2084

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 10 – Cross-Eyed Bear

A day after Amanda's dog-rape ordeal, the headline in ‘The New York Penetrator' read:

“Schoolgirl Heroines In Doggy-Rape Rescue”

The accompanying article was lurid:

“MANHATTAN - deadline Tuesday: Fourteen-year-old schoolgirls, best friends Serna Hayden-Standish and Romany Charleston, today the pride of St Virgo's School for Girls and the toast of New York, yesterday dramatically rescued a maid from the terrible ordeal of being gang-raped by feral dogs.

The stunningly sexy maid, one Emelda Scenthaven, 20, whom we understand originates from Glasgow England, had been very severely used by some fifteen to twenty dogs.

The dogs appear to have held Scenthaven captive all day. It is dreadful to conclude that many of them had probably relieved themselves in the unfortunate girl more than once; some perhaps three or four times. Terrible to relate is that they had used both of her rear orifices and the poor girl's mouth for their pleasure.

At 09.00 hours when they were on their way to school, Miss Hayden-Standish and Miss Charleston saw Scenthaven walking three bitches on their leads, as was her daily routine. On their return home at 16.00 hours the same day, they stumbled upon the horror of seeing the exceptionally attractive maid being doggy-raped.

Miss Hayden-Standish and Miss Charleston, would not have come upon the dreadful scene and been able to make their dramatic rescue, had they not, on their way home from school that day, with their chaperone having forgotten their parasols, decided to go through the east-central woodland area of the park to shelter their delightful complexions from the heat of the afternoon sun.

City Hall declined to comment when the Penetrator's reporteress posed, yet again, the question all New Yorkers are asking: ‘When will something be done about the dogs running wild in Central Park?'

The mayor's spokesgirl was willing to discuss the issue offline, but unwilling to go on record other than to point out that what had happened, though regrettable, had only occurred with a maid.

Scenthaven is now back with her mistress, the wealthy socialite Duchess-in-Waiting Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope, whose activities have delighted the high-life world of this great city since she and her entourage hit town.

Penetrator readers will recall that Lady Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope was recently the best girl at the wedding of her lifelong friend, The Honourable Veronica Hayden-Standish. The Honourable Veronica Hayden-Standish, now of course Mrs Amelia Jenkins-Ward, is the oldest sister of Miss Serna Hayden-Standish, the leading heroine of this report.

A spokeswoman for Her Ladyship, Scenthaven's employer, said that Scenthaven was recovering from her ordeal and had returned to her duties as a kennel-maid looking after Her Ladyship's pet bitches.

This same spokeswoman confirmed that Her Ladyship had thanked Miss Serna Hayden-Standish and Miss Charleston, and told them that they had both been: ‘very brave'.

The Penetrator's intrepid reporteress was also able to confirm from Her Ladyship's spokeswoman, that Her Ladyship hopes to exhibit her bitches in the ‘Bitch of the Year' contest at Cwuffs later this year. As ever, the Penetrator looks forward to reporting for you, our dear readers, on this high point in the social calendar.”

……………..

“May I watch you miss?” asked the angelically sweet voice of the raven-haired saffron-yellow-eyed Serna Hayden-Standish.

“Of course you may my lady”, Amanda answered to the life-curious schoolgirl.

Amanda felt no bitterness. She could, had she wished to indulge sarcasm; had she dared to let her voice reflect the dismay and despair that she had felt at the time; she could have replied to Serna to the effect that she and her friend Romany were good at watching, or some other poor apology for wit.

For a whole half-hour in the wood that day, Serna and Romany had watched wide eyed as the hopelessly helpless Amanda was having her bum and her mouth raped by two ecstatic Alsatian dogs in tandem.

Of course they and their chaperone had been brave in rescuing Michaela, Zudina, and Siabon, who had then wiggle-crawled back home alone. But truth told, their status as heroines was unfounded, as it was the arrival of Cecile's pet bitches at Cecile's apartment without their kennel-maid, that had caused the other servants to turn out and save Amanda from her day-long ordeal.

“May I watch you miss?” the angelically sweet voice of the raven-haired saffron-yellow-eyed Serna Hayden-Standish enquired.

“Of course you may my lady”, Amanda answered to the ever-inquisitive schoolgirl.

In summary, it was the hot start of the long summer; summer-long, school vacation, and Serna had come to stay with Cecile, the best friend of her now married oldest sister.

Michaela, Siabon, and Zudina, the three lovely bitches owned by Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope, Amanda's employer, were eager for their morning feed. Amanda, wearing only the very briefest of brief g-strings, having not long since risen from bed, knelt on the patch of carpet she had put on the floor of the kennels, and lifted her huge full and very beautiful breasts cupped-under in her lovely hands.

Michaela and Siabon, girl and wife, tried to knock each other out of the way in their eagerness to gain their feed.

“There there my lovelies, I've plenty for you all”, Amanda soothed, as Siabon's eager mouth was quickly on her right nipple, and Zudina on her left, and the sounds of eager but purposeful and practicedly efficient sucking filled the air.

“Don't worry Michaela my darling, I've got plenty enough for you as well. It's very creamy today. You love it creamy don't you my angel?” Amanda cooed.

“Does it hurt?” Serna asked, with a look in her earnest intelligent face that suggested she imagined Amanda's nipples were being bitten and chewed.

“Oh no my lady. You see, my lady, the bitches are not allowed any other food, so they suckle on me very gently, as they know it is the best way to keep my milk coming”, Amanda explained.

From where she knelt suckling her mistress' bitches, Amanda looked up the lovely length of the sweet schoolgirls slim and exceptional pretty legs, to her firm thighs, their wonder being extensively visible in her very mini miniskirt. Serna's legs were bare and suntanned. Balletic tiptoe shoes showed them off perfectly.

Serna was not as tall as her youthful slimness deceived the eye into concluding. Her five-feet-ten was inch-for-lovely-inch a perfect match for the sublime Amanda. But if those two treasures were not seen standing together, Serna would be concluded as giving Amanda an inch in her comparative rise from the ground they both made heavenly holyland by their merely standing upon it.

Serna had tanned readily, even without seeking the summer sun, to a lightly freckled nutmeg brown. She wore no make-up and needed none.

Her face was that of an angel's angel, with those same pretty little freckles, clearly out to play for the summer, skipping over the bridge of her tiny nose and punctuating her completely untrouble-lined forehead.

Her mouth lips were strawberry-red with more than the mere succulence of that fruit. She had a bold upper lip with an emphatic Cupid's bow, and an even bolder lower lip suggestive of sensuousness, such an innocent girl made more pronouncedly enticing, because in fact to kiss her lips would be to anoint them for their very very-first time ever.

Serna's strawberry-lips were always magically softly moist. Her mouth was permanently a little open showing lovely regular very white teeth in her constant moist lipped smile, with those same lips always a micro-micro-micro-millisecond from kiss formation.

Serna's eyes were a mystery in a mystery. She had inherited her saffron irises from no source known to girl or god. Only god's god could have created such golden glory, and must thereafter have concluded that perfection was perfection, and the secret source of their sorcery must be destroyed. Her eyes, those amazing saffron-yellow eyes, showed intelligence and an undeniable underlying loving sweetness of nature.

Serna's waist out-timed an hourglass. She would have been as trim as eighteen-years if years were measured in inches.

Her bottom was a profoundly round delight, beckoning and beguiling, with all of her young-womanhood in the way it teased and pleased as she walked and it swayed the way she sanctified as she went.

Her legs were slim and could, so long did they seem when the eye followed their dream, have been used as the yardsticks with which to measure the standard mile, with a mile still left over of each lovely long limb.

Serna had made a successful effort with her hair today. It was swept back and up into a raven ponytail, ribbon-bowed in place with white lace.

Pastel-blue ballet-shoes tiptoed her to the points of her big toes. Her suntanned legs were bare: her calf-muscles erotically visible and taut.

The white silk blouse she wore she had grasped at the hem to tie in a bow at the bottom of her ribcage, leaving her midriff bare. It was long-sleeved save that she had rolled the sleeves to above her elbows, and the delicious dark down on her lovely, slim, lightly-tanned forearms, was a delicious delight.

