The Fifth Blonde

The Fifth Blonde

(by Eve Adorer)

 

Chapter 3 – Profound

 

 

I found myself, my full-on bosom threatening to overspill my bikini bra, my breasts and my bottom as brown as my legs, since I had also sunbathed naked, lounging at the side of a pool in Neliga Spain: the pool of yet another of the Midnight girls’ residences.

 

I knew it was overdue that I made contact with MI8 headquarters.

 

It had been as Sonia Berkley-Hunt had said. A group of SGS soldierettes disguised as workers had repaired a ponygirl corral in a distant corner of the Midnight twin’s estate. One new fence post included a solar-charged-battery-powered receiver and microphone. The wire of the new fence was one long antenna. A geo-stationary satellite would beam my message to London. All I had to do was to get to the literal listening post and report or ask as I chose.

 

The particular corral was used for breaking new girls to pony. I knew the Midnights traded ponygirls. They had some of the finest Irish fillies in their stables. The corral’s location was chosen for its distance from the stables. The sound of a fellow-girl screaming with the pain of a whipping when she had put a hoof wrong, could be very disturbing to the high-strung fully-trained ponygirls in their stalls.

 

I had watched Jocelyn Trotter patiently training a new girl to reins. She had the poor girl, new to her big toe gripping hooves after all, trot around and around and around in a circle over and over and over again.

 

The girl was fresh from school and clearly an innocent, shocked and horrified that, for merely failing her school examinations, she was condemned to be a pony for the rest of her existence.

 

Stripped completely naked and on open display in public for the first time in her young life, the poor girl had yet to take in that she had said goodbye to clothes for eternity.

 

Her lovely little virgin’s titties jumped up and down in unison as she trotted to get used to the hooves she would now wear forever.

 

She was a copper-tressed freckle-faced schoolgirl, with coils of cupric gold that rolled mesmerisingly miraculously shining sun-mirror, from her head to her heels. Her snow-white thighs were red weal striped where she had been caned for stepping out of line, her rosebud mouth filled with a bit, her honey eyes filled with tears.

 

She was, I instantly knew, the schoolgirl from the train.

 

She was finding it hard to learn, yet she knew in her heart of hearts she was going to be trained to reins no matter what it took to break her human spirit and find the natural pony within her subconscious soul.

 

Indeed she was going to be broken, for English ponygirls were in high demand. A delicious delight of a virgin like her would fetch a premium at market. She would probably spend the next twenty years as a decorative pony-pull for some incredibly lucky rich bitch’s gig.

 

Having been worked all day since crack of dawn, the poor schoolgirl was at a distance to me now, in yet another corral, being dragged around at a trot on an automated pony-trainer rotator. It had her lovely legs working as it dragged her by the rein from the bit in her mouth around and around on her fresh-fitted hooves. And as I passed I saw the evidence for the particular distress of this poor schoolgirl steed, in the red on the insides of her thighs indeed, for she, poor she, completely naked in public for the first time in her very young life, was oozing her shaming monthly bleed.

 

I knew I too was due on. I knew I too was due on, and it was as if the sight of this delectable Delilah suffering her pony-training, naked as nature, and bleeding her girl-confirmatory scarlet in open public shame, had drawn me on in sympathy and empathy.

 

But I was a week away that day and I was thus in randy week, when I was hot not from the ferment of my period, but from the high hormone fire that was this stage of my feminine cycle.

……………..

 

Wiggling out to the fence post I knew had the microphone in it, I was hardly dressed as an MI8 operative, in just my blue bikini and my balletic shoes.

 

To skirt the endlessly trotting naked schoolgirl, and hide my intentions from any prying eyes in the distant house, I decided to go through a field used for grazing cows.

 

Let me the first to admit that cows terrify me. There is just something about their big eyes and their lumbering stupid relaxedness that makes me want to turn my pretty bum and run.

 

The timing of my mission to send a signal to London could not have been worse where that day was concerned. I had opened the gate where the Midnight’s prize dairy cattle grazed, and turned to close it, before I turned again, to see the whole heard of cows slowly lumbering toward me.

