their nipples sewn to one another's, by needle and nylon thread having been unmercifully driven through their sensationally sensual sensitive nipple flesh, so as to sew each beautiful breast to its opposite and equal beauty, and so as to torture their breasts inescapably capably during the capers to follow.

Thus were the girls tied face-to-angel's-face at slits and at tits. And so too were the two at wrists, bound by leather amulets that put their pretty hands to sweet use, as they could not avoid each hand holding the other girl's dainty opposite, and they now visibly comforted each other by the gentleness with which their lovely hands touched and caressed.

Janus-like they now dangled in their shared pain as they were pressed to one-another with their faces cheek by jowl: two jewels: two pearls of god in a pod: the black pearl and the white: the black girl and the white: two ends of the spectra and the racial-rainbow, and both supremely extremely girl, peered with peerless faces over the other's shoulder, feeling each other's fear pumped heart palpitatingly pound, as pound for glorious pound of priceless girl, they were bound in the compound of the penitentiary: bound assuredly shortly to be flogged.

Subretta Patel lisped in her sexy husky whisper, “What a study in contrasting but equal loveliness these two girls are, aren't they ladies? We especially asked that Rosetta's overwhelmingly lovely auburn hair be allowed to dangle for your pleasure. Just look at those impossible curls. Surely even the gold in Fort Knox could not outshine that autumn-leaf tumbling fall! And have you ever, but ever, seen a girl whose lips were so made to be kissed for ever and ever, like those of the delightful Amanda?”

“Lady's these girls are former lovers fallen on hard times. Two such wonderful creations of nature were made for love and to love each other. But the law must be obeyed and the law will drive these girls apart. Love each other they may now, but that love will be challenged and broken by the law for your coincidental entertainment.”

“The cane is to be used on those delightful bottoms, and guess what. The cane is very very painful, and the girls will fight for our delight so as to swing each other around, and make it so it is the other girl whose bottom gets the flogging. And so too would you if you could know the pain of the cane on your bare flesh! I am told that it is akin to being red-hot-flame branded.”

“Now, if you phone 00 69 362436, it is not too late to place a bet on which girl will receive the most lashes. It's your call!! Calls cost a minimum of five-dollars, so make sure you have the permission of the phone's owner to make that call-bet! There will be two winners: the two winners being the girls whose names are the first to be drawn out of the hat. One-million dollars is the prize to be shared 50:50, so get those calls calling girls!!! Employees of Minx television may not participate, and see the MinxTV website for full terms and conditions”……

“……….Well, so much for the plug: now let me now see if I can get one of these girls to talk to us…..”

Subretta Patel slinked over in her New York fashion suit, her Paris Passion scent, her pure Chinese silk stockings, her London designer underwear, and her Italian stiletto mules, to where Amanda and Rosetta dangled, and had now dangled in preliminary pain for at least a full hour. Subretta must not let the girls know how they were to be punished: that was for the authorities to convey, not a fragrant, flagrantly overpaid, television presenter.

“Well, I am standing now, as you will see next to these truly delicious young women, and I can smell the natural scent of Rosetta's glorious hair, and believe me it is truly as erotic as it is exotic. One day soon we may have smellyvision perhaps!” Subretta lamely joked. But, till then, imagine the most erotic scent in the world and then some, and you will still not have imagined the awesome aroma of Rosetta's incredible copper-gold tresses, believe me!”

As Subretta moved in with her microphone, Rosetta's hair was being rolled up to bare her body to the lash, and what with that taking place, and the fact that Rosetta was sobbing with pain and fear, and had diamond-clear-rainbow-prismed-tears running down her angelic freckled face, Subretta brought the microphone up to the ever-forever-kiss-compelling negress' lips, of the divine Amanda's exceptionally lovely mouth.

“You're Amanda, is that right”

“Yes my lady” Amanda gasped as she flexed one of her lovely legs, lifting it to twiddle her delightful toes, feeling cramp potentially threatening her compellingly curvaceous calves.

“What is your crime Amanda?”

“There were illegally bald tyres on the girl-car I was the motor of, my lady”.