The French-blue skirt was so skimpy it showed her panties were white latticed-lace. Thus her mysterious pitch-dark hardly penetrable and unpenetrated pubic jungle, was teasingly clear to see, amidst the intertwining wild roses that her panties' white lace was bobbined to depict.

And, when she turned, so short was her mini's hem, that it showed where the acutely cute bare curves of her lower bottom were translating into the comparatively flat backs of her slim smooth thighs below. And just above, only just covered, was that that deserved to be severely soundly spanked for being so damnably provocative.

That Serna wore no brassiere was pointedly evident: as her very firm titties, independently and combinationally, seismographically jigger-jogger-juddered in mesmerising empathy with her every little extremely graceful move.

To say that Serna was pretty would be a lie. It would be a lie because the truth was that she was god-made, and very very beautiful.

“May I take the bitches for their exercise with you please Amanda?

“Of course you may my lady”.

……………..

Before the dawn of this morn, it had only been last evening that Amanda had watched the bitches at play in the kennel. Despite their months of bitch-bondage, they were just typically girl underneath.

Always it began with two of them taking turns to smell each other's rears. Then by some unwritten code, it would be decided which bitch's slit was to be tongued and nosed.

In respect of this, Amanda had concluded that the bitch exuding the strongest musk must be the winner. Most-times-out-of-ten it was the stunning Michaela who was brought to a cum with the noses and tongue-ends of either her wife, or that of Zudina.

The ball piercings with which their mouths were gagged prevented the bitches from emitting any understandable sounds, but they clearly did not stop them from licking and kissing each other's mouths, north or south. Sometimes the sessions would go on all night.

To watch the bitches kissing and tail-ending each other, with their noses and tongues, made Amanda feel incredibly sexually hot, and she longed to join them and lick Michaela or, oh god how much better still, to have Michaela lick her.

The sound of the bitches panting with pleasure at their rising arousal, and then yapping and yelping when they had a cum, could keep Amanda awake all night. This was especially so pre-season. The week before the bitches, and Amanda come to that, came on heat with their coincident menstruation, sexual activity in the kennel was constant and Amanda's frustration frantic.

……………..

“I think a girl should have her first time with a real woman, don't you Amanda?” the sweet voice of the staggeringly sexy schoolgirl Serna opined, in a voice smacking of a rehearsed line, as well as the decidedly definite need for her pert pretty and pretty pert impertinent bottom to be given a damnably hard slapping.

“Please my lady, we mustn't talk like that”, Amanda answered gently.

Amanda was walking Siabon and Zudina. Serna trailed in her wake with Michaela. It was randy-week for the bitches and Amanda, and Michaela was straining at her leash longing to have her bottom sniffed by Siabon and Zudina, rather than have her lovely left and right domed behind left right behind.

Amanda turned, her dark-brown eyes seeking eye-to-eye contact with her superior, to assure herself that her sweetly intended admonishment had given no offence; only to have her eyes unavoidably perceive the cleavage of the young angel, who must surely purposely have undone all bar one button of her pristine virgin-white blouse.

Morning sunshine seared Central Park. Both girls wore wide-brimmed hats, Amanda a new white straw Panama number, with floppy curled-up purposely tatty rim, and a huge crimson ribbon bow around its crown.

Amanda was dressed in a crimson version of the yellow kennel-maid's underwear, and the choker-necked A-line translucent dress that had been torn from her during her terrible doggy-rape ordeal. Her eye-shadow and her lipstick matched this brilliance: red both: knock-them-dead red.

The outfit was in lace with huge silk roses on the outer-side of her suspender-garters. The seams of Amanda's just-above-knee-length crimson stockings were straight, beyond the shadow of a doubt, as Serna could have testified, given that Serna just could not keep her eyes off Amanda's lovely legs as the kennel-maid wiggled her way before her.

Suddenly, Michaela bitch-wiggled past Amanda, Serna having unleashed Michaela's leash. Amanda now therefore stopped her wiggle-walk and bent to show the glory of her moons to Serna, who could also glimpse Amanda's completely shaven slit, as it rose beyond the merest modesty provided by the gusset, stretched between Amanda's crimson rose decorated garters, to make them garter-panties.

Amanda was bending on purpose, but not that purpose. Amanda was bending to let Zudina and Siabon frolic in the shadow dappled grass, where she hoped they would perform their obligatory orifice offices, and relieve themselves of their wine and their chocolat.

“Gosh it's so hot!” came Serna's sweet musical soprano suddenly, as Amanda straightened, only to be nearly bowled over as she gasped with astonishment at the sight of the schoolgirl, who had lowered her completely unbuttoned blouse off her shoulders, so that it lightly imprisoned her lovely slim arms behind her back, as she was pretending that she was looking at the bitches, and not at all aware that she had completely bared her beautiful breasts.

Amanda's wide-eyed eyes drank in the dream she could just not believe. Serna's breasts were exceptionally lovely.

An extremely firm thirty-six-inch-C-cup, they stood studiedly out from minimal underside touching upon her chest, curving to tips pointing skyward. And Serna's tit tips were topped with fantastically fantastical, but supremely real, thimble-nipples. They were fully a half-inch round at their bases and an incredible one-inch long. She had supremely long nipples pointing out at forty-five degrees from otherwise vertically heavenward.

Clearly evident were their tight-closed horizontal would-be milk-ducts, that looked at Amanda as wonderfully beautifully as the huge black sexually excited pupils of Serna's saffron-yellow eyes now did, as the girl-woman was blushed to the colour of Amanda's underwear. Serna's gorgeous bright-yellow eyes were lowered as if to confirm that she was offering herself in sacrifice to physical love, and was already moistening her white lattice-lace panties aromatically erotically.

“Are my tits too small for you?” This question arose to Serna only, and only them because of the teasing taunts of her fellow schoolgirls. And so she asked Amanda as her, Serna's, angel's face rose, blushed as a blushing rose, and then lowered again in acceptance of hurt if Amanda found her breasts too small, as her friends had always taunted and teased her they were.

“………..My lady, you are truly very very beautiful”, Amanda whispered to herself, but not out of the hearing of the heavenly heavily aroused schoolgirl.

“……….Teach me how to kiss Amanda! Please show me how to kiss! Nobody has ever kissed me! I'd be caned and expelled if I were kissed by any of the girls in school! They are only girls! I want to be kissed by a woman. I want to know how to kiss and how to please other girls. They want me to be a “No-Girl”. I am fifteen soon and they want to sew me up and make me a No-Girl. They'll sew up the naughty-bit between my legs so I can't do anything, so I can never have love made to me …I don't want to be a No-Girl to be a virgin forever so that they can worship me in the church………Please Amanda kiss, kiss me please, please kiss me!!”

Amanda gently embraced the lovely girl and kissed her………. on her forehead…

………………….

Amanda felt a slight tickle. Reaching her impractically-long-nailed-forefinger and thumb down, inspiring inspirationally prettily, slightly ‘O' open-mouthed in erotically compelling concentration on ensuring the perfection of her perfect appearance, she eased aside the surplus end of the suspender that was teasing the brown wonder of her supreme dream right thigh ticklingly, where it was completely bare above her white silk stocking tops, and long before the arrival on the scene of the hem of her micro-mini-dress. ‘Caress' depilation cream ensured her supreme smoothness: along with the gift of the complexion that nature had blessed her with of course.

Now Amanda glanced up at the girl in the next seat, dark brown eyes admiringly meeting cornflower blue vivacious sparkle. This girl's eyes had just now before been felt by Amanda. Amanda knew without need of looking up, that this girl was admiring her legs. Even as she looked up and smiled in greeting, Amanda's eyes had already returned the compliment by running the shapely length of the neighbouring girl's thighs in turn.

Two lovely girls smiled, and the lovelier of them by far, Amanda, returned to adjusting her suspender, with practiced pretty fingers, suspenders visible far below the hemline being this year's fashion, before going back to her virtual catalogue.

