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Farewell My Panties
(by
Eve Adorer)
Chapter 3 – Tone
I looked at the
delight-light-freckled blonde girl with the makeup-less-face and natural
wild-strawberry lips poutin’ proud waitin’ train platform infronta me. She was
real cute. Maybe 20, and like so liberty? Her eyeglasses perched enda her
pretty little snoz signalled ‘intelligent’ like they didn’t hafta, cos her
bright dark-blues said she was double-brains.
‘Was she or wasn’t she?’
Her bod was sensation. She
was one delicious dame.
Three buildin’-site girls in
their checker shirts, tight jeans, thick-soled high-heeled boots and hard-hats,
were givin’ her the full appreciation, and she was, like, tryin’ to ignore
them, even though her face said she was pleased at bein’ admired some, by these
rough ‘n ready fun-lovin’ leerin’ cheery chicks?
She’da white camisole like
vest with a low swoopin’ curved neckline that showed her cleaved deep cleavaged
titties provokin’ pokin’ pointin’ proud, rockin’ and rollin’ as she breathed
let alone when she moved. No bra, that was sure for sure.
She’da blue-denim skirt that
was torn off ragged at the hem, and the hem no more
than just beyond eclipsin’ her moons.
Her brown-leather waistbelt
was at an angle of dangle sayin’ her skirt was upped by her hips alone and the
belt just for show. And it showed how waif her waist was. And she filled her
black stockings with legs longer stronger and shapelier than surely legally
‘lowable on a lovely, if’n she ain’t gonna devastate girlkind.
‘Be she, or be she not?’
that was the question.
As that Wittgenstein fella
musta said: ‘All a girl has to do is be’. This girl was. Nature had provided
and decided so much in her favour and now she was grantin’ us hers. She was
‘all things bright and beautiful’. She made the day a day, and not only by the
firmness of the bare smooth tanned thigh above her dark-black half-up-thigh
stockin’ tops.
She soughta fell outta her
clothes. She was smartly dressed, but with a charmin’ carelessness that spoke
she was more at home naked on a beach than draped instead.
She looked free as
flight-bird long-summer-water-splash giggle-and-dash bikini-beach fun-and-frolic, with topless and bottomless worship sunbathe ‘tween
nightlong partyin’ with all her equally pretty and carefree girlfriends.
She was summerlong-brown and
showed her tan from one strap of her vest bein’ offa
her shoulder and half-down her gentle bicep n’ triceps, revealin’ the divine
fragility of the structure of her collarbone, and the curve of her neck.
She had no intention
straightin’ her vest’s shoulder-strap even though it threatened to reveal a
full tit, if’n that same full firm breast didn’t save the day none.
Her curl-coiled-corn-crop
hair, also looked like she’d just gotten out of a passionate embrace with a
whirlwind. She was both shoutin’, and signallin’ subliminally, seductive
smoulderin’ succulence.
She was sex. She was sex
48/7 and 730/365: 732/366 in the four leap-years she had so far enraptured. She
was sex. She was sex on legs.
Girls like her, have gotten
a laser ‘tween their thighs that burns track by a beam from their crack,
compellin’ the eye to follow even as it’s consumed alive by fire desire; and
compellin’ us to want to know her biblically: to part the covers of her book
and see inside where the words of heaven are scribed on pink leaves: to kiss
her bible and ring her little bell: to kneel and knell and ask not for whom the
clit tolls, as she rolls in joy at our sermon in her mount, inadequate
undeservin’ wretches that we are before god’s one true representative on earth,
created in her likeness, with no real right to enter her nunnery, even in
worship.
‘Was she or wasn’t she?’
English-rose was her cheeks,
on accounta the heat, and cos she was blushin’ at knowin’ her sin was oozin’
when the workin’ girls gave her the full whistlin’ wolf, long loud and
repeated, through fingers in their mouths: like she deserved, and how, for her
bein’ so darned sassy ‘wow’!
She was hot and she was hot.
It was the autumnal fall, but it steamed. She took her specs off and kissed a
breeze up to her forehead as a cooler, and glanced me
eye to eye.
The question them workin’
girls was askin’ themselves was the one I was askin’ me. ‘Was she or wasn’t
she?’ ‘Is she or isn’t she?’
She looked at me like
matter-of-fact and then away. She’d made my day with just that look, even
though it hurt that she did not seem to see me, let alone register me.
Perhaps she’d look again
with her specs restin’ back on her freckle-speckled. Maybe she couldn’t see me
without her specs.
But no: she’d seen me. She’d
seen me and not seen me. She’d seen what was just another
ponygirl like was everydaysville now.
‘Was she or wasn’t she?’ In
that magical moment with this momentous girl, the question was more important
than nuclear Armageddon, the existence of planet earth, continuation of the
universe even.
‘Is she or isn’t she?’ ‘Be
she, or be she not?’
When the engine pulled in,
despite nature-girl’s look remindin’ me of my place seemin’ outsidea the human
race, I moved to join the chick and the other passengers boardin’ train, till
Merinda de Cabot-Ensaya, who didn’t seem to have noticed my half-clop forward
toward an open slidin’ door where the denim skirt, strong legs, and swishin’
ass was movin’ into, led me ‘clip-clop’ ‘clip-clop’ ‘clip-clop’ to the cattle
truck at the train’s rear.
‘Was she or wasn’t she?’ ‘Is
she or isn’t she?’ ‘Be she, or be she not?’ Those were the burnin’ questions:
three questions and yet one.
