Katrina's Taming

KATRINA'S TAMING (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 2 – Katrina is Made Ready

Arriving back at my apartment from the Longing Alms, I threw off my soiled clothes and took the longest shower of my life to wash the sweet girl-sweat from my body. I must cool down! What had they done to me? Why had I let them do it? A mature twenty-six year old woman used as a sex toy by girls barely out of sixth form.

Above all, why and why did I feel as I did? Sexual; sexy; humiliated; elated; angry; pleased; hateful; ecstatic; unhappy; giggly, frustrated and excited, each and every one of these by turn and turn again.

I knew that I had almost begged those pretty young girls to take me to climax. I felt deep shame at this latter thought, and yet that shame started the girl-juice in my cunt again. I clutched my belly with both hands and let out a gasp as I bent double with shock at the lightening speed return of extremely heavy and intoxicatingly heady sexual arousal.

In bed I fought and fought not to finger my girl-slit and clit. Tossing and turning, my mind going over and over and relentlessly over the humiliating sexual stroking I had been given. I was sure I would never sleep but eventually did and woke at 10.00 the next morning feeling totally wretched.

I drank coffee and wandered around my apartment like a zombie, all the time asking myself how on earth I could ever pass the time till 2.00 that afternoon and whether anyway I shouldn't run away. I had fuel in the car. I could be halfway to Scotland or flown from any airport by the time Jackie came for me. I showered again and went back to bed. It was gone noon when I awoke once more, fresh as the earliest spring daisy.

Another shower and then my hair and some light make-up. No damaged fingernails. Thank goodness for that. I was always catching them. No nail varnish. Somehow I thought they wouldn't allow nail varnish. What to wear!? For goodness sake, I had no idea what to wear! It would be hot again. June had scorched for days. There might be some travel. Jackie's place was out of London: middle of nowhere.

I settled for a white vest, blue denim skirt and almost heel-less open toe summer sandals. No underwear. It was obvious that there must be no underwear. The excitement of dressing like a slut made my tummy tingle once more. I checked myself in a full-length mirror. My lovely firm pert breasts were swelling the vest to bursting. My nipples were eye-catchingly obvious where they pushed out the thin fabric. Was this a bit too much: a bit too sexy?

For heaven's sake, why was I only thinking of sex all the time?

The girl in the mirror was astonishingly beautiful and stunningly attractive. But there was more to me than an angel's face and deep dark brown eyes. I was and am an intelligent, no, a very intelligent woman. And yet I was standing there and turning and admiring the effect of my pert full round and heavy breasts on the skimpy vest, the way my extremely smackable bum filled out my skirt, the trim slimness of my waist and, above all, the shapeliness of my legs, with their firm calves and curvaceous, perfectly proportioned, thighs. I went back to my dressing table and checked my lipstick. Despite my brain, or even because of it, I was all giddy girl once more.

It was 1.00 pm, an hour early, when my doorbell rang. I looked through the safety spy hole. It was Jackie already. With her was a bevy of pretty girls carrying equipment including lights and cameras. My “taming” as Jackie had termed it, was to be professionally filmed.

My stomach churned as I opened the door. Unsure what to say I said nothing. The two girls that had stroked me made straight for me, held one hand each and told me I looked absolutely delicious. And I blushed. I blushed like a girl winning her first ever compliment.

Attempting to be the perfect hostess, I asked if everyone wanted coffee, but was totally ignored.

Lights were being set up, cameras and a sound boom readied. One of the two young girls asked me if I wanted to use the bathroom before filming started. This in my own apartment! My bathroom, not hers!! And yet I meekly and politely answered: “No thank you”.

Jackie was directing preparations. One of my straight-backed dining chairs was placed in the middle of a pool of light. “Don't let her sit,” ordered Jackie referring to me, “We don't want to have to wait for any pressure marks to go”.

Jackie, my oldest friend, had not looked at me once. That hurt me. One glance from her would have been the smallest and biggest comfort to me right then.

I was becoming frightened. Terrified would be more the word. My mind was racing. What were they going to do to me? What must I suffer for the $250,000 I so desperately needed? Could I call this whole thing off even right now?

It was as if Jackie could read my thoughts: “Oh for goodness sake, someone get her stripped!” she ordered.

The two girls came to me and without a word, let alone the seeking of my consent, they unzipped my skirt and dropped it to my ankles, before pulling my vest over my head, and unbuckling my shoes. My clothes and sandals were thrown well out of sight of the cameras. They then further brushed my rather wild brown locks till they shone and crackled with static, and gathered them into a ponytail.