Amanda wore ‘Nickelodeon' underwear. ‘Nickelodeon Founded in 2084' cried their advertisements. Their designs were so pleasurably teasing. ‘Just look at these', she thought, as she admired the latest on Nickelodeon's web-pages in her palm-mag, turning the virtual pages with a press of button by pretty fingers, all flustered and excited at the sight of the delectable clothing that seemed to form Amanda's every other thought these days, along with makeup, and exercise routines, and healthy eating diets, and saunas, and waxing, and anything else that kept her natural beauty naturally beautiful.

Just having passed one intriguing garment, she flicked back to double-check and saw: “hand-woven pure wool cinch-panties”. The adorable model wore the next-to-nothing of these as no more than a string around her hips, with another vertical, that a rear view showed cleaved her bottom's crevasse before dividing her love-lips. These were one-thousand-dollars a pair. Amanda made mental note to order a dozen pair.

The hem of her ten-thousand-dollar butterflies-in-flight multi-coloured mini-dress, ‘ Parisienne' of course, pressed into the back of Amanda's bare bottom as she sat flashing her three-thousand-dollar-a-pair white-space-lace-tanga-panties: ‘Nickelodeon' again, from the bobbins of slave astronesses, working in permanent weightlessness as they weaved their wares for the wealthy to wear. These alone were another five-thousand-dollars a pair.

Amanda thought nothing of wearing such fabulously expensive clothing and underwear. The newly wed Amanda was deeply in love, and Michaela was due back from Paris that eve. Michaela was their pet bitch of course: Cecile was her husband-girl, though sometimes Amanda dreamed it was the other way around. She loved them both with all the unquestioning unreservedly consummate passion that was the very essence of her nature.

Amanda was completely in love. In love Amanda knew no half-measure. She was blissfully happy. Love calmed her. Love was her balm. Love was what Amanda was made for amen. Whoever named her must have known that she would always and ever ultimately only love girl. For Amanda was deeply in love ‘aman' – without man – ‘Amanda'.

It was just like a dream this transformation of fortunes. Here was Amanda, a guest of the Clitton: the wife of a Clitton Club member had this vicarious privilege. Here too was Amanda the supremely intellectually gifted girl, devoted solely to her body and soul as love objects, without objection, let alone rejection: and how lucky her lover: oh god how lucky her lover!

Amanda sat on a slave-girl, who was bent over lying on her back, with her legs drawn up so that her thighs formed the seat of Amanda's chair, and her calves the back of the chair: her firm breasts pressed down by her thighs thus providing the springing for Amanda's supreme comfort. This was the wives' enclosure in the Clitton Club's reserved area at the Glasgow Girliseum.

The softly stretched-muscular thighs of the very tall white Russian girl on which Amanda sat, bare thigh on bare thigh where Amanda's pure silk white stockings did not cover her glory, were radiating human warmth, that Amanda's sensitive slit sensed and glowed with. Amanda's clit was also trembling with pulses, she was not aware of the source of as yet in her foremind. Her foremind in fact attributed the warming sensation in her intimacy, to the sexiness of ‘Nickelodeon' underwear, and her mental picture of herself wearing it, and only it, when her husband-girl came home.

The action seemed far away but was shown in every detail in the three-dimensional mini-telecubes near at hand. But to Amanda the cinch-panties in the ‘Nickelodeon' catalogue were a dream, and just look at that pure cool-cotton bra-and-panties-set too!

………………….

She danced on the very tips of the tips of her big toes on a raised stage with back and canopy-roof, from the latter of which she dangled on a chain.

The white elasticated-self-support stockings she wore gently squeezing her firm thighs three-quarters up from her dimpled knees, had lace-like tops decorated with pictorial angels: cherubs puffed out their cheeks to blow long trumpets, and chubby hands strummed Greek harps. The tiny white g-string had a plastic or nylon reinforcement to its heart-shaped gusset, and a red “X” cross upon it where her totally shaven completely naked passion-hole was imprisoned under its protection. The red “X” seemed to scream an indisputable “NO!” The red “X” cross: the symbol of the completely intact virgin she was.

Her arms, her supremely slender gender-confirmatory arms, were stretched from leather girlacles at the sweet wrists, from a chain dangling from stage roof supporting beam above.

Amanda glanced momentarily up at the TV cube close-up's passing focus on the girl's face, and watched the tears starting in the girl's eyes, as the supremely slender and supple girl, with slim legs as long as a league, danced on the very tips of the tips of her big toes, naked bar her white stockings and white g-string: her breasts lifted high and eye-catchingly prominently protuberant still, despite her arms being so stretched aloft. The nipples, the astounding and astonishingly outstanding one-inch long nipples peeking up to the heavens, from whence they most assuredly could only ever have come.

Her lovely legs were stretched so long, because she was longingly longing to level herself from leaving the ground, and only just able to touch the dusty stage floor with her big toes to take her sweet girl-weight off her adorable arms.

Amanda was there as the wife of Cecile, who had intended to be there herself till called away on urgent business, but who still wanted Amanda to see this rite of spring, albeit late summer: the spring being in the body and mind of the birthday innocent who hung before the crowd in obvious pain and distress as well as almost complete undress.

“And just so it was that the original Eve tempted Adamina with the snaking slimness of her perfect body, and the succulent ripeness of her proffered fruits: her blossomed nippleberries, her warm wet slice, and her ever moist mouth, denouncing the supreme safety of No Knowledge!” the priestess cursed.

“Behold before you the sin that is girl. Original and ongoing sin are within the workings of that body, and must be banished by the sacrifice of this innocent to the one and only true Nogod, the Nogod of the Church of No Know No!”

“We await Nogod's sign as to the innocence of this girl or whether she has practiced deception. Nogod will tell us the truth about this whore, this Eve, this snake of temptation, this seducer of Adamina in the Garden of Eden!”

It was Serna: her coal black hair was drawn up in a ponytail, her glorious saffron-yellows eyes ran with sweet nectar droplet tears from distress and pain, and how could Amanda help but feel pity for the lovely creature, were it not that Serna's face and body radiated eradiating ineradicable breath-taking inspiration? It was Serna's fifteenth birthday and her birthday present from St Virgo's School for Girls, was her presence in her unpleasant predicament.

She was dancing before the mesmerised crowd. Serna was dancing on the tips of the toes of her long stretched very long legs. What wonder was it that held her stockings to the supreme dream beauty of the smoothest of smoothness of her creamy thighs?

Serna threw a leg aloft, and no limb before had seemed so completely compelling erotic, as the languorous lithe live lubriciously lovely limb that Serna picked up, kicked up, and bent at knee, in a fight she was fighting against some undeclared fate.

Now she twisted her gorgeous legs into a tight griping squeezing scissors that, had she been looking at other than her underwear catalogue, Amanda would have longed to be in the embrace of.

Beads of perspiration fevered the untroubled smooth brow of Serna's sweet face, as she fought and fought, dancing unavoidable provocatively, dangling by her dainty wrists.

“We await Nogod's sign as to the innocence of this girl, or whether she has practiced deception”, came the priestesses intended entertainment, invented nonsense, over the public address.

“Nogod will tell us the truth about this whore, this Eve, this snake of temptation, this seducer of Adamina in the Garden of Eden!” the mock priestess intoned once more.

Serna turned in her dance of restrained unrestraint, and the congregation gasped at the sight of her double-domed rear: her firm smooth derriere domes concave-side-dimpled by her stretched erectness and begging to be kissed in worship of the magical majesty and mistressy over all they enthralled, for all their lack of a seat to grace and make a throne by seating herself. All girls carry their thrones as the rears with which they were reared, the throne being that the girl has the wonderful majesty to furnish and burnish the furniture with as she sits, not the mere furniture that she sits upon.

And then Serna turned and turned about with a shout of distress, as her fight to constrain and contain something made her wrists have to suffer the torture of the damned condemned.

“Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!” the priestess prayed: “Is this your daughter, or is she the devil? “Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!”

Serna danced and squirmed exotically erotically…

“Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!” the priestess prayed: “Is this your daughter or is she the devil? “Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!”

Serna gasped and prayed as she twisted and turned, flexing her lovely legs in a dance and twist and turn in frightened fight with all her might to contain and refrain…

“Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!” the priestess chanted: “Is this your daughter or is she the devil? “Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!”