The girl who ‘just was’, the
girl who was sex, the girl who was sex on lovely legs, the stupendous momentous
girl, nature’s girl, musta glided to gild the train as I was led to a straw
strewn pony stall, cos as I clip-clopped obeyin’ my lead rein, unable to turn
my head: instead I heard the wolf-whistles and loud woops and cheers, as the
girl who ‘just was’, the girl who was sex, the girl who was sex on ‘illegally
long’ legs, the stupendous momentous girl, nature’s natural girl, musta just
stepped up onto the train….
She musta just stepped up
onto the train ….and, in doin’ so, clearly flashed that she was not…….. and that she was definitely a girl.
…………………
It had been weird.
As I stood
tiptoed in my iron pony-shoe shod hooves, a warmin’ horse-blanket over my
shoulders so my body would cool more slowly after my efforts with Merinda
ridin’ me. As I stood tiptoed in
my iron pony-shoe shod hooves, with my arms bound out cruciform on the cangue
round my neck, tethered standin’ on my highly erotically long-stretched
ballet-trained fit slim supremely shapely strong legs, my bare bottom’s full
moons waddled and described an erotic magic circle, as the train pulled out and
I had to re-find my stance in my stall, toppled momentary-disturb by the
train’s pull-away lurch.
I’d just been de-saddled. My
ass and my twat bits’ the latter still shinin’ from the polishin’ my moisture
had ministrated it with, were over the wooden partition divider ‘tween stalls,
as were my tit-reins. I was tethered by a short rein from my mouth-bit, facin’
out into the cattle-coach from my stall. My ‘good-girl’ mouth-bit and bridle
with blinkers had been replaced with a softer overnight type mouth-bit. As far
as I could tell, I was the only ponygirl on the train: leastin the only one in
this ‘ticular cattle truck.
It had been weird.
I’d pictured Merinda woulda
grabbed the ‘Nubian Nipple’ ruby from Lola, and we’d have run into the night.
But no.
Instead it’d been a coupla
days with me out on patrol pullin’ the copette cart routine.
I was overed where I used to
patrol on foot, and the girls from there who remembered me before I was made
pony, came over to pat my bare buns, showin’ how they still regarded me good,
which was real nice.
Where the ‘Nubian Nipple’
was concerned, I was sorta outta the case and in the case. Since I’d gone over
to private eye, I’d gotten kinda used to makin’ the plans. Now I knew, or
leastin’ hoped and believed, that makin’ me pony was part of some bigger plan
in which I was still a vital piece jigsaw.
……………..
I’d not been saddled for
solo ride before. After they’d bitted my mouth and fitted tit-reins to the
rings in my nipples, they forced the ass and twat bits up me and tightened my
crotch-belt to hold them in place.
The saddle they put on me
next, was a sorta backwards-facin’ chair they fixed at the bottom of my back,
just above my ass. It was strapped around my belly real tight and over my
shoulders two straps, mergin’ into one strap to ‘tween my 38E’s ‘fore it was
buckled off fronta my belt.
They trotted me out saddled,
to the steps where I immediately saw the princess, lookin’ great-shakes-shapely
in her polo-shirt, blue-jeans, and brown knee-high wheel-spurred ridin’ boots.
Merinda was at parlez vous
with this beautiful creature, that was all white though she looked like a
gorgeous negress: all transparent white with the most startlin’
pink eyes. I didn’t never before seen an albino afore.
So this was the girl Lola, that headed the
Lola-Dillinger Mob. She was breathtakin’ beautiful!
“I got her three sisters in
trainin’ to take her place. Lulabell, Amour, and Capriccio wanted pony when
they seen Hotcrack in the parade Park Central, save Capriccio has wanted mind
change since. ‘Bouncers’, ‘Nippleoanna’, and ‘Lovetolick’ are just bein’
broken. Lovetolick’s got a lot of fire, and is takin’ a hell of a whippin’. But
anyways you can have Hotcrack with my complimentaros princess”, I heard Lola
say.
I could see no sign that the
princess had got the ‘Nubian Nipple’ ruby back. Lola addressin’ her as
‘princess’ too, said the game was up. But then this partin’ of Lola and Merinda
seemed all pals. It was weird.
My stable-girls reined me
walk over to the steps, and turn my back. I felt Merinda’s 100-pounds of pure
girl sit in the saddle-seat.
At first, I sidewaysed under
the weight I was unused to, never havin’ been rid solo saddle afore, but
Merinda was a full-experience ponygirl jockey, and skilled with the tit-reins.
She soon had me straighten, standin’ ready for walk, and waitin’ her orders to
me through her tuggin’ on my tits to tell me to obey, and tappin’ my thigh with
her crop to tell me she’d whip me good if’n I didn’t do as she tell.
Two sharp
up-tugs of my 38Es with the tit-reins, and a “Hup there Hotcrack! Hup there girl!” and I was obeyin’ the walk order as
I was made to oughta, lessen she use her crop and her spurs on me.
Merinda rode me steady from
Lola’s home, where the copette-ponygirls were stabled, to the train station. I
was mighty proud clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop,
clip-cloppin’, with this exquisite honey as my jockey.
She was real gentle with me.
She was sweet with my tits too, just the lightest tugs on the reins to my
nipple-rings, to tell me to turn left or right. And she gave me lotsa “good
girl” and “steady girl, steady there” and “there’s a good girl” as I did my
duty clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-cloppin’ on the hot concrete. And
she patted my buns to give me a: “there’s real good girl Hotcrack” when we
arrived station yard.
Then Merinda dismounted and
took me platform, where she paid ticket for herself and for me as cargo.