 

The timing of my mission to send a signal to London could not have been worse. The herd were heading to gather at the gate I was at, in readiness to be let from the field to the nearby barn for their evening milking.

 

As the cows drew ever closer, I struggled and fought with the bolt on the gate, making the simple act of opening it to exit, the impossible challenge for even Hercules, had she been on hand.

 

Then something touched me, and I squeaked with pent-up fright, and my body goose-pimpled passingly.

 

As I dared to turn my head toward the touch I was staring into the big brown eyes and long lashes of a languorous cow, still chewing on some grass she had some strands of protruding from her mouth.

 

“Hi beautiful”, she mumbled.

 

I looked at this sun-blessed brown tanned ruminating cud chewer and her huge breasts like massive raindrops hanging from her chest to below her hips.

 

The fine filigree of sensitive veins centring on her nipples were of supreme delicacy. The nipples dammed to stop her milk seeping, she must surely have been in pain from her gallon-sized mammaries. And yet, in some way, she had become her tits. She was no more than a beautiful carrier of those enormously expanded breasts that swung pendulum with her every cloven-bootie shod step.

 

How old was she? Maybe twenty. She too must have failed her school examinations. But her fate had been different to that of the delightful Delilah, the choice of this girl’s post school future being set down by the original natural size of her chest.

 

Made to strip naked and stand in line side-by-side with the other school failures, she would have trembled with fear as the headmistress and her deputy went along the line and she heard: “Pony”, “Pony”, “Pony”, “Carthorse”, “Pony”, “Bitch”, “Cow”, “Pony”, “Carthorse”, “Bitch”, “Bitch”, and learned thus the harsh lesson that her tits, the tits of which she had been so proud, would soon be injected with hormones to bring her to milk.

 

To make her breasts expand, for months on end they would only have milked her on alternate days, so that her dammed breasts were damned agony to her, and her nipples hugely sore. And this would continue until she could produce two gallons of milk per day, a gallon from each tit.

 

“Hi beautiful” she said.

 

“Oh. Hello” I answered as, at long last, I was able to open the gate as well as my mouth, and escape.

 

I felt so sorry for the poor dairy-girl, but I just could not relate to her as still a fellow human being.

 

As I turned to look at her again, I saw tears in her eyes, and I knew I had caused her pain.

 

“Sorry!” I called softly, and then turned to find I was facing the butler, Grieves, with her cane readied for my backside.

 

“Get back to the house Winsome. Miss Eve and Miss Dawn want to talk to the servants. There is a spy in the household, and we are going to expose her for the traitor she is!” Grieves gloated.

……………..

 

My fear that I was the suspect: that they had discovered I was undercover for MI8, played darkly within my mind. Yet, somehow, the prospect I had been discovered and would be uncovered, quite literally if the Midnights decided to take revenge on my body, made me reckless.

 

I am a girl who needs sex. I constantly crave another girl adoring and exploring me. The reckless mood was therefore prompted, or at least promoted, by my randy state. I was horny for a honey. Papillon Etalage filled my daydream hours.

 

There is just that something the French girls give to the English language that no other nationality, unless also natively French speaking, can gift.

 

English is so cold and cool and calm, till a French girl accents it with the scented boudoir. A French girl speaking English says ‘bed’, and not for the purposes of sleeping. In her intonation, a language of cold calculation becomes the alluring lingua franca of love. A French girl speaking English is sex.

 

Whenever the household was to assemble, it was not as instantaneously as Grieves had implied when she had diverted me from among the dairy-girls back to the house.

 

As she had caught me out and about I could hardly continue my mission to make first contact with London. I would have to find another chance, or hope London would somehow make contact with me.

 

It was not that I had anything to report. I had no knowledge of the Midnight twins’ plans, or even if they had any, in the criminal line. I just wanted some contact with the outside world, as relief from the pressure of my secret mission.

 

Again, it was not that I had anything to report. There was nothing about the life the Midnights were leading in Spain that was in breach of local or international law or, therefore, that would be illegal in England.

 

The ruling in the ‘Bengal-Beauty’ case at the International Court at The Hague, where that stunningly gorgeous Asian-Indian girl, conducting her own case with ease elegance and eloquence, pleading that her employers had no right to make her into a ponygirl, had removed the last vestige of doubt.