Then, finally surrendered to the inevitable, Serna turned toward the crowd and hung her head, as her sweet white wine piss-hissed past the sides of her g-string, splashed her supremely femininely shapely inner thighs, corkscrewed around their magnificence, and soaked into her stockings to reveal the glory of the bare legs under their caress, as it seemingly slow-motionally, seemingly emotionally, drooled, to ripple around her legs, anointing her peerless calves, before finally pooling in puddled drip drops at her tiptoed toes: this the wine of betrayal: the sign of guilt: the piss of a holy intact, wholly intact, virgin girl, soaking wet her glorious young white-stockinged legs.

“Nogod has spoken: for this was Nogod's sign. Nogod will now have her sacrifice! Scourge the trollop!” urged the mock priestess.

Amanda sighed, a little bored: how ridiculous some of the nonsense that surrounded these monthly entertainments at the Girliseum were.

………………….

Amanda turned a page in the catalogue of dreamy underwear: dark-blue was not her colour, not with her perfect negress brown complexion….

Serna was tied between two uprights by her individual nipples. Her one-inch-long half-inch diameter thimble-nipples were bound tight at their bases: so tight as to twist them brutally cruelly. From her nipples, the two lengths of nylon-line with which she was tied, ran up high to the upright wooden posts, eight-feet apart, on the stage that stationed these posts stationary.

Her pretty hands were clamped in girlacles at the back of her neck: girlacles at the back of a broad leather strap that surrounded her neck, and lifted her freckled angel's face toward the heaven from which she undoubtedly must come.

She was pulled to tiptoe by her individual nipples. Her tits were pulled out and up high, ordering her up to the very tip-tops of her toes if she did not want to rip herself, so high and wide, and so very hard were her tits pulled, they were high wide and handsomely girl-confirmatory in their horribly beautiful stretchedness.

The look on the little angel's face told it all. Of course she knew she was virgin. Of course she knew she was untouched. Of course she knew she was intact. Of course she knew she was pristine. Of course she knew she was guiltless. Of course she knew she was innocent. Of course she knew she was ripe. Of course she knew she was pluckable. Of course she knew what they were after. Of course she knew they were after her gift. Of course she knew they were after her hymen. Of course she knew that she was to be deflowered. She still wore only her girl-wine blessed stockings and her g-string. Of course she knew what the g-string was protecting.

She knew: of course she knew: but did she know: did she really know what they were after?

The look on the little angel's face told more. It told of pain, but yet curious conflict. Were her admittedly huge nipples always that size? Her bonds disguised the answer one way or the other. Was the musky fragrance descending and ascending from her slit, giving accent to assent? Her g-string hid whether she was moist. But her eyes, those incredible saffron-yellow eyes had wide, super-wide, black pupils, suspiciously distended by her suspension. Serna's eyes betrayed that she was in discovery of the dormant and latent. An innocent angel in need of love: she was about to receive the kisses she deserved.

Dressed top-to-tiptoe in black leather, behind Serna stood a left and right-handed girl: one of each hand: one of each girl: two girls therefore. They looked like Michaela and Cecile, but they were both in Berlin still, or was it New York, or Paris?

Each leather-clad, held a four-foot long wire-whip. Their whips comprised a single strand of bare wire that had been twisted at intervals, so that the strands of its composition were sometimes straggled to increase its viciousness. Each whip hand wore a rubber glove, and each whip handle, showed a cable cord continuing from its rear to the generator that had been started to give electrical power to the stroke.

The screams were horrendous as, with the swiftness of lightening, the whiperesses striped the holy domes of the wholly intact Serna with twenty bloody welts, accompanied at each stroke with the shock of electrocution, in their execution of the murderously painful duty on the beauty that was dimple-concave-sided in decided provocation in its provocative promissory prominent pert prominence before them, for them ideally to adore and not cruelly pandy to bloody stripes twenty plenty.

At each stroke and each scream Serna leaped and momentarily froze rigid, electrically stunned with lightening, for which her spine was the conductress as it blew blue into her mind, and echoed agony around in her skull, as if her highly-intelligent brain had exploded fragmentationally grenaded. The agony knew no bounds and thus knew bounds beyond bounds as her brain pounded her skull to escape its confines an exploding bomb from the stripe now bleeding across her bum. And then, after the electrical stunning, came the astounding pounding pain of the stripe itself, with her flesh fresh cut and bleeding, and her no-longer-numbed mind recording the searing of the savaging of her softness with a caress that was so excessively excess that this was what caused her scream. Her screams begged for her lovely bum to be striped no more, as her leapt and momentarily poleaxed body pulled back, having just been thrust forward by the thresh of the fresh slash, and blood oozing fine-line welt that coursed coarsely across her divine complexion, to join a complex of previous red candy bleeding stripes with which the candidate for date-candy was being bloodied and blooded. And so she pulled without let or hindrance on her nipples, and tugged her tits, as she threshed her body and kicked her pretty legs to beat of her beaters, would she could she, but she could not, for their mission was inexorable, and the next stroke followed, and she pulled on her long longing-kiss nipples, and thus torment tortured her tits as she tugged to escape her bloody fate, and was candy-striped again, stunned again, screamed again, and again hollered with the after taste of the post stunning stunning-stripe on her stunning derriere, as stripe followed stripe on her stripped body, as she was whipped without mercy, and she tugged her titties herself with as little mercy, as she could not help, for she could not run from the terrible pain of the wire-whips stripping the flesh off her buttocks, with real butchery in fact more refined, than the butchery with which her dainty devilishly sexy bottom was being profoundly precisely sliced to bloody bleeding meat.

After, as she sobbed and her tears ran in torrents, the magnificent Serna tried to turn in her tormenting bonds to see her stripes, even though she could be assured of their presence without pretence, from the terrible pain through which, even so, the trickle flow of her blood around the base of her astounding outstanding domes, onto her curvaceous thighs and thus to soak her stocking tops, was felt on her sensitive flesh.

Serna's pretty mouth stood open in a penis-punishment invitationary innocent's orgasmic ‘O', as her tears poured; but what, oh god, what was happening inside her intimacy!? Serna return-turned forward facing from her severely lashed rear, and moaned with pain, with moans that apparently said something again.

Duplicity is girl too. Serna's tortured nipples from her threshing body during the thrashing, told of the tug of love, torment having teased them into the lust thrust they telegraphed to even the undiscerning eye. And down under in the g-string, the wisdom of a soft lining towel, not only to protect her sacred virginity behind the toughened exterior armour against the amore of the whips, had found another purpose intended or not, as it was not only the wine droplets she had pissed in her fear as they had savagely whipped her rear, but the cream of her devotion to her emotional girlness was forensically evident in its eminent eminence, being not foreign but sovereign in the sweet musky smell it emitted, to prove that the brutal whipping had caused her to emote into that towel as only a girl can, and this girl still was, to the shock of her pretty mind as she realised it, among the scattered debris of her continuing savage pain.

Duplicity is girl too. Serna's virgin-innocent's blush told all as she tried to see her bum. She was highly physically and spiritually aroused, and her blush told of her shame that she was still soaking the towel in her g-string with what her whipping had promoted her to emit: that which is only in a girl's body's remit.

Duplicity is girl too, but it need not be conscious. Serna was girl, but what is girl bar the ultimate of the ultimate of refinement of the animal? Serna was blushing from the pleasure of the shock of discovering the pleasure in her nipples and in her treasure, as it continued to anoint the towel with the ointment of her appointment as a girl: the princess queen empress of the animals.

Serna's sweet pink tongue tasted her dry soft impertinent pert and pertinent to kisses but never-ever-kissed upper lip, as she tried to see her bum: in fear as she peered with her imperious saffron-yellow sun-shine-eclipsing eyes, whether her poor bum would ever be as pretty again.

By this, of course, Serna's conscious mind meant the opposite to the conclusion a passionate dispassionate observer, and her unconscious and as yet not fully awakened mind, would reach. Serna's conscious answer to her eyed but unspoken enquiry was: ‘yes of course it will when it heals'. The observer and her sublime subliminal could consciously only have counselled to the same unspoken question: ‘It will never be more beautiful than it was before and than it is now till it heals fully and is then whipped to hell once more, as it should be, and must be, in worship of its perfection'.