And so platform, as we
waited train, we ogled the nature-girl in her ripped-off denim micro.
And so after: I was now in a
stall travellin’ I knew not where.
It had been weird.
…………….
We was
an hour journey. I was peein’ on the floor straw in my stall, tryin’ not to splash
my legs, when the princess came into the cattle truck, holdin’ the
sensationally sensuous nature-girl by her hand.
Oh god was I jealousized!
I dared to lift my head to
see over the gate across my stall.
“When we were on the
platform, I had to pretend I didn’t know you. Officially I am still in Ongeria,
though Lola will let the cat out the bag now, I’m sure. We
can talk safely here”, Merinda’s contralto kitten-purr assured.
The nature-girl immediately
put her long tongue out at Merinda, real rude seemin’. But she’da stud in the
middle of it that I seen Merinda studyin’, and I knowed too, that it was a
shield, a badge of office.
“So, you’re Girl-Bureau of
Investigation now. I was told to expect a GBI agent on this train. May I know
the name you’re goin’ by?” Merinda asks.
“I’m ‘
Then she says to Merinda:
“The pony?”
“Oh, Hotcrack’s okay”
assured Merinda. “We can say and do whatever we like in front of her ‘Ms Campbell’, we aren’t goin’ to frighten the horses at all”.
“How’d it go with Lola?” Ms
Campbell then asks.
“She definitely bit”,
Merinda replies.
“Please say no more my most
merciful princess”, the hot chick then says in return. “You may do so, my most
merciful princess, but I don’t want to trust a ponygirl slag.”
So, despite Merinda havin’
insisted she see Ms Campbell’s GBI identity, as if she were a stranger, it
seemed in fact as if they knew each other.
I guessed Merinda’s time in
I now knew by Patricia’s confirmin’, that she was Patricia Campbell goin’ by her real
name still, even though she was undercover for the GBI.
“How long has it been my
angel?” Merinda suddenly asks.
“Since we were betrothed my
most merciful princess”.
“Four years?”
“Yes my most merciful
princess”.
“You have burned without it
for four long years?”
“Yes my most merciful
princess. I am completely and absolutely untouched for this past four years my
most merciful princess”.
Then the angel knelt on the
ground, with her butt up showin’, as her skirt slid up her moons, and what’s
more, as she put her palms down flat and kissed the carriage floor, holdin’ the
kiss before Merinda, that her sweetmeat was shaved
shinin’-softly-satin-smoothly supremely sleek.
“Patricia my angel, you do
not have to do the ‘surrendee’ here in the
Nature-girl rose to her feet
her eyes lowered before the princess, who lightly kissed her on her forehead.
Tears rolled down my face as
I controlled the sound of my profound sobs. My heart was broken. Merinda was
lost to me. My dreams were nightmared. I was broken heart despairized.
……………
Till I’d seen that scene
with Patricia, and heard mention of betrothal I hadn’t known that I had fallen
in love with Merinda. What was betrothal to them was betrayal to me.
I’d so hoped, ever since
Merinda had kissed me orgasms on that first day in my office, that I’d do pony
for the cause of her case, and then… Well, honested, I’d damn fool dreamed a
weddin’.
Love is blind they say. I’d
shown that true. What would Her Most Merciful Majesty the Supreme Princess
Merinda de Cabot-Ensaya of Ensaya and Xallia in Xallitia-Compusmertia want do
with a smuck private eye, now even broken and reduced to ponygirl slut and
ridden to tit-reins?
When she’d
gone. When my
princess had gone back to her carriage. I hollered and howled and bawled
as I cried and cried and cried.
……………
As I had not afore realised,
we was on the boat train. We pulled up harbour-side.
With no oil no more, coal
fuelled ships again now, ‘ceptin those with wind-sails of course.
We were right alongside a
big ocean-goin’ yacht named the ‘OSR Callipygian’, ‘OSR’ standin’ for ‘Ongerian
Ship Royal’. Patricia Campbell had joined us.
“What do you want doin’ with
the ponygirl, my most merciful majesty?” Patricia asks.
“Oh gosh. Do you know, I’d quite forgotten her.
Just let her loose”, Merinda answered casual distracted.
My heart sank deeper than
the deepest deep at this dismally dismissive dismissal.
Then it leapt with joy again
as the princess added: “No. On second thoughts, bring Hotcrack onboard. I have
a role for her yet a while”
…………….
“Get those so fuckin’
beautiful legs of yorn wider apart you whore. Wider! I
said wider!! NO!! Wider!!! Wider!!! WIDER YOU FUCKIN’ SLAG!!!!!”
As we boarded the ship, the
OSR Callipygian, I clip-clopped up the walkway led by nature-girl Patricia, the
GBI agent, and was immediately amazed, as the all-girl crew got down on the
deck in what I now knew was called ‘the surrendee’.
“Rise” Merinda says,
quietly.
Attentive to Merinda’s every
whim, and silent, the girl who seemed to be ship-captain, made a
long-strong-leggy-legged curtsy.
Dressed in a dark-blue
microskirt, with heelless tiptoe-top squared-off-toed balletic booties, she was
differentiated from her crew by her wearin’ a peaked cap on her dark-brown
curled negress’ ringlets, and by her havin’ gold tassels clipped to both of her
nipples.
Then I realised she was
confirmed chief officeress too, as I saw her juniors, two of whom had gold
tassels on their left nipples only, two with silver tassels on both nipples,
and two more with silver tassels on only their left nipples.
I glanced around at the
junior sailorettes. They looked a tough bunch. The officeresses wore navy-blue
g-strings, but not the sailorettes. The officeresses were also full depilated,
but the sailorettes had their natural hair on their legs under their armpits,
and to keep their satans warm.