“Wow ladies! Just imagine having this delightful creature as the motor in your girl-car. Wow and how eh?! Just look at the legs on her!!! Imagine those pedalling for you! Heaven eh?!”

“You're a very lovely girl Amanda, how old are you?”

Amanda's eyes showed her consternation at the compliment: she was flustered at being flattered, and not least at having had her girlness recognised by another human for the first time in what seemed to have been a million years:

“Thank you my lady: I am twenty my lady”

“According to my notes Amanda, you were once a student of mathematics and astrophysics at Camford: is that right?”

“Yes my lady”

Amanda flexed her beautiful left leg trying to ease the oncoming cramp caused from having to stretch so as to get her big toes to ground, and she winced with the pain as her right calf instantly cramped up.

“Could we ask for a more sensationally sensual combination than brains like Amanda's with beauty like Amanda's?” Subretta Patel inanely asked her television audience.

“It's a big come-down from astrophysics to girl-car motor Amanda. What went wrong? Weren't you a very naughty girl? According to my researchers, you were a very naughty girl indeed! Tell us about it.” Subretta insisted, insistently thrusting the microphone like an erect penis to Amanda's seducingly succulent lips.

“I lost my job at a restaurant chain my lady……….”

“………No. No. That's not how it was, was it Amanda.” Subretta interrogated, looking to camera for effect, and to give point to the fact that this was key to the interview, and viewers should take note of how clever she, Subretta, was to get the confession that was about to follow, out of this lovely reluctant interviewee: Subretta the tough ballsy television interviewette, so easily in command over such a tough job, and so very attractive too: “You slept with your mistress' daughter didn't you? That's what my notes say. You got caught in flagrante delicto with your mistress' fourteen-year-old schoolgirl daughter.”

“I humbly beg to beg your pardon my lady……….” Amanda cried in pain from her cramping calves.

“………According to my notes Amanda, your first mistress surprised you letting yourself be kissed very intimately by her very young daughter …………”

Amanda instantly yelped with the terrible pain of cramps hitting both her calves once again.

“We'll let that one slide then Amanda, but our viewers will take note that you have not denied it….” Subretta Patel departingly taunted, with a look saying ‘journalist of the year and Pulitzer surely in the bag after that' showing on a face that was pretty, serious, and seriously pretty.

“No…..No my lady please!……….” Amanda could be heard to call to the retreating Subretta, but Amanda's would-be protest of innocence was lost in her cries of pain, as the cramps made gain in her deliriously delicious calves twice again.

Even after three years in the job, Subretta Patel had not learned to spot the planted turn-on-question, intended to put wow! and kapow! into the moistening panties of her viewers. Nor had she spotted that the “Pulitzer prize question” had been posed by her to the wrong girl: it was Rosetta that had been seduced by her fourteen-year-old-nymphet charge, not Amanda.

The pain of the cunt-splitter dividing the lips divine of the heavenly Amanda and Rosetta, hurt with a constancy consummately clever in its constitution. Both beauties had need of moving and the moves of each was bound to echo through the splitter, into the supremely sensitive slice of the partner to which she was so intimately bound.

Neither too could either girl move a mini-millimetre, without pulling her own, and thus the other girl's nipples, and pressing on the other girl's cunt. Bound as they were, their every tiny twitch was bound to torture both themselves apart and both each other together.

Their bodies, so sensitised and sensitive to and for sensation, the desire that would in nature drive them to have flamed afire, with procreations proclamation of the purpose of their perfection in a performance leading to parturition paramount: thus were Amanda and Rosetta.

However, modern society solely sought for sensational sexual sights, and torture of girls such as Rosetta and Amanda kept other girls at home focused on masturbation, and thus away from the risk of pregnancy among those who might still desire men, even when their own kind was on regular ready offer: this was the post 2084 way.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome had a short-sleeved blouse on, as she readied the cane. She had been trained in the proper way to cane a girl. She knew the main lesson was that the stroke must not be aimed so as to stop at the point where it impacts the victim, but should be aimed at an imaginary target at least as far away again as the target herself, so that the cane is in full flight toward that further target, and therefore at fullest speed, when the victims lovely body is impacted.