Purple is the colour imperial, blue the colour of sadness, and purple and blue and blue and purple was the hue of the whip-striped fresh-flesh-stripped empress'-throne-confirmer, of the divine Serna, as they prepared to salt her.

Serna screamed in total agony as they rubbed raw salt into her fresh flesh wounds, working it into her cuts so astutely accurately, as to acutely increase the pain of her whipping again with gain, and certainty of certainty it would be without cease.

Serna screamed with her pretty tongue flickering out like a snake's, but unforked and unequivocal: consciously and un this time was the focus of her mind on her body, and the strange way it was reacting to this terrible pain.

Amanda flicked a page: oh just look at those butterfly-fashioned nipple-covers at only two-thousand-dollars the pair!

………………….

Serna's pretty mouth stood open in a penis-punishment invitationary innocent's orgasmic ‘O', as her tears poured. They had turned her around on the stage and she was now tied between the upright posts by her two forefingers: still pulled up to tiptop tiptoe.

Serna was helpless other than to watch in horror as the cutthroat razor was raised to the nipple of her right breast: the one-inch-long nipple of her right breast. Her breast was soft and gentle, but savagely seized, and she was about to have her nipple sliced open.

“You gotta ‘ave it dun darlin'. It's orders see”, the girl with the cornflower-blue-eyes hidden behind the leather mask assured Serna, as if assurance were insurance against the pain.

“This ‘ere razors weally sharp innit, so it won't ‘urt much more dan it az too will it nah?” the clumsy but kindly intended whisper of the torturer came, bad-breath and all, to the tormented schoolgirl, who heard it not in her abject terror.

The cry Serna rendered echoed in the Girliseum as the loving camera leered at her nipple being sliced open down to its root horizontally, and then each bloody one-inch-long half thus created, again sliced vertically to quarter the nipple. Serna panted and gasped with the pain as the same treatment was meted out to her left breasts nipple again.

Serna now looked down fascinated with the horror of the horrible sight of her quartered nipples, bloody, and dripping scarlet from their one-inch-long lengths now eight where heaven had granted her two: eight un-whole having replaced two holy wholly whole.

“Well….yer shuddant ‘ave' ‘ad such luvvly nippies should yer darlin'? taunted her tormentor.

The insertion in the split-open nipples of the raw salt tablets was followed by the nipples being stapled closed, with the salt burning the raw sensitivity within, by needles thrust through in an ‘X' formation at the nipples' tips to hold the salt tablet in place: the salt tablets now already reddened by the virgin-girl's fresh flesh blood.

Each salt tablet was bonded with wax, and the wax scattered with iron-filings glued too to the two-inch long wicks that now curl-dangled from the tips of Serna's tortured tits: her nipples having been sliced into quarters to facilitate the insertion of these salt-and-iron-filing impregnated wax candles: for candles indeed were, the insistent persistent inserts poor Serna bore within her sliced-open nipples.

Salt secured certainty of sustained searing. Her bum, striped, was salted. Her nipples split-open were salted. Nothing had altered. This was worship of her untouchedness. This was the only way to make love to such beauty: the only way bar having her being had by another equally lovely girl of course. Serna was being taught the lesson that there are only two ways in which to make love to a truly beautiful girl, and that this she was enduring, though she had had no other lover love her, untouched by even herself let alone another girl as she was, was her only other truly worthwhile lover. Beauty and the beast: beauty and the best.

Compared with the horrendous throbbing pain from her sliced-open nipples, the agony of having the two tight barbed-wire crowns pulled over her tits, in the form of a barbed-wire-brassiere, that was wired across her cleavage, and wired around her back with more brutal barbs cutting into her, in violent imitation of the intimate gentle bra-strap in the latter case: the agony of the open wreaths of barbed-wire that were the “cups” of this brassiere being eased over her sweet sensitive softness, so that the barbs bit into her softness to hold themselves in mocking place around her tits' bases by biting hard and deep into her tit flesh, was secondarily terrible.

The single strand of wire they put round her face, with its single barb over the tongue in her opened mouth, to rip her tongue should she continue to scream, was barbarous, as were the barbed-wire garters they drew up her stockinged legs, avoiding laddering her white red-blood-soaked stockings by some miracle, till the carefully measured inner diameter of their unyielding cruelty, caused them to rip her skin, as they were stopped in their climatic climb and twisting into immovably lodged place cutting deep into her thighs, to permit the commitment of the crime, of surrounding each of her magnificent thighs, to nail her stocking tops stopped, frorn whence they could not now fall at all, for the flesh of her thighs was ripped and torn where her barbed-wire garters adorned.

Scream would she, poor Serna, could she: but tongue would be ripped dare she.

Her blood ran in trickles that tickled along with her tremendous horrendous horrible pain.

She knew what they were after. She knew they were after her precious hymen. But did she know: did she really know what they were after?

Amanda turned back a page: ‘Parisienne's' new catalogue was out.

………………….

The log was huge.

It was safe now to remove Serna's g-string. It had protected her from the whip. It was for sure that she was still intact inside her miss' mystery, missed by the kiss of the lashes that had adored and adorned her adorable rear.

Such was the scrabble for that miniature garment of miniscule cover, pregnant with the scent of Serna's fear-piss, and the aromatic betrayal musk from her bodies duplicitous reaction to the savagery meted out to whip her bum to red meat: duplicity that continued in multiplicity as her torture continued, and she suffered the unendurable, indelibly undeniably, and unarguably inescapably: such was the scrabble for that miniature garment of miniscule cover when it was thrown into the crowd, that the Girl-Police had to wade-in with batons drawn, to separate fighting women, who anyway, and all ways, at one and apart, tug-of-warred the worn still warm garment to shredded unrecognisable and unreconstitutable girl-scented shards.

There was so much blood on the poor girl, that the whiteness of her complexion around her wholly shaven holy hole, shone like a beacon showing off her keyhole, keening for a key to unlock her otherwise eternity of internal fidelity to negativity. A key to her charm was that her keyhole was still locked by a combination that was yet to be found, so that the tumblers would fall and her grace would be surrendered to womanise her from girl, and her mystery made history by the kiss story she was enduring, as her fate was to be unfolded and befall her fall before all once her petals had been opened so she came into full flower.

The log was huge. Serna must carry the huge log on her slender shoulders.

The inspirationally perspirationally peppered girl, freed from the uprights, now knelt to have her barbed-wire garters rip the saintly sensitivity of her sweet shapely calves, as she was made to go under the huge log, and lift it on her slender shoulders.

Once she squatted on her barbed-wire garter torn haunches, with her slender gender-confirmatory young adorable-freckle-tanned shoulders under the log, still as yet resting on its two ‘Y' shaped supports, they tied her arms to it at her wrists.

Serna's slim pretty arms were stretched out and roped at the wrist, as far apart as they could be stretched, with the ropes that tied her, tying her to the log, by being tied to the log in their turn.

The log, a tree-trunk, was massive. It weighed twice the schoolgirl's delight-weight-category, catch-me-if-you-can-you-wish-you-could-weight poundage. It was heavier than anything Serna had ever lifted in her sweet young life. The tying out of her arms was to make it harder for her to lift it, and to make sure she lifted it, she would be flogged until she did, and still flogged even when she did.

But Serna must bear her burden and carry her tree-trunk log in high heels. But Serna wore no high heels! Oh my goodness gosh, had her high heels been forgotten?! No, of course they had not. As she squatted in thighy glory, Serna felt two of her tormentors put in place the devices that would lift her heels up one storey. Two uprighted ten-inch nails. They, her tormentors, lodged two uprighted ten-inch nails under Serna's uplifted heels, as the innocent squatted preliminary to her lift, and already their points had penetrated her heels. Two uprighted ten-inch nails were in place so that they would be driven hard into the heels of her stockinged foot to form high-heels for her to walk in, shoeless but not heedless of heels, when she lifted the log. Cinderella had her high heels and would go to the princess' party.

The “THWACK!!!” of her overseers' strap-whips on Serna's lovely bare thigh flesh echoed around the Girliseum, as Serna pressed her heels onto the carefully-placed-in-place two uprighted ten-inch nails, that were to be driven into the heels of her stockinged foot to form high-heels for her to walk in shoeless, when she lifted the log.