“Captainess
Hortensio Nelson! It is good to
see you again! I will inspect the vessel later, though I am sure, with a girl
like you in charge Hortensio, I will find all is shipshape and bristols
fashion”, Merinda complimented.
“Have Hotcrack…. the
ponygirl, taken below and de-ponify her for now. Put her in the hareem. Leave
the nipple-rings in her and the hooves on her…. Make sure she’s fully
depilated” Merinda instructed. The captainess curtsied low again, and, at her
instructin’ nod, I was clip-clopped away, led by a lovely blonde sailorette
with natural shimmerin’-silver down-hair all over her gorgeous tanned brown
legs.
…………….
“Get those so fuckin’
beautiful legs of yorn wider apart you whore. Wider! I
said wider!! NO!! Wider!!! Wider!!! WIDER YOU FUCKIN’ SLAG!!!!!”
I remained ready ponied in
the hareem. So many girls and all of them beautiful.
There was lots of gigglin’ and teasin’ goin’ on. I was different because I was
still shod pony, but they made me too put on a yashmak.
All we girls wore a
semi-transparent white silk veil. It was made like an elasticated-topped skirt.
It was put over your head till its hem was just below your lips. The elastic
top held it at the top of your nose, so your eyes were free to peek over it.
Your hair was inside it. I still had my blonde hair made over pony-mane of
course.
I was naked else, because I
was pony. But all the other girls wore a similar ‘skirt’ around their chests,
so as the hem came just over their tits. Their third skirts were real skirts
for what they covered, or would have, were it not tradition that they be worn
half-down the ass, soas to reveal buttock cleavage. Buttock cleavage was
considered highly erotic in Ongerian society. Ongerian
society was not wrong neither.
The sailorettes were a mix
of individual black and white or of mixed-race. They reflected Ongerian society
which was 99 percent female, and, within that 99 percent, forty-percent black,
forty-percent white, and twenty-percent exceptionally gorgeously mixed-race.
Though I was still pony, I
had been shaved and waxed like the hareem girls, and I too had had my pubic
hair trimmed into the shape of a playin’ card type heart.
I was still hooved, the hareem girls wore red permanent-en-pointe
ballet-shoes.
We was
encouraged to exercise. And, as I was reminded I was on Ongerian territory, and
must do as they do in Ongeria, not the US of A. I was taught the surrendee and
that I must never ever talk to a royal without she gave me permission first,
lessen I wanted have my tongue cut out. And there were two girls there who’d
had their tongues removed, so I was pointed their way to know it was true what
they’d do.
“Get those so fuckin’
beautiful legs of yorn wider apart you whore. Wider! I
said wider!! NO!! Wider!!! Wider!!! WIDER YOU FUCKIN’ SLAG!!!!!”
So many
girls and all of them beautiful.
There was lots of gigglin’ and teasin’ goin’ on, but we all got floor in the
surrendee, kissin’ the deck with passion when the princess came in.
Merinda led nature-girl
Patricia Campbell by the hand. Though I could not see as I must remain kissin’
the ground in the surrendee, I guessed Patricia still dressed western style,
and too the princess herself.
“Ms Campbell is to be shaved
waxed and finished ready for our weddin’. It is to be done now so that she has
the rest of the voyage to get used to it”, Merinda announced.
No girl moved from the
surrendee until the princess had had the hareem doors closed after her. Then
there was a rushin’ of gigglin’ lovelies toward the nature-girl spillin’ outta
her clothes with the horny intensity of her high octane hormones, the
18-year-old two-billion-percent oestrogen-charged Patricia Campbell, former
catwalk model and now a GBI agent.
“Princess-bride-to-be, may I
have the honour?”
“No! Me! Me
Princess-bride-to-be: let me!” came another eager voice.
Then a more mature voice
broke in. “Would the princess-bride-to-be like somethin’ to take away the
pain?”
“No. No thank you”, Patricia
bravely answered. “I want the full bridal experience.”
“You are allowed a leather
strip to bite on so that you don’t bite your tongue”, said the same mature
woman.
“I will have the leather
strip then please. Will you be the one to do me please?” Patricia answered and
asked.
“Of course
princess-bride-to-be, if you wish it.”
I stood seethin’ hatred as
the girls giggled whilst they stripped Patricia naked and bathed her
astonishin’ly gloriously exquisite golden-brown all-over-tanned and toned body,
before soap latherin’ her up ‘tween her legs to re-shave her.
And moment, Patricia looked
up at me and smiled at me so lovely lovin’ly, that I felt my heart leap for her
too, even though I was deep blue and wantin’ die for my love of Merinda,
Patricia’d stolen from me. It was moment, but it was divine to see her indigo
eyes shine so with natural love at me.
And I lost sight of
proceedin’s after that. All I saw was naked Patricia on her back on a table
with her legs held firm wide apart and her blonde-curled head rollin’
side-to-side, and her gritted-teeth moans, and would-be screams of agony, as
they girlmoeuvred her legs to position her for the different stages of what
they was doin’.
And, time tocked, I realised
that, for chrissakes, they was sewin’ her up!
They was
sewin’ her petals! The poor little angel was havin’ her pretty petals sewn
closed!! They were sewing her cunt up!!!
I seen the twinkle of a
curved bodkin needle and gold-filigree thread they musta bin pullin’ through
her flesh and, jeese, even though my own sin got damp thinkin’ ‘bout it, I felt
horror for her
Although I hated this girl
for steelin’ the princess from me, as I watched it, I knew real sympathy when I
heard her screams when the needle was pushed through her lips and her long
moans when the golden thread was pulled slowly through after.