In this case it was going to be easy to essay her lessons. In aiming to cane, let's say, Amanda's bottom, Miranda would imagine she was trying to cut through to strike Rosetta. Thus she would take up station such that she was aiming to whip way-beyond the target that would stop the cane's flight, rather than, as an amateur would, caning a girl in the manner where the girl herself is the target, and the cane thus used less effectively and productively, by the fact that it is slowing by the time flesh is struck.

Miranda could not deny that she found both girls extremely erotic, and that she was moistening her panties' gusset copiously as she flexed the cane, gripped in her two parted hands to bend it up and down, in readiness.

“Right you whores!” Miranda's voice echoed over the public address, from the microphone in her already heaving cleavage.

“Right you whores, which one of you wants to taste the cane first?!”

“I will only cane one of you: the one of you whose lovely bottom is facing me!”

“So you must fight whores! You must fight so as not to be the one who tastes the kiss of my cane!!”

“Who is to be first to be kissed on her gorgeous thighs by my wicked witch switch?!”

Amanda whispered in Rosetta's ear as Rosetta clung close and sobbed in dreadful fear: “I'll take it for you my love………”

The cane whistled and ‘THWICK!!!!!' struck Amanda's sensationally firm side-dimple-concaved bottom, with red-hot fire, cutting her skin, so that she bucked and screamed and lifted her sexy legs, kickilly threshing them to try and relieve the agony of her brutal welt, with the horrible burning echo matching the rut stripes rising, and the pull on her paps and those of Rosetta as her body arched back, and the pull on her cunt as she danced her legs off ground, unbalancing Rosetta, and causing both girls to swing in a sexual dance being fucked brutally by their dildoes. Amanda had not expected it to hurt so terribly much, but she fought to settle her toes to ground and ground her lovely teeth to ease the hurt and prepare her for the next stripe. And ‘THWICK!!!!!' her gorgeous thighs were striped with the red hot fire, and Amanda screeched as her sexy legs danced and the girls danced, and they pulled on each others nipples, and their cunts jigged on the splitter in a see-saw of searingly painful, but sensationally sensually sexually-arousing rough splinter rubbing, as they see-sawed up and down and up and down, dangling on their splitter by their cunts with the huge hard dildos fucking them hard, with their shared splitter hanging by the chain from the crane above them. And ‘THWICK!!!!!' Amanda took the third stripe on her extremely beautiful calves, and both girls were swinging and see-sawing on the shared splitter, their sewn-together-by-the-nipples-titties, being pulled and stretched horrendously unmercifully as they bucked, being fucked on the see-saw up and down wild-broncoing of the tearing ripping cunt-splitter and dildos, so that their cunts bled both. And both girls' moans and gasps were now musically sensationally heavily heavenly sexual, as their cunts were ridden roughshod bare-back on the bucking fucking bronco of the splitter on which their most girl-parts were chafed and rubbed and pressed and kneaded scraped grazed torn and shagged, such that their inner-lips were raw and their clitorises pulsing and dancing and prancing aroused and alive to pain: the splitter that they rode and thus were fucked by, and thus by fucked each others' slits. And their nipples were brutally pulled by Amanda's arching her already supremely extremely naturally arched back in agony, as ‘THWICK!!!!!' Amanda's beautiful bum was striped again, and lovely legs brown and white and white and brown entangled in a dervish waltz, for two, also too for two all too lovely bodies. And Amanda's loving mouth sought and found Rosetta's for the sweet need for human contact and human love in her shear agony. And Amanda's plus-perfect lips kissed and were kissed, as they were made for to be forever, as Rosetta's tongue sought the sanctuary of the sanctity of Amanda's heavenly mouth, and Amanda became certain of what her brilliant mind had already foreconcluded, that Rosetta was turned on to orgasmic passion by the see-sawing and the nipple pulling, and above all by the dancing, when Amanda was whipped, and by the sadism of having her lover whipped whilst so close in her arms. And the crowd cheered the passionate kiss, as ‘THWICK!!!!!' Amanda's thighs were striped again, and the girls just kept kissing, as the blood from where Amanda's stripes crossed, trickled, and their bodies danced a toe-trying-to-purchase-ground long-lovely-legs-stretched intermingled long-legged-leggy-leg-jig on the splitter on which their cunts were saddled. And the kiss was approaching oblivion for both girls, as Amanda knew her sister's will and want, and turned them with her powerful and powerfully beautiful legs toe-down-stretched in their bonds, turned them around till: ‘THWICK!!!!!' Rosetta pearl-white pear-shaped bottom was afire with its first stripe, and their mouths melted and moulded, so that two girls became one, as Amanda held her love and her lover for the stripe she instinctively knew would tip her, and ‘THWICK!!!!!' Rosetta danced her supreme dream legs as her thighs were cut with the vicious cane. And she came in Amanda's kiss, she came to Amanda's kiss, she came from Amanda's kiss, she came to the kiss of the lips, of an angel on earth from the highest angels of heaven, to the lips of a negress, a black-pearl girl of pulchritudinous perfection, with a mouth and lips of pouting prominence, pouring out love even in their prominent provocative repose on her face when composed for her daily dalliance with life, adorable demanding and commanding she be kissed for the kiss can only be perfected by such lips, the lips of the negress girl, the lips, not just lips, but the lips, the lips that god made in her wisdom to give to the negress, to please us and tease us, the lips that the dictionary must define as the apotheosis of the kiss, not lips but a kiss, a constant kiss, a walking talking eating sleeping breathing kiss, the lips of perfection girlsonified, the lips of a negress girl. And Rosetta came and she came, and the crowd jeered and cheered as a curtain fell on this performance, with the stays holding Rosetta's hair undoing, and the slow motion rolling fall of russet rusty copper glory curls of girl's coiffure, cascading and bouncing in spring coils, to cover and caress in curls of mesmerising wonder, both girls, as ‘THWICK!!!!!' Amanda's pert deserving smack-me-hard-and-harder-slap-me, insolent excellent unexcellable bum, was striped as it deserved to be, as it demanded to be, as was its inevitable fate, for its supremely desirable inspirational come-hither enticing spicy spectacular wonder, and she screamed as she arched her head back concupiscent to the cane's caress, her wonder of wonder negress' lips still moist from Rosetta's kiss, as her cunt-juice creamed down her sweat-glowing inner-thighs, and she came to the gain of the cane's caressing cruelty, again: and again: and again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!' again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!' again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!' again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!' again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!' again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!' ‘THWICK!!!!!' again and again ……