The pain of the lashes drove Serna to aloft her burden for certain, on feet raised to agonising tiptoe by the nails that were thus driven into the heels of her feet, as she staggered and ripped her tongue as, despite the barb of the barbed-wire over it, she ripped out a scream of pain and despair.

Two-inches of the ten-inch heel-nails stilettoed her heels, till a stop built into the nails at that interval, intervened to stop the nails being driven further by the huge weight Serna now alofted, and the dainty-weight of the schoolgirl angel herself, so that Serna now staggered, on eight-inch-heels, reddened with her scarlet blood spiralling slowly down their hafts, to anoint the ground at the flat heads of the nail-heels she now wore.

Her log bowed the beauty, driving her head, chin down, toward her chest, where she could not help but see the savage barbed-wire crowns that her bare breasts were squeezed through, and were now barbed-brassiered by, and the nipples; her lovely long, one-inch nipples sliced-open and salt-and-iron-filing-candle tabletted, and now searing her with agony, as they were closed around the raw salt and rough iron-filings, held in stasis within the wax of the candles they now formed, and by the pins driven through her naked flesh at nipples' ends.

Serna's lovely slim arms fought to hold the log from crushing her crashing to the ground, as her overseers ordered her to parade her tortured virginity, before the roaring crowd baying every obscenity that its all-female populace could conjure from the vilest recesses of their minds; most no doubt from between their legs.

Her allotted burden aloft her shoulders, crushed Serna down hard, such that her arms seemed pulled dislocated, her neck, with her head pressed chin-to-chest, closed at the throat so she could hardly breath, her shoulders smooth complexion grazed and torn by the raw tree-trunk's uncultured coarseness, her slender spine compacted. Her glorious long slim shapely legs bore her burden, just as they bore so much of the beauty of the beauty of the beautiful schoolgirl herself.

………………….

Amanda liked this bit of the torture. She was going to enjoy watching. But first she wanted to freshen up, so she lowered her panties and girlnoeuvred her position to preciseness, before opening her legs wide, and ordering the Russian countess whose closed thighs were forming her chair seat, to urinate, so that the countess' rising wine spout would bidet Amanda's sweet but slightly sweaty cunt. This done and Amanda blown dry by the sweet lips of the countess, ordered to funnel her breath onto Amanda's freshened minx, by blowing up from below, Amanda pulled up her tanga-panties and settled in her seat to enjoy the spectacle.

………………….

Amanda liked this bit. She liked to see the poor girl carry her impossible burden whilst they whipped her constantly, flogging her around the arena, making her carry the implement of her upcoming agony.

Serna's enforced performance did not disappoint. Oh god how they flogged her with the strap-whips on that exquisitely shapely little behind of hers! The wounds of her wire-whip stripes were clearly being reopened, and more blood flowed from the sweet young flower. Those strap whips had multiple studs in their ends: that was a nice touch.

‘I wonder if they salted her' Amanda half-thought dismissively, knowing that they would have salted the little angel's open wounds very thoroughly for sure. Amanda liked that, and so did her minx as her little-penis began to throb mischievously. It was not that Amanda had not once got salt in a finger she had caught with a sharp knife when cooking: so it was not that Amanda did not know how much the salt must sting the lovely schoolgirl, over and above the pain of her whip wounds.

‘Oh! What have they done to her nipples?' Amanda's pleasured-eyes espied especially, as the cube-TV picture closed in on these again in close-up. Amanda raised lovely fingers to astoundingly outstandingly beautiful lips, as she gasped to see that the nipples had been sliced into quarters, and wicked candles, full of rough salt no doubt, pushed into the girl: ‘they must be candles else those are not wicks hanging down from her nipples' Amanda mused drawing the correct conclusion.

The strap-whips percussive kisses ricocheted around the arena, as they slapped Serna's bum as if it were twin overturned-kettle-drums: the wicked ‘THWACKS!!!!' of their slaps rippling erotic waves in her supremely firm bum-flesh, as she teetered and toppled, in fear of falling under the huge weight she must bear up, though it bore unmercifully unrelentingly down on her.

They were flogging her to drive her around the stadium, and to make her walk on her heels with the nails driven into them, thus torturing her pretty feet. And yes, despite the savage slaps rippling her firm naked rump, Serna stayed on tiptoe, her beautiful slim legs thus made all the more orgasmic by their girl-confirmatory shapely muscularity their smoothness and their slender curvatures.

The whipping was constantly savage, and constantly constant, as they drove the poor little angel to display herself before the crowd, and now she was approaching the seats of the Clitton Club's wives' private enclosure where Amanda sat.

Amanda glanced down at her magazine, and then up at Serna as they whipped her around whilst she staggered under her massively crushing massively massive load, her lovely slim arms trying to hold and lift the gigantic log on her slender shoulders off her neck. Oh how could they have done that to her nipples? Oh god just look at her slit! Her lips were incredibly tight and keyhole topped. Oh she was so tight. How smoothly she had been shaved and depilated, so that she looked pre-pubescent, despite the evidence of her full-grown breasts with the torture crowns wreathing them as her breathing heaved them. And Amanda had not noticed before what they had done to her clitoris, which had been pulled out proud of her tight tight virgin outer-lips, and forced to stay out, by a needle driven horizontally through it.

Amanda could not deny the dampness in her panties as she ogled the fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, whose mesmerising bright yellow eyes looked up in her agony, unseeingly at the all-seeing Amanda, who could not deny the dampness in the panties she had pulled back up after her bidet shower, because her panties would have caught her in court, giving the lie to her lie.

The whips slapped and rebounded off the thus reverberating bare bum of the schoolgirl, as they drove her past the stand in which Amanda sat with her constant-kiss-me-it-is-what-I-am-made-for mouth lips, now as moist as her south lips, as she looked at the calves and thighs of the girl: thighs running with blood from the barbed-wire garters that mocked their beauty and locked her white stockings in place, and calves that were supremely girlmuscular in their tiptoe-erect temptation tension, as Serna wiggled and swayed her way in her torture, tiptoed on the nails driven into her heels to form high-heels, as in shoes that she wore not.

………………….

She had squatted with her log: squatted down on her nail-heels even, even as they continued to swat her thighs with the strap-whips. She had squatted with her log, and they had pushed her over on her back so she looked up at them, with all the unendurable pain she was enduring, in her adorable bright-yellow eyes.

Of course Serna knew the story. Of course they knew Serna would know the story. That is why, as she lay on her back her arms still outstretched to the further ends of each end of the log she had carried, they had shown her the nails: the nails and, of course, the heavy hammer.

They wanted it as people pictured it. The ropes would also hold her. They wanted it as people pictured it, so they would nail her by her hands.

Serna was helpless. She was tied out to the log and could do nothing bar kick, so she kicked up her lovely long shapely erotically orgasmically pretty legs, to try and ward off her fate.

Her tormentors simply watched till Serna had exhausted herself, even despite the extra adrenalin her terror injected into her superb slim supine body. Her tormentors simply watched till Serna had exhausted herself, enjoying the extremely leggy leg display, as the schoolgirl angel kicked at the air in the helplessness she knew she was in. Adrenalin kicked-in, and pretty legs kicky-bicycled the air to warn and defend her, but unavoidably too, to all too arouse her torturers, who knew a pretty leg when they saw one, and here watched two exceptionally pretty ones, kicking and bicycling thighilly, and sexily leggilly, at the fresh air, as the astonishingly pretty schoolgirl pretty-well exhausted herself.

“ ‘Ope yer dun nah den darlin' cos we're gonna fuckin' nail yer anyway!”

The fourteen-year-old's tongue, so torn by the barb-wire gag from screams, could hardly beg for mercy but tried.

Serna strained to see. Of course she could feel that they were holding her pretty fingers so that she could not form a fist. Of course she could feel the point of the nail, the iron nail, in the centre of the palm of her dainty hand. Of course she could scream as the hammer drove it through her hand and battered the nail hard into the log to nail the hand to it, so Serna could not move it without ripping it: and mirrored were the screams of her left had being nailed too to to twice and therefore fully crucify her.