It musta been a whole hour
they held her and sewed her, insertin’ a tiny gold tube through which she would
henceforth pee and menstruate. And I saw them bathin’ her head to cool her
pain, as they pulled fresh gold thread through her flesh time over time over
time over time again.
I learned since, that she
was havin’ her inner and outer lips sewn up. I heard tell in the hareem, after
it was done, that her clitoris hood had been stitched closed to keep her
clitoris imprisoned, and her clitoris too sewn through so as to ensure it was
kept under the strictest of restrictive disciplinary control.
Then, “She is ready” said
the mature woman’s voice.
“She’ll find it very
difficult and very painful to walk for a while. Two of you escort her to her
cabin”.
“Thank you”, said Patricia’s
voice, quaverin’ with evident pain.
“It is the highest honour
princess-bride-to-be”, said the mature girl who had done the sewin’. “When they
whip me at your weddin’, I hope I may take my pain with your strength of will
my revered lady”.
I had tears in my eyes as I
watched the rear of poor Patricia when she staggered like she was blind or
drunk, she was so in pain. I cried for her pain and for her reminder that my
love was laid waste by Patricia’s betrothal. And I recalled the conversation on
the train in the cattle truck:
“How long has it been my
angel?” Merinda had asked.
“Since we were betrothed my
most merciful princess”.
“Four years?”
“Yes my most merciful
princess”.
“You have burned without it
for four long years?”
“Yes my most merciful
princess. I am absolutely completely untouched for this past four years my most
merciful princess”.
……………….
“Get those so fuckin’
beautiful legs of yorn wider apart you whore. Wider! I
said wider!! NO!! Wider!!! Wider!!! WIDER YOU FUCKIN’ SLAG!!!!!”
I looked down on the weddin’
of Her Most Merciful Majesty the Supreme Princess Merinda de Cabot-Ensaya of
Ensaya and Xallia in Xallitia-Compusmertia, the heiress to the throne of
Ongeria, to the honourable Ms Patricia Campbell of New Edingow City, New Edingow
State, USA, not from any position of superiority, but from a considerable
height.
Till they came for me, I had
no idea it was the weddin’ day.
We’d weeks-since landed in
Ongeria and I was housed now in the palace’s stables, back in ponygirl harness
and no longer in the hareem.
I was, of course, still made
to sleep standin’. I was still in my hooves. I was still a ponygirl sleepin’
standin’ up in a rubber bit-gag.
“This here is ‘Hotcrack’.
She’s down for ‘Tomasina’” said the voice of some sailorettes who were deployed
shore to prepare the weddin’.
In a trice they had my
cruciform cangue and my ‘good-girl’ mouth-bit bridle on and a lead rein on my
mouth-bit, and were leadin’ me clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, at a
smart pace, into a horsebox, and then after a journey into Ongeria City, to a
church: a marvel in white marble ….
….. I went next up a short
ramp to where my hooves echoed on the marble floor offa
the marble pillars and walls and the highest of high vee-arched roofs inside the
Ongeria City Cathedral.
In my arm-spreader cruciform
cangue, I trotted clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, to the altar of the church
with my 38Es bouncin’ free, gettin’ closer and closer to what I knew, or
thought I knew was a huge anchor.
In charge of me, takin’ me
by a rein, were Ongerian Navy sailorettes, so this must be an anchor: or so I
thought.
“How can yer teach a dumb
fuck pony to remember when to do it?” asked the blonde I recognised as the one
who had taken me hareem on the ORS Callipygian.
“Dunno” said her
single-silver-nipple-tassel sportin’ officeress, “Save that they said to whip
her if’n she didn’t obey proper”.
Still sleepy, I half looked, I blinked in a daze, at the ‘iron’ anchor. It was
flat on the floor standin’ on two horizontal legs that finished in huge balls,
bigger than ten-pin bowlin’ balls. It was held upright by a strong chain, a
chain goin’ way up to the roof of the church as far as I knew, not bein’ able
to lift my head cos of the neck brace middle my cangue.
“Better get her on there”
said the officeress.
They led me forward: clip,
clop, clip, clop, clip, clop. And then the junior girl
began to loosen the screws that fastened my hooves to my big toes.
“Will she be able to walk
without hooves? They say ponies lose the natural use of their feet cos their
leg muscles grow soas they can’t put their heels flat ground no more”, said the
junior.
“Yea. That’s how it goes. She’s got gorgeous legs on her.
Bet they didn’t call her ‘Hotcrack’ for no good reason
neither”, said the officeress as she undid my wrists and took off my
arm-stretch cangue.
Soon, only my bridle with my
steel mouth-bit and the band across my forehead labellin’ me as ‘Hotcrack’,
told the world I was pony. And they was right. My legs
was in agony when they had the shoes offa me.
“You gets on the anchor
thing”, said the officeress to me as if I were stupid.
“You gets on the anchor
thing round the t’other side where there’s a peg to
hang yourself on. And then you parts them fuckin’ beautiful legs of yorn till
we can clamp your big toes again liken your usedta bein’, seein’ as how you is
pony”, she insisted.
She seemed fond of fondlin’
the handle of the four-foot-long strap-whip she was weighin’ in her hand. My
ass had tasted one of those plenty in my breakin’ and trainin’, so, scuse me,
but I don’t do brave when a kiss like a mule’s kick is the promise if’n I don’t
do as tell.