 

The three female justices had declared that, in international law as it now stood, employers were one and the same as owners. By accepting employment, a girl therefore transferred the rights over her mind and body to her employer. She thus became property. As property she could not plead successfully in court. Courts only dealt with human affairs. By definition property is not human.

 

Furthermore, the question whether a girl remained property when her employment ceased with a given employer, or whether the ending of her employment returned her to human rights, was not the thorny question ‘Bengal-Beauty’ (previously known as the high-flying lawyer Ms Padinda Panita) had tried to argue before the court. As property, a girl could be sold or transferred to the ownership of another employer: period. The question of the girl giving consent did not arise. There was no case in law for an owner to seek the consent of her property, for anything, at any time.

 

The Midnights had all the appurtenances of the wealthy. A full stable of ponygirls, a herd of prize dairy-girls, homes in England, Spain, and the USA, and the vintage automobile for which I was their chauffeuse. All of these were reputedly ill-gotten gains, but nobody had ever proved it.

 

To all appearances so far in my undercover mission, the Midnights were content with what they had, and had no plans to go for more. The farm was for fun. Their investments were their real assets, and those were making a million dollars a day.

……………..

 

I changed from my bikini into a black bolero top and flame flamenco skirt. I decided to wear one of my chauffeuse’s uniform uplift bras, no panties of course, and slinked to the kitchens to try and attract the attention of the adorable Papillon.

 

I lingered over some melons ready waiting for some dish to be prepared from them. I was happy to show off my own melons, and leant purposely forward, trying to catch Papillon’s startling blue eyes, by taking a gentle interest in the feel of the two melon fruits, as an unsubtle message that my fruits were free to be felt if she wished to caress them.

 

Papillon blushed when she saw me. And I knew instantly that my mission had failed before it had really begun. It took only a few moments more to show that, lovely though she was toward me, I was getting in the way of Papillon directing the preparation of the Midnight’s evening meal.

……………..

 

Disappointed but still ravenously randy, I decided to take the air once more.

 

There was still no sign of the gathering. I had recovered my confidence too, on the question of whether I had been discovered. Nobody had troubled me in the least. Surely, if I were a suspect, Grieves would have been despatched to round me up and keep me till the Midnights could be bothered to deal with me.

 

The sun was in a cloudless sky. I decided on a walk.

 

In the distance, I could see the dust rising from the hay harvesting.

 

If nothing else, to go and watch what was going on over in that distance was something to do for the rest of my free day.

 

The alternative was to try and make it to the signalling post once again. But with the revelation of an alleged spy in the offing, I considered it foolish in the extreme to show I was one. That was still assuming of course, that I had not been found out anyway. If the latter were the case of course, to get myself caught trying to contact London would be the ultimate shit on the cake.

 

Still in my black bolero jacket and flame red and yellow flamenco, I added a silly straw sombrero to shade my balconied bosom from the searing sun.

 

Walking wonder-wander-ass-wave as my construction dictates, I tiptoed in my balletic shoes drawing ever closer to the idyllic bucolic scene. And as I did so, I found the shear relaxing beauty of what I witnessed, cooled and calmed my desire-fires.

 

From the nearer distance I had now wiggled to, I could clearly see the harvesting machine, with its rotating scythe blades, slicing the grass, that was already hay hue, off at near base.

 

The patient ponygirl in bit and reins seemed the personification of relaxation, as she plodded, her feet on tiptoe in the heavy iron hoofs on each big toe. Her legs were supremely dreamily strong and extremely shapely too, as she planted each footfall a measured distance and time between, walking on the stubble her previous passage had produced.

 

A pretty teenage schoolgirl, walking behind, held the reins of the ponygirl. The schoolgirl, perhaps helping out on the farm for money to buy a present for her girlfriend, had little work to do, as the ponygirl clearly loved her task.

 

A steel bit ran east-west across the ponygirl’s mouth. From the reaper, with its blades rotating at the sides, a taut chain ran to another cold steel bit, that ran north-south. That was the she-bit. The ponygirl patiently pulled the reaper by her she, a labyrinth of intricate straps holding the bit up into her intimacy.