……………….

………..Inspired by the secret orgasm the dreadful but oh so exciting sight of Amanda and Rosetta being whipped had given her, as she sat among her peers watching the legal proceedings on MinxTV, seeing that channel on the 3-D hologram-cube television floor-screen, later that evening a girl walked down Ballantine Street in the pink light district of Glasgow. A girl with close-cropped shimmering shining cut-corn-stubble hair, and startlingly bright, cornflower-blue eyes. A girl in black leather micro-miniskirt, naked breasts below black leather jacket, a black leather choker, and black leather twelve-inch needle-point-toed stiletto-heeled shoes. A girl with her pretty lips lipsticked an unnaturally loud crimson livid red, in lurid contrast with her lovely lively intelligent, but clearly extremely nervous and very pale in consequence face: a face with a look of “I cannot believe I am really doing this' tormenting it bravely terrified. A girl fulfilling a dream and answering a drive. A girl walking the streets for the first time in her life, staggering slightly from beginning a stagy attempt at adding to her own already naturally terrifically-provocative slink. A girl calling in a dry-mouthed whisper that no-one not close up could possibly hear, she was so very very nervous: “A dollar a feel. A dollar a feel: it has genuine soft blonde curls!” ……….A 26-year-old girl with an overwhelming need to debase her incredible intelligence and astonishing beauty: Michaela… Michaela Redhead.