The walk in my newly bared
feet was agony in my calves. Months of wearin’ pony hooves and bein’ on tiptop
constant consequent, had made my legs’ muscles used to the stance, and I really
could not put my feet anywheres near flat to the ground.
Then, of a sudden, around
the other side of this anchor, I saw it and drew back.
It was sculptured like it
was the real thing? This ‘anchor’ device musta been real history old. It was
made artist for sure. Artist that knew what she was doin’ too.
It was sculptured like it
was the real thing only massive: real massive. You could see bulgin’ veins, and
the foreskin pulled back, and the septum crease crack, and imagine a throbbin’
red head ready to shoot its load into ya.
It musta been carved from
the solid metal with love and skill. It was eighteen-inches
long three-inch diameter. This massive dildo with thrustin’ veins, murdered out
and up from the upright. An eighteen-inch long three-inch diameter penis of the
same cold old-gold-coloured metal of the device I was still concludin’ was a
giant anchor.
“Get yerself on there luv,
or I’ll have to whip yer till yer does, see”, said the officeress in a tone now
amended to kindly sympathetic understandin’.
“They call it a tonsil
tickler. Wouldn’t like it up me, but you don’t gotta choice darlin’ do yer?”
her blonde companion taunted.
“We’re gonna lift yer on
darlin’, so you better think dirty soas yer beelzebub
gets a sweat on eh? Soas you slide on easy. Else its
really gonna fuckin’ hurt”, the junior sailorette gloated.
I’d been used to the
one-foot long twat-bit in me, but the extra six-inches I now faced havin’
pushed up my cunt, terrified me.
Yet as they lifted me I slid
down on that savage cruelty like I was wanton whore. I just loved it fillin’ me
so full and so fuckin’ hard and cold and unmerciful. In truth, I was mentally
punishin’ me for lovin’ Merinda. I wanted this cock rip me in sacrifice to my
love.
It was the way I was minded
now. I was double-deep in love with the princess. I both hoped and knew
hopeless too. I dreamed kiss from her sacred lips, but knew I was no-hope
truth.
She’d kissed my
pink-satin-satan to orgasm me back in my office at first meet. But I’d since
realised, I’d just been meat. She’d fancied a quick lick and knew I was
cream-slice for her. I was just another girl. She’d had me for a ‘quicky’.
She’d probably now forgotten she’d ever even done me.
But then I’m standin’ legs
on tip-top tiptoe on the bar of the ‘anchor’ as I lets out a huge belch and
feel the bile rise in my throat from this Empire State of cocks pushin’ up
against my guts, so high is it already up insidea me.
Impaled on this emperor of
penises, I squeak-moaned my pain and desire. It filled me so vast and full I
could feel it punchin’ my belly up, and I just loved it. My succubus was near
ripped by its enormity, and I just loved it. As I belched long and loud again
from its pushin’ the wind outta me, I was a girl cocked by this cock.
“Just listen to the fuckin’
dirty little cat will yer? She’s fuckin’ lovin’ it!” mocked the blonde
sailorette.
And so big was the main
dildo, I’d not seen the other dildo forkin’ off on its inside back. But now I
sure as hell felt it. My hood had been wide-opened by this shorter forked-off
back-up penis, and my clit was bein’ rubbed by the bifurcation.
The main penis filled me and
fulfilled me. If I had no hope with the princess, I wanted suffer for her. I
would give my all for the maybe one day she’d smile at me. That’s how deep down
I was broke heart for her.
“Now part those so
knock-dead fuckin’ beautiful legs of yorn darlin’. Spread them wide along, till
your big toes is in the clamps on the big balls at the ends”, I was ordered.
I tentatived partin’ my
legs, feelin’ the huge cold cruel eighteen-inch-long penis go further harder up
me like it was gonna split me open and come outta my mouth already!”
As I widened my legs, the
cock went further harder up me, and I belched and gagged on the bit and
hollered with my pain, and drew my pretty little feet back together again.
“Get those so fuckin’
beautiful legs of yorn wider apart you whore. Wider! I
said wider!! NO!! Wider!!! Wider!!! WIDER YOU FUCKIN’ SLAG!!!!!”
I so feared the whip that I
again tentatived partin’ my legs as ordered and my mouth fell open as I slowly
but surely fully obeyed, and felt the huge cock punch up my belly real hard.
And I let out another long loud belch, and wretched and gagged as I was finally
down, all the way down, and the cock up, all the way up, eighteen-inches of
three-inch-diameter cock was all the way up my cunt, rippin’ my guts aside,
pressin’ up on my poor desperately poundin’ heart.
As they
screwed my big toes insidea the clamps to hold my legs wide, I was spread like
a whore after a hometown homecomin’ parade.
Now the eighteen-inch long
three-inch diameter iron hard iron-cold penis was fully up me and hurt like
hades’ hades.
“God just look at the
fuckin’ legs on her will yer! No wonder the fuckin’ princess chose her for
‘Tomasina’. Any girl who couldn’t cream lookin’ at those fuckin’ dream legs is
a double-dead dodo!! The princess is marryin’ the wrong American babe if you asks me.
Even as my stretched out
penis-sundered body suffered in agony, oh how proud these crude words made me
feel.
“Are you listenin’ you
fuckin’ whore?!!”
The officeress
who had so praised my legs, seemed to be turned on, not only by the beauty of
my legs, but also by verbally abusin’ me. “When you’re up inside you grabs hold
of the handles with those lovely little hands of yorn and you pulls the handles and swings your hips so as to make a good
strong tune.”
I had no idea what she was
on about: what handles for chrissakes and up where?