As they nailed Serna to the log, Amanda had returned to her catalogue.

They had already stretched out and held out the virgin schoolgirl's arms, by roping her to the log before she had been forced to lift and humiliatingly carry it. And now they drove flat-headed six-inch iron nails, with two-inch-diameter heads, through Serna's palms, to nail her to the log she had born around the arena.

Serna's screams knew new decibels from hell as they nailed her, but were as silence is, to the hollers that followed, as they hauled her up by her nailed hands and outstretched arms. With no support for her young body, they hauled her up by her nailed outstretched hands till the cross-member she had been made to bear as a log, could be lodged in the hollowed-out curve, atop of the single upright tree-trunk to which she was being crucified, or would be being crucified, were a “T” a cruciform cross.

High above and behind Serna, rose perpendicularly, the upright of her ‘T'. It was though, ten-yards away. That was a problem soon solved though. They attached ropes to the ropes that bound Serna's arms to the log and dragged the log: oh, and Serna too of course, across to the ‘T' to be made by the maid to form her ‘T' cross.

Serna's whip wounded buttocks dragged on the rough ground of the Girliseum, as she fought to stop herself being dragged along, by trying to dig in the nails that dug into her heels to form the heels of her no-shoe heels, but she soon discovered that her barbed-wire garters would rip her and she conceded her legs up to be dragged on her brutally lashed bum.

The frames with the pulley wheels were just behind the upright, so once Serna's gorgeous raven haired head rested on the cross-member she was already nailed to, at the base of the upright, it was no trouble at all to haul her aloft, till the log she was nailed to would rest in the hollow made in the upright for that purpose, and the heavy-leather holding strap pulled over the horizontal of the ‘T' when in place, and nailed to the upright, so as to keep Serna from rocking the arm to which her dainty pretty little hands were nailed.

The fact that the hauling up meant Serna taking all of her delicious-weight on her outstretched arms, and that it would undoubtedly rip the palms of her pretty hands unendurably painfully, was neither here not there. The job had to be done. The girl this time was outstandingly lovely, but she was going to be crucified and that was that.

So they hauled her along, and then hauled her up: and Serna howled; and howled; and howled; with the terrible; terrible; terrible; pain.

It was not as if the operation were smooth or gently. They tugged and hauled, and she was merely coincidental to the instrumental intention of their tensioning the ropes on the pulleys and getting the cross-member log essentially central.

She was firstly uprighted to a sit on her brutally whipped red-raw bloody bleeding assaulted insulted and salted derriere, struggling to avoid her barbed-wire garters tearing into the opposite thigh to that they crowned, only to soon find her back being ripped, as the barbed-wire ‘bra-strap' snagged on the tree-trunk upright up which she was being hauled.

So, even as she cried-out with pain, she fought with her pretty legs to gain purchase with the cruel heels nailed into her heels, so as to lift her girl-curved, sweetly freckle-dappled, smooth back, off the bark of the trunk, of the chunk of tree: not to assist her being hauled into place, for that she now knew was inevitable, but to try somehow, anyhow, oh please god, to take the strain of her outstretched outreached lovely slim arms, and stop the nails, the horrible nails through the palms of her dainty little hands, tearing her hands, hands that hurt like hell's hell's hell, as they pulled the beautiful virgin schoolgirl up to her site of torture, in the sight of the crowd, Amanda among them, but she at least not baying for the blood with which the sweet fourteen-year-old-schoolgirl was paying for their entertainment.

Serna's screams had known new decibels from hell as they had nailed her hands to the tree-log that was to be the cross-member of her ‘T' cross, but were as silence is, to the hollers that followed as they hauled her up by her nailed hands and outstretched arms. With no support for her young body, they hauled her up by her nailed outstretched hands and rope-tied wrists till the cross-member she had been made to bear as a log, could be lodged in the hollowed-out curve atop of the single upright tree-trunk to which she was being crucified, or would be being crucified were a “T” a cruciform cross.

Serna's tears had dried by now: the pain was too much for tears to ease her.

All nice girls must keep their legs closed, so of course they ensured she kept her legs demurely together.

Once she was aloft, hanging only by the nailed-through hands and tight-tied wrists: the nailed-through hands of her supremely sweetly slender arms: they had pulled the nails out of her heels. They were now ready to nail her feet to the upright.

All nice girls must keep their legs closed, so of course they ensured she kept her legs demurely together.

Serna's divinely finely slim girl-woman's body hung down in excruciating agony, with her nailed hands and tortured arms taking all her dainty weight, pulled to a ‘Y' by that very weight, and her two feet, three-feet from the ground.

Standing on stools they lifted her ankles so she was put in a squat with her ankles at her thighs, and she screamed anew as new nails nailed her feet to her ‘T' to a tee, totally nailing her crucified. Putting her feet flat on the upright of her tree ‘T', they nailed them, and thus her. They nailed her feet, and thus Serna, into their, and her, final resting place: save that Serna would know no rest, nailed to her tree ‘T'.

Of course they ensured she kept her legs demurely together. A nice girl did not flash her naughtiest and yet nicest asset. They nailed her feet up so she squatted, and thus the virgin could use her handsome thighs to demurely hide her naughty-but-nice, on her ‘T' “cross”, on her ‘T' tree of total; total; total agony: crucified.

………………….

As Serna hung in that sum total of all total agony, the crowd started the slow-handclap-countdown. But they were not ready to finish her yet.

The interval had arrived….

Amanda had already determined on some milk from the bulbously endowed, red-nippled negress, who was just now curtsying to Michaela sat next to Amanda: at least it looked like Michaela with those incredible cornflower-blue eyes.

The negress wiped her nipple with a neutral-tasting-disinfectant-impregnated-wet-wipe cloth. “Do you wish for my wine also my lady?”

Amanda contemplated. There was no need for an immediate answer as she suckled on the outstanding black beauty's swollen left mammary, guzzling eagerly on the warm milk, that easily and readily flowed from its enormously wonderful bountiful bounty full human bottle.

“Wine my lady?” the temptation repeated, reaching down with an empty glass to the spout on the tight, transparent plastic, codpiece-like, tap-g-string she wore.

“Remember my lady that they say the nearer the pitcher to a picture, the prettier the wine”

Amanda bridled momentarily. She could have this girl whipped for her insolence. But then she looked at what could have been her twin-sister, so adorably attractive was this girl, and nodded. After all, the girl was only repeating her advertising slogan.

“A little taster first for my ladyship?”

Amanda nodded again, and the girl squirted a little of her very yellow, very mellow pee into the glass, curtseying, as she offered her produce to the discerning nose and pallet of her superior.

The taste would have matched the superb bouquet and the ecstatic appearance, had it not exceeded both. It was proud without being insolent, mature in its youthfulness, silent in its jouis de vive , and shy in its genteel boldness.

Although the negress had spoken in perfect English, from just this one tip-of-a-sip, Amanda knew that the negress was undoubtedly French.

Amanda nodded again, and the negress peed to fill a fresh glass fully for her.

Raising her warmly filled, human-warmth-mulled, wine-charged glass in salute: “Vive La France” Amanda teased, and smiled at her mirror image, to the surprise of the serving girl, a translator who had lost her job with the disbanding of the United Nations, and had failed to find a place in the replacement WOW headquarters.

“Ah très biennie: merci mam'selle !” the adorable flustered milk-and-wine maid responded with a loving smile and very deep respectful thighy curtsey, her fully-laden fulsome bosom abundantly bounce-flowing with her graceful leg lowering.

Amanda waved her aside, and she wiggled on obediently, though a little hurt by her dismissal: her own fault of course for momentarily forgetting her station in life…” Bon apertise ”, she dared to whisper to the adorable girl she had just so willingly served.

………………….

The slow handclap continued as Serna suffered and cried out with her excruciating agony, as her stretched-out arms took all the weight of her gymslip-slim body, that her nailed through feet could not relieve without the dreaded dreadful pain from the nails driven through them, to pin her, as if a schoolgirl pin-up, on her ‘T' cross.

“Whip her!” “Whip her!” “Whip her!” the crowd bawled hoarsely, wanting even now, to see that there was for certain, no mistake about the unmistakeable agony the fourteen-year-old virgin schoolgirl was in.