 

She-bits were in common use. They calmed a ponygirl, keeping her mind on her task, instead of letting her dream of romance and sex, as most ponygirls were reckoned to do when they were not being worked hard enough.

 

At the end of the row just reaped, the ponygirl was turned to walk back the other way, so the blades on the other side of the reaper took their turn at scything.

 

The teenage schoolgirl had fashioned a switch from a stick to beat the older girl in harness, and gently tapped the bewitching bottom of the gorgeous pony, because it was such an irresistibly wonderful target. She was not hurting the ponygirl. But the tapping on the ponygirls bum reminded the pony how lovely she was, and encouraged her in her steady plod.

 

Having now reached the edge of the field where the hay was being reaped, I listened to the peaceful tinkling of the tease-bells dangling from the ponygirl’s nipples, and watched her ample breasts beat time with her gracious steps, as she walked with the ‘clump’, ‘clump’ of her heavy hoofs toward me.

 

Her dark Asian-Indian complexion was flawless. Her deep-brown eyes, though showing she was relaxed and resigned to her fate, somehow conveyed high intelligence.

 

A sudden shock ran down my spine: the shock of realisation and recognition. This incredible beauty was the London lawyer I had been reading about during my enforced stay in hospital.

 

It was surely she. I strained to read the name on her headband, and the sight of me looking intently at her, seemed to remind the ponygirl of another life, and to excite her.

 

I heard the whistle of the schoolgirl’s switch, and the ‘whack’ of its impact on the Indian girl’s potent posterior, and I felt the pain for her, as she regained her reminded submission to her ponygirl lowliness, and I moved away to leave ‘Bengal-Beauty’ to her slow slaving.

……………..

 

She was stripped naked; the negress wore a white g-string. The willowy blonde with the hair down to her buttocks, swung the hay up to the shapely negress who worked atop the haystack they were building.

 

The blonde was music to my eyes. She was tall, slim, and extremely feminine in face and limb, with tiny titties. Her chest was almost boyish; but nobody could possible mistake her for other than a girl.

 

Her hair was more straw in colour than the straw she was stacking. Indeed she had breeze-blown straws caught up in it. Her eyes were laser blue. Her face, was youthfully full of disarming charm, with an alarmingly inviting ripe-raspberry lipped mouth. Was she twenty?

 

She was busy as was her companion, and did not notice my approach. Her bare body, brown as proverb, she swung her straw loaded fork lissomely with long slim arms to go with her long strong legs.

 

In her tiptoe ballerina shoes, her legs went from zero to eternity, or at least from earth to the moons that glowed globe as her delightful side-dimpled derriere.

 

And then I saw it, and audibly gasped with astonished joy. For this creation’s pubic hair, blonde and as sun-kissed as her tousle-tumbled corn gold head, dangled down, all the way down, to her pretty ankles. Her she was in there somewhere, hidden within the jungle of spun-gold-spirals that was this adorable honey’s pubic curls.

 

“Careful with your pitchfork Aneedlina!” the Jamaican lilt of the charming negress called from the stop of the stack as I drew near, and the sweet honeychild with the amazing pubic twirls stopped her work, turned to me, and curtseyed.

 

“Good afternoon my lady” the blue-eyed angel whispered. “We are making progress as you can see, it was very good of you to loan mummy ‘Bengal-Beauty’. My little sister over there is doing the reaping. She loves ponygirls. She wants to be one herself when she’s graduated from college. Moonanza and I are stacking the hay so that mummy’s dairy-girls will have winter food….”.

 

And then it dawned on her, the look on my face telling her: “Oh. I’m so sorry. I thought you must be one of the Moonlight twins. I’m so sorry. You see I haven’t met them, but they have been so kind to mummy with lending her a ponygirl for harvest and ploughing…. I’m so sorry. I’ve just come over from Oxton University in England to help mummy out with the hay harvest…..”

 

Her voice trailed off as she followed my eyes.

 

“I’ll put my panties on if you find it repulsive…..”

 

“No.. No Aneedlina……? Aneedlina….?” I began my response and turned into a query, just dying to know this incredible girl by her full name.