They were now fastenin’ a
gold chain through the rings in my nipples and tyin’ my tits together around
the upright of the ‘anchor’, and, that done, I was goin’ up.
There was no mistakin’ that
I was goin’ up. The anchor like device I was impaled upon my cunt with its
secondary penis pressin’ hard my clit, was bein’ hauled up and me with it. And,
to steady myself, I embraced the upright of the ‘anchor’ with my pretty hands,
as if I were embracin’ my lover. And I looked up and I saw where I was a
headin’ and I was terrified.
…………….
It hung from two massive
chains. The huge chain toppin’ the ‘anchor’ I was impaled spread-legged upon, went through a hole in its top centre.
One of the two sailorettes
was rotatin’ a crank-handle, turnin’ a ratchet-wheel to wind the chain I was
danglin’ on, onto a huge capstan.
The chain aloftin’ me, ran
through that hole in the top centre of ‘Tomasina’, over a pulley, horizontal
across the church inside roof, over another pulley, and down to the
capstan-drum-winder on one of the balconies. The blonde sailorette had gone up
there to winch me up. And the officeress sailorette was directin’ the
proceedin’s from down below.
My goin’ up in the world, was rapid at first, but it had to slow when I began
to swing and twist.
It took twenty-minutes to
get me approachin’ my place. I heard my breathin’ echo when I reached
Tomasina’s rim. The day was gettin’ hot as dawn sun rose. But as I rose up
final millimetre by final millimetre, I was enterin’ a zone surprisin’ly cool.
As I rose up final
millimetre by final millimetre to where I was to go, I read on the inside rim
of the casting: “Tomasina 1343”. And I was wonderin’ how many other girls over
all those many years had been before me where I was.
And I was wonderin’ too, if
what was up me was ever washed, or if I was sharin’ the intimacy of all the
other lovely girls that musta been here before me since 1343 already. And it
felt a sorta honour to be chosen. And I wasn’t gonna let those other tortured
darlin’s down none.
I was up inside ‘Tomasina’
now, and listenin’ to the echo of my breath and of my little girly fart of
fear, as I looked down and was duly truly terrified.
And so full was my
spread-legged body with the huge phallus I was impaled upon, I belched real
loud and long like I was a wretchin’ again. And I heard my belch echo all around
me in the cool darkness where I now hung on the ‘anchor’ at the end of a hugely
strong chain.
‘Tomasina’?
Oh yea. Well yea, you need
to know dontcha? How stupid of me not to say. Sorry reader: real sorry….
‘Tomasina’ was just about
the massivist bell you could imagine, and then some more massive too.
That’s right, I’d been
hauled up inside a huge round bell and was danglin’ impaled by my cunt, with my
tits chained round its upright, and with my lovely legs spread wider than wide,
clamped to its end balls: I was impaled on the massive bell’s huge striker.
Spread-legged
in agony on what I had hitherto called ‘the anchor’, cos that was what it
looked like to me afore I knew what it really was. I had my lovely arms upreached and my pretty hands
graspin’ on the handles on the inside of ‘Tomasina’, just as I had been
ordered.
When the time came, I was to
use my body to ring this bell. I was gonna be a good girl and ring this bell to
knell the happy union of my love, the Princess Merinda, to my rival, the
absolutely gorgeous all-American-honey-pie, Patricia Campbell.
An hour passed with that
huge cold cock up me, as I looked down at the gatherin’ of the rich famous and
powerful. I saw a stunnin’ Ethiope I just knew must be Merinda’s mom, the Queen
of Ongeria herself. A princess from the royal family of
But once she was there, I
only had eyes for one girl. Below where I was suspended on Tomasina’s striker,
Her Most Merciful Majesty the Supreme Princess Merinda de Cabot-Ensaya of
Ensaya and Xallia in Xallitia-Compusmertia was awaitin’ the arrival of her
beautiful American nature-girl bride.
Down the side of the aisles
of the church, to every pillar holdin’ the balcony, hareem girls were tied
two-by-two facin’ each other. Fastened by havin’ their nipples tied: nipples to
opposite girl’s nipples by ropettes passin’ around the upright pillars, and
thus pullin’ their tits out real hard, and then by their held-out arms, which
were tied to the next girl left and right by their little-fingers. They were
naked except for the face yashmaks.
They were each gonna get
thirty-eight lashes, that number bein’ the combined ages of the bride and bride
on this weddin’ day.
They were to be whipped
simultaneous. The sound of the canes on their bare asses, and
their screams of pain consequent, bein’ music for the weddin’ ceremony and
remindin’ them that they now had two mistresses.
And my
beautiful Merinda waitin’ her bride? Oh god she was so lovely in a white suit of summer-cool soft linen in a
cut and line that spoke
Now below, as the deepest
notes of the cathedral’s organ suddenly made ‘Tomasina’ vibrate in sympathy and
the penis rubbin’ my clit-organ, play tunes of heaven through my all-girl
nerve-endings, I watched the progress of Patricia.
Patricia Campbell looked
stunnin’ in a heavy gold crown decorated with huge diamonds, down from which,
formin’ veil and dress as one, flowed layer upon layer upon layer upon layer of
the finest of fine crystal-white rose patterned diamond-sequinned lace,
tumblin’ tumultuously to the ground where it whispered a hushed swish as she
glided along.
Under the lace abundance, it
was plain to see, despite the multi-lairs that she was all but completely
naked. She’d her lovely hands cuffed in fronta her with pure gold thumb-links,
and pure gold rings on every finger.