Their wishes were the command of the slaves torturing Serna, and so they flogged her thighs with the wire-whips, this time without the electrical connection, but with no lack from the power-cut in their power to cut, as they waited for the natal hour, that was an hour away as yet, as Serna, fresh-whipped, hung in total agony. Her helpless cries for mercy being masked by her torn tongue, being yet more bloodily torn, by her daring to speak with the unyielding spike of the barb from the barbed-wire band that gagged her, above her tongue in her virgin mouth.

The seconds were hours; and the hours weeks: as she called out for them to un-nail her. The pain from her twice-sliced slit-open nipples, along with that from the crowns of barbed-wire thorns that wreathed her tits and gartered her thighs, was everything now, indeed as was the agony of her wire-whipped buttocks, as they rubbed their raw skin on the upright of her ‘T', impertinent in their pert prominence, and brutalisingly bruised by the savage slaps of the strap-whips, as they had driven her to carry the tree-trunk-log cross-member, to which she was now irremovably nailed by the hands ending her endlessly lovely outreached outstretched would-be loving arms.

The crowd clapped unaware of the vital hour that was awaited, and that that hour was yet an hour away as: “Whip her!” “Whip her!” “Whip her!” they shouted once more, and Serna's thighs were whipped afresh once more, her virgin-white stockings now torn by the savagery of the wire-whips, which were used, and which had ribboned criss-cross bleeding stripes, on her slim strong now whipped naked flesh.

In her agony, Serna looked up, and her young face was lined with pain, but yet her clear saffron-yellow eyes seemed to portray a betrayal, and yet again her pierced clitoris was distended surely, visibly when she inadvertently opened her thighs to flash her pre-pubescently-nude shaven slit, and yet her nipples seemed to be unmissably unmistakably pulsing, and yet her cries now seemed less of crisis, than of commentary upon a realisation, that what had nailed her to this cross, was the culmination of the only kind of love that a girl as beautiful as she could expect: the only kind of love she deserved.

Serna's suffering was from awe of her beauty. She hung crucified, and yet she, the seeming prisoner, imprisoned the minds hearts and souls of her fellow-girls, more certainly nailing their love by the adoration her natural girlness would always compel, than Serna herself was nailed up by the hell of the nails that pinned her permanently to the wood on which she dangled. This agony was preliminary and introductory to the kind of love that Serna must endure, for she was a goddess among her kind, and this was the worship of her subjects that she would be subjected to.

The seconds became years to Serna as her pain gained ground. But she did not call for mercy now, she just whispered: “Whip me!” “Whip me!” “Whip me!” until they whipped her with the wire-whips on her bared legs, till she was with flesh in ribbons, fresh with blood on her thighs. And still she cried: “Whip me!” “Whip me!” “Whip me!” But the hour was near as was the spear. Up between her thighs it thrust: important portent potent precipice penile, in précis. The crowd bayed for it to be done.

The clock's tick clicked to three minutes before the hour and a torch aflame was reached up to light Serna's birthday candles in turn.

Serna screamed, as the wicks dangling from her sliced open nipples began to burn, flashing-off sparks all around, in celebration of the schoolgirl's rapidly approaching natal hour. And she watched horrified at the impending additional agony, as the burning wicks sparked down to the explosive mix sewn into her sliced nipples, as the candles that were her lovely tits, mocked and marked her birthday: she the birthday girl flashing sparks of joy, till she screamed again and louder, as the burning wicks were down to and caught her brutalised nipples, and heated the wax of the candles within her, and this burnt her inner flesh, as it melted, and seared her, as the iron-filings heated, and now her nipples, her gorgeous one-inch-long nipples, were emitting birthday sparks, as the iron-filings heated, and shot red-hot out of her, or into the insides of her, and burnt her inner nipple, in her nipples both, as the wax kept the wicks slow burning, and the salt in the wax entered her old and her newly burnt wounds, and she howled with pain.

Even as the birthday-candle nipples of the sweet candy on the cross nailed burnt, and pretty sparks flew spectacularly, the clock ticked to the minute before, and the seconds were shouted out by the now informed crowd, as if in climactic Canaveral countdown.

“Whip me!” “Whip me!” “Whip me!” Serna sighed, but was denied, as there was no time, but the time was approaching: “Ten!”…. ”Nine!”….. ”Eight!”…… ”Seven!”… ”Six!”….. ”Five!”….. ”Four!”…. ”Three!!” …. “Fourteen!!!” ……..”Fifteen!!!!” and the spear thrust up its tip between her tight-closed thighs: virgin schoolgirl's thighs doing only their demure duty. The target of the cold steel spear was certain: entry not so sure. Would she let it within the gentle scabbard whose lips could surely make no resistance to its incessant insistence? Would they, even yet, have to whip her to make her open wide, so she would thus unfurl her urinational and parturitional petals, to allow her penetration?

The sliding doors were tight-shut: entry was thus barred, and no entry said the sentry.

The spear was not for taking ‘no' for its answer, but she was tight. She was exceptionally tight. She had never been penetrated before, and her young muscles held her forcefully-strongly fully-clam-clamped-closed. But the spear, cold and brutal, would have none of this rejection protection, and cast the musky muscular tight mighty fighting gentle lips aside, to find the final sentinel, central and essential to the virgin she was: a cord across was come across.

With the spear now in her, Serna shouted out her agony from the pain of her tight, tight-closed, clamped-closed, clam-closed, virgin's love petals being pushed aside to open her as she had never ever been opened before, and enter her, her as she had never ever entered before, will she or not she her will.

Now Serna pushed herself up by her nailed feet, in avail to stop the length of the penile thrust within her musk-scented centre: to make the spear's endless length, have to go to greater length to fully have her.

Her agony knew new no bounds, as she hauled herself up by her nailed hands, to stop this rape short of the tight stretched protective sheath she knew they were after, and which when gone would be gone ever, for ever, forever, hereafter never.

But this lasted but seconds, as her outer petals were already parted, and the spear inexorably rose within the petals of the prefect rose of schoolgirl giggling excellence, and swiftly sundered the centre of her tension, ripping her hymen, so it's released ends, flap-slapped tattered tails on the walls within the angel, who felt her new gap and knew she had been snapped, as the slap caused her to audibly merely sexually erotically sigh-cry-girly-gasp-astonished: “Naaaaah!!!!” And the spear that had risen to rip her ribbon, was reddened scarlet as it withdrew from the girl, who now knew she was no longer new, as indeed in evidence of the deed her hymen's blood trickled from her no-longer innocent innocence, and trailed its betrayal, that the fourteen-year-old girl was now the fifteen-year-old woman, ripped ripe at the very second of the fifteenth anniversary of her birth, even as she sighed, nailed to her sacrificial ‘T' cross: “Whip me!” “Whip me!” “Whip me!” whilst they let her close her thighs, and put the lucky spear that had been first inside her, aside beside her, and watched the scarlet single trail of her virgin's ex-virgin blood, tell its tale, by the tail that dripped from her lovely love-lips, and then trailed down the inside of her beautiful left thigh, till it tangled in her cruel barbed-wire garter, and from thence drip-dropletted, silently, to the thus sanctified and should be forever-hallowed ground.

And Serna now just cried.

As Serna's nipples continued to shoot out the sparks from her birthday candles two, Serna just cried as she internally erupted, into the eternal measure of a girl's pleasure, in spasms of eking squeaking crisis cries, from her helpless hopeless all body pain: upon the ‘T' cross to which she was now irremovably nailed: nailed indeed not by the iron nails through her palms and her feet by which she was nailed in deed; but also by her orgasms….

……………..

“May I watch you miss?” asked the angelically sweet voice of the raven-haired saffron-yellow-eyed Serna Hayden-Standish.

“Of course you may my lady”, Amanda answered to the life-curious schoolgirl, whilst she, Amanda, naked apart from the extremely brief g-string in which she had slept the night just gone, tried to ensure the lovely schoolgirl did not see the abundant evidence of the multiple-cums she had had, from the schoolgirl's feature-length starring-role, in Amanda's early morning, very welcome, wet-dream, only minutes since.