 

“Oh yes: of course. Over there, with ‘Bengal-Beauty’ is my, our, kid-sister Minoka, she’s just about to go to college. Up there is the middle of the three of us, our, half-sister, adopted really, Moonanza, and I’m the oldest: Aneedlina. We’re the Rickfound sisters ma’am. I’m Aneedlina Rickfound ma’am. … shall I put my panties on?”

 

“No.. No Aneedlina. Please no. Your love-hair is the most beautiful sight….”

 

Aneedlina blushed profusely, and I caught the eye of Moonanza who was clearly on the verge of teasing her beautiful sister, but for my presence.

 

Reluctantly, I turned to go back to the Moonlight’s farm. I had not realised till now that I had gone beyond its bounds. In fact I had not. The Rickfound family were tenants of the Moonlight twins. They farmed land they did not own.

 

As I walked away, I heard Moonanza call down to her sister in gentle taunt: “Who’s a pretty girl then?!”

 

“She was very nice”, came Aneedlina’s still embarrassed reply, as Moonanza giggled her sisterly love for the willow-wand wonder with the spun-gold head-spinningly-erotic ankle-length-long pubic coiffure...

……………..

 

“Where in hell have you been Winsome?!” Grieves demanded as I reappeared at the Midnight’s house.

 

“I told you there was a household staff assembly. Nobody gave you permission to wonder off again”, she intoned quietly threateningly.

 

“Get changed into something respectable, and then into the banqueting hall. And don’t take more than half-an-hour about it”, she concluded, with an inference that I would have tasted her cane, if she were not busy elsewhere.

……………..

 

Looking in the mirror after a swift shower, I realised I needed a shave. My she had a sex o’ clock shadow. The fine blonde stubble felt softer to my touch than its appearance would suggest it should.

 

That touch was a mistake. I gasped. A flash vision of the incredible pubic hair of the wonderful willow Aneedlina Rickfound made me cream instantly.

 

I took my hand away and went down on my shapely haunches, the fire of desire burning through the hole that leads to my very soul. If ever a girl needed, but needed, her vibrator, I was then she, as my she cried banshee.

 

I rubbed my enormously shapely huge thighs together, and then hugged my thighs against my tits with my arms, and rocked on the toes of my bare feet, fighting to get control over my second mind, the mind mid my thighs: my minx.

 

Rising slowly, thinking I had regained control, I stood, and then grasped a doorframe as a pain in my tummy doubled me over. My she was telling me she needed me. She that was me was ordering me to give her attention.

 

I stayed bare-legged. I donned a cool cotton micro-micro-skirt and matching short-sleeved shirt, both in white. Another passage of pain passed mildly as I strapped on my ballet-shoes, and wrapping their long ribbon-laces criss-cross around my lower legs, tying them off with bows just below my knees.

 

Rising to tiptoe, I looked myself over in my full-length mirror. My braless breasts were fancy free as they danced in my blouse when I slinked to the mirror. My legs seemed never to have looked longer nor more full-grown-woman in their powerful beauty. I tousled my blonde locks. I had no time for brush or comb.

 

I turned and looked at my reflection over my shoulder, pleased to see that my bum looked big in my micro-micro-skirt, as I smoothed my hands over it to stop the hem rising such that it showed sickle-moons.

 

I was ready.

……………..

 

I was ready, but I was not ready.

 

I was ready dressed to take my place in the front row on one of the banqueting room chairs. The table, huge and hugely heavy oak though it was, had been moved aside, and we servants sat, in chairs arranged in a curve, as theatregoers might, so we could see centre of the floor.

 

I was not ready for the device that was placed where the table had been.

 

Okay, so it was only an anvil. The anvil was raised on a wooden plinth. But, what was an anvil doing in the banqueting hall? The Midnight girls used a visiting blacksmith to shoe their ponygirls, so the anvil was used only once or twice per week. But, what was an anvil doing in the banqueting hall, why was it not in the blacksmith’s forge?

 

I put my pretty hands on my bare thighs as I heard the sound of Papillon’s supremely sexy voice.