Her lovely little ears were
fresh pierced, with luminous voluminous sapphires glowin’ true blue beams from
her tiny little lobes, and with pretty diamonds at every millimetre up from her
lobes, all round her ear edges.
The wild-strawberry lips of
her extraordinarily pretty naturally-poutin’ mouth were rose-pink-red with
superbly artistically applied lipstick.
Her pierced nose sported one
huge sapphire sidea her left nostril.
She wore gold anklets with a
quarter-inch hobble-chain, so as she had to super-wiggle in her sky-high pure
white balletic-shoes, with, as I just somehowed, a pure gold ring on her every
pretty toe.
The white lace-up straps
from her tiptoe-tiptoppin’ ballet-shoes, magically criss-crossed up her superb
calves and wonderful thighs, before bein’ tied off in dainty bows at what would
have been stockin’-top height, were her very lovely legs not completely bare.
And, oh god it was so
incredible, it was so incredible …… her nipples had had hundreds of sparklin’
diamonds imbedded in them.
The nipples themselves were
so smothered with diamonds they were as if two huge diamonds themselves,
catchin’ refractin’ and reflectin’ the light, with lightenin’-blue-white sparks
that dazzled like lasers, as Patricia’s bare titties was a swingin’ and a
swayin’ like two prayers to heaven such was their emotional motion.
This
breath-takin’ bride, smiled as she wiggled her tiny tiny steps to meet with her
bride. She smiled, despite it
bein’ clear to see, even though her soft gold pubic hair had re-grown and been
duly sculpt-shaved into a love-heart shape, that her petals was fully and
completely sewn-up, all the way up, and all the way down.
And I already knew that she
was also fully sewn up inside: her inner lips sewn closed too, and her clitoris
hood was stitched closed and her clitoris itself sewn through and through with
the exceptionally neat stitches her pretty love-lips were sewn closed with.
All this was tradition for
the bride of Ongerian royalty. Patricia was sewn closed so that she would
remain an intact virgin forever.
She was to be a bride of
love. She would show that love by foregoin’ all sexual pleasure, bar that of
keepin’ herself beautiful, and denyin’ herself
everythin’ for her wife.
Her ever-virgin state was
her sacrifice. She would pleasure her wife at her wife’s command, but would
never expect pleasure in return, because it was forbidden her.
Because it was forbidden
her, Patricia would think about sex and only about sex obsessively 24/7 and
thus be driven to new heights in pleasurin’ her wife, and givin’ her wife the
orgasmic joys that she herself could never now experience in her savagely
sewn-up state, and with her nipples permanently pierced and protected with the
diamonds decoratin’ them so divinely this day.
But I had been starin’ with
astonishment, not only at Patricia’s angel beauty, but at her pretty belly.
On her belly, she had a
surprise as astonishin’ as her sweetmeat just below bein’ sewn-up so tightly
neatly with the pure-gold thread that glinted in the sunlight from the altar
window, and the diamonds that completely covered her nipples, and shot out
glorious sparklin’ sparks as her breasts swayed and swung.
This prize surprise beamed
as it caught the light refracted and reflected by Patricia’s diamond encrusted
nipples. It hung and swung with its multi-facets of every shade of changin’
colour-red known to girl. Patricia wore it in her navel.
The prize surprise was a
six-inch-diameter multi-facetted cone, somehow held in Patricia’s little navel.
It was a huge ruby that covered the angel’s smooth flat curved belly as she
wiggled her perfect powerful potency toward the sacrifice of her hand in
marriage. Without a shout of a doubt, it was the so-called ‘Nubian Nipple’!
“Do you Patricia Campbell of
the City of
“I do” Patricia sighed as
she looked long-lovin’ly-longin’ly up at her bride.
“Then I now pronounce you
wife and wife!” said the priestess.
And, as my tears rolled, and
my sobs soared, I dutifully began to swing my hips and reach out my slim
shapely arms to pull on the handles to swing ‘Tomasina’ onto the striker and
the striker onto ‘Tomasina’.
And I swung my hips harder
grippin’ the grab-handles I had been ordered to grip, the hand grips insidea
‘Tomasina’ the huge bell insidea which I was impaled and tied by my toes
extremely widely spread-legged to the huge striker. And I swung my ass and
pulled with my pretty arms, and at last ‘Tomasina’ clanged.
And I swung my hips and
wiggled my bum and pulled with my pretty hands and my clamped big toes. And I
was ringin’ the huge bell, and every strike sent the sounds of hell into my
head and the vibrations juddered me from top to toe,
and toe to top, and top to toe, and back again. And it juddered through the
striker into my cunt through the huge penis on which I was impaled and through
the secondary penis constantly pressin’ hard on my clit.
And I was a wagglin’ and a
wrigglin’ and a wigglin’ on the massive prick that was up me, and it hurt like
I was bein’ drilled through to make it come outta my goddam mouth, so high and
hard was it a fuckin’ me. And my puny efforts were not good enough. And I knew
I had to work harder. And I began to really work the striker to and fro with my
lovely legs and pull with my pretty arms. And it was hell in the bell as
‘Tomasina’ echoed her joy at the weddin’ and I screamed as I creamed as I
tugged on the hand holds and worked my legs to make ‘Tomasina’ ring. And the
slaves were screamin’ below as they each took their thirty-eight stripes in
unison. And I was screamin’ as my mind was blowin’ as I was swingin’ the bell
on the striker and the striker on the bell and my titty ties were tuggin’ on my
nipples to give me more hell as I rode the
‘DONG’…..
………….
‘DONG’…………………
……………….. ‘DONG’ ……………
[to be continued]
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