 

I had turned around to try and see who was missing from among our number, when I heard: “Non! Non! Non!!” and witnessed the exquisite Papillon Etalage, naked as the day Paris first saw her, crawling with two bitch-collars around her neck, pulled by two leashes, one each being held by Eve and Dawn Midnight.

 

The poor girl had had her hair twirled into two pigtail plaits, and these were roped to her big toes, so that her lovely head was pulled hard back, and her fabulous legs were folded tight in a shape profoundly soundly only found with girl: a shape that redefined the curve.

 

Her bright blue eyes were unnaturally wide-open with the pull on her hair. Every step she took she took like a bitch. Bitch-tied girls were commonplace pets even in the poorest households. Their legs were tied ankles at top of thighs so they had to crawl just like poor Papillon, but their hair was not used in this savage way.

 

“Mon dieu! ‘Av mercy on me! I no spy!! Mon dieu! Non! Non! Non!!” she called as she crawled with her knees as her rear ‘paws’ being exhibited to us as an example of what would befall those caught even only allegedly spying on the Midnight twins.

 

I was not ready for this. Nor was I ready for the reaction of my she to the sight of the stunning French girl.

 

My eyes feasted and my she fed from her body. Her hourglass shape was unmistakably fully-formed in form female.

 

I knew for an absolute fact, that her lovely hair was genuinely fine blonde. And yet the hair of her she was the most exquisite titian auburn. Her head was blonde but her pubic hair was red instead, and with no reason to conclude that this was not the entirely natural state of things with this stunning wonder.

 

I looked too and feasted on the site of Papillon’s adorable slim arms. She was double-jointed at her elbows, and her lovely arms bowed inwards incredibly erotically as she crawled seeming all the more girl for her arms being so femininely formed.

 

Her huge firm tits swung belle bells to knell her road to hell as the sweet French doll crawled before an audience appalled by her being pulled along like an animal.

 

Yet my she was moist. Looking at Papillon’s blonde hair and redhead’s minge, her incredibly shapely legs, her beautiful bowed arms, her swinging breasts tolling totally silently beau-bell, my she distinctly dampened, and I longed to cross my legs and squeeze my lemon.

 

The midnights led poor Papillon to the anvil, and there they made her rise so she was ‘stood’ on her knees, her head hauled back by the pull on her corn-gold plaits and with her hugely handsome bosom resting platform on the unyielding cold of the evil anvil.

 

Grieves, the butler seemed only too eager to girlacle Papillon’s dainty wrists behind her and take one of the leashes, whilst Jocelyn Trotter took the other, to hold Papillon in place.

 

“Mon dieu! ‘Av mercy on me! I no spy!! I no spy!!” Papillon, incapable of escape, sexied the air with her inescapably potent-potion pronunciation of her Parisian’s broken English.

 

The Midnight twins stood either side of the anvil, each wielding a whippy Sarawak cane.

 

Then Eve Midnight walked behind Papillon and used her cane to gently tap Papillon’s she on its lips.

 

From where I sat, I could only be sure that that was what she was doing from the clear reaction of Papillon’s nipples.

 

Non!! Non!! Non!!!” Papillon gasped in rising seductive intonation, inducting further as Eve used the cane to slide slowly back and forth between the lips of Papillon’s red haired she.

 

Papillon’s nipples danced the devil’s jig as Dawn’s cane was slid along between the lips of her slice.

 

Eve played Papillon’s violin with the cane as bow till Papillon’s nipples had betrayed her by displaying their full flower, and the music from Papillon’s mouth was the sighs of fiercest fire’s desire.

 

Such were her crisis cries, still boudoir embellished by her cute, acutely sexy, Parisian accent. Papillon was now emitting and transmitting the international language of love, in moans of a tone intimating that she was virtually ripe for a cum.

 

Content that the orchestra on which she was about to play percussion, was fully tuned to Fuck-major, Eve lifted her cane, gifted with Papillon’s intimate scent, and sniffed the parfum-Arabic Papillon’s seeping willow had wept on the wicked weapon.

 

Grieves and Jocelyn Trotter now took tight grip of the leashes to hold Papillon’s chest at rest on the cold of the old anvil altar, and the Midnight girls whipped her tits without let or mercy.

 

It was sudden; swift; savage; and followed by silence.

 

Two stokes across the middle of one breast each stroke spoke. A left and a right in separate duet. The swift strokes compressed the soft flesh of the breasts, opening the nipples like roses. But the silence was eerie. The silence came from the pain of the cane. The whistle of their wipes through the air, followed by the ‘wap’; ‘wap’ of the slaps on the bare tits, was followed by silence from the violence, till the pain, from strokes initially anaesthetising, fully told, full toll, and Papillon screams unfolded and rolled raw roar.

 

From after the first two strokes and the pause for the pain to gain, the canes now whistled wickedly down on the proud flesh of Papillon’s bare breasts in alternation, with such rapidity of viciousness that Papillon could not scream as she wanted and was wonted by each wanton whip, but screamed unintelligible terribly in one long cry of agony’s agony as her tits were slapped hard down onto the unyielding bitter cold of the anvil and each cane stroke bit her flawless breast flesh afresh into vivid stripes of livid living pain.

 

Papillon was lashed long and hard and harder by the infuriated Midnight girls whose cocks popped out of their panties, as their fifteen-inch love-meat burst proud-giant out to meet match with the stiffness of the canes with which they whipped Papillon’s paps.

 

And Papillon’s cries of miserable horror from the hellfire of the stripes from the Midnight’s ire, were turning to tune tentative and then full-on sexual moans of the most lustful wanton wicked burning desire, as her fires caught higher and her she dripped her love lust lick-cream down her inner thighs till it pooled on the ground.

 

Then, in a moment of silence was heard the shameful shaming hiss, as Papillon pissed herself with her fear. And the canes whipped down on her poor striped tits twice more. And, so suddenly and shockingly ecstatically unexpectedly, she came with a scream of the joy of absolute joy in her pain of pain of pain.

 

And then a look of shock and horror flashed across Papillon’s gorgeous face. A look of total incomprehension at the tension she felt in her brutally whipped tits as the whipping was paused. For a flow was filling and fulfilling a function at a conjunction from the whipping’s unction. The whipping had cracked Papillon’s already high oestrogen octane to a gain of even higher refinement, and was having its fulfilment in that which was filling Papillon with white-hot fuel.

 

And the canes whistled down the while, and Papillon came multiply upon multiply complexly with her milk suddenly sputtering, teetering, trickling, and then spitting from her nipples even as her girl-wine pissed from her she and her honey pooled around her knees.

 

And they whipped her tits twice more, and the proof that Papillon’s heavenly body had been wholly hormonally transmogrified by her unholy flogging, shot two merging white streams from her nipples straight up my micro-micro-skirt onto me and into me, into my she, as she came again and I came too with her fresh hot tit milk as demon’s semen in my cunt, looking at her thrashed breasts at long last at rest, with her milk pouring under where they rested on her chest, forming tributaries of a single white river that gathered in her naked navel, before it rolled down to her betraying she and into her parted love-lips as if, if it could not flow to the sea, it would be would-be semen too for she as well as for me, before it dripped to ground to join her piss and her love-honey. …….And then she fainted.

……………..

 

In their khaki-coloured sweatshirts micro-miniskirts and panties, with olive-green stockings and suspenders, soldierettes of the Special Girl Service suddenly burst through the door.

 

Emma Eyeful and Angelina Dream, metaphorically and physically MI8 ‘sleepers’, assisted in the capture of Eve and Dawn Midnight.

 

Papillon Etalage, revealed as French Surette, was untied and wrapped in a wrap akin to a kimono.

 

“We can’t get you in the ‘copter for this trip Truly!” Angelina called, as the hit team dragged the Midnights out for the mid-Atlantic dump planned for them, albeit that it would now be the mid-Mediterranean.

 

“We can’t get you in the ‘copter for this trip Truly, but there’s a follow-up backup, and a couple of the SGS will take care of you meanwhile my love!” sweet Angelina sincered.

 

But then the hand of Regretta Grieves silently slipped into mine, and I knew that, if only we could sneak away, I would not be there when the next helicopter arrived….

 

The End