The filming began with Jackie directing the camera to take in the whole of my naked body, head to foot, front and back. More shots concentrated on my breasts and close up on my pretty rosebud-pink nipples with their one-inch diameter areole. And yet more were taken of my bum, finishing with a particularly lengthy look ground-upwards at my tightly closed in-curling girl-lips. I was ordered to keep my head up, though I wanted to die from the blushing shame of being ravished this way by the cameras.

Then came Jackie's order, “Stilt her!”

My mind raced as I was led to the dining chair in the spotlights. I was letting all this happen freely; yet I was a prisoner. I could hardly run away, stark naked as I was. I followed obediently as the girls took my hands with their own warm soft pretty hands and led me to the chair. As I heard one of them whisper: “Be brave”, I went into a reverie about Jackie and me and our past together.

“Stilt the bitch” Jackie barked, as much for the film's theme as to snap me, her victim, alert once more.

I had no idea what the order meant.

Then I was shown them: my stilt-booties. They should have been a fantasy; but they were absolutely here and now and very very real. They were incredible. Made of black soft leather reinforced by shiny stainless steel, they were the sexiest booties you could imagine and beyond, way beyond, even that.

But there was something very strange about them. Their heels were, though it sounds unbelievable, nothing less than twelve bright shiny stiletto stainless steel inches, tapering down to contact of less than a one-eighth-inch square on the ground. Twelve inch heels if I had it right! The heels were far far longer than my foot. Yet were they heels?

If the definition of a bootie's sole, as it surely must, necessarily dictates some contact with the ground, the sole of these booties was a sole in name only. The sole had no contact with the ground whatsoever. Also made of shiny stainless steel, it flowed in a rigid curve from the heel to the toe-end of the booties, where it bent slightly back again. But nobody's foot could bend that way. What was going on?

The soles of the booties curved back in the same way as a ballet shoe curves back when the ballerina pirouettes. But these soles were rigid, not flexible like a ballet shoe, so the wearer's foot would be constantly forced back to make her toes point to ground when she stood. But they curved the wrong way! What WAS going on?

Their intention was pretty certain; it was to hold the wearer in constant pirouetted tiptoe. To ensure this, the toe–end of the bootie was squared off. It would be the toe-end of the bootie the wearer would primarily stand and move on. The “heels” touched the ground with minimal distance between toe-end and “heel”. But were they heels: which was the heel and which the toe-end? It was only clear where the foot must go.

As the “heels”, if they were heels, were twelve-inches, so the sole and toe combination must match that, and did. From where the tips of the big toes of the wearer would lodge within the bootie when worn, was a three-and-a-half inch toe-end to the bootie speedily tapering down, to match the length of the “heels”, till it touched the ground with miniscule contact.

Miniscule contact of the toe-end was absolutely assured, because the toe-end tapered down to finish in a one-inch broad quarter-inch wide extra-hard flat steel tip, a tip that could and would give the wearer of the bootie no stable contact with the ground. She would stand in the booties on the toe-ends, with the “heels” for occasional redress of balance and no more. But the soles curved the wrong way! What on earth was going on for goodness sake?!

Of course, that was it, of course!! These booties were a mistresspiece of design. Those were no heels; but those were the toes: that was why the soles seemed to curve the wrong way: they curved the right way!!

How could I be so stupid?

It was so clear to me now, the wearer would be put in the equivalent of ballet shoes with rigid soles to hold her foot constantly on tiptoe. And the heels? They were not heels: they were a means for the wearer to stand. They were not at the rear of the bootie; they were at the front!!!

The wearer would walk, or whatever, on her toe-tips stilted nearly four-inches high at that, and totally pirouetted, and rest the front “heels” on the ground only when stationary. As I imagined this, I gave a little girly fart of fear and excitement: sexual excitement. This was indeed to be cruel. These weird reverse booties were incredibly cruel and incredibly sexy.

Only the one-inch wide contact with the ground from the flat-tipped toe-ends would give the bootie any stability at all, and that would be only on the split hairs breadth side of totally non-existent. Standing in these booties, the wearer would be teetering murderously tiptoed with the weight of her whole body on the very tips of her big toes within them and only the very barest minimum of contact with the ground. And the stability of that contact would be so far absent as to be almost more theoretical than real.

She would be a complete prisoner who must beware every step and even her standing in fear of a fall. Constantly self-conscious of her legs formed in permanent incredibly sexy and deeply sexual en-pointe pirouette, she would at all times have to balance herself against the slightest stagger.

The cameras zoomed close-up to examine my face and eyes as I was made to study the booties held before me by one of my young girl tormentors.

I slowly shook my head in amazement that any girl could be expected to wear these. But a girl was going to wear them. That girl was me. How could I possible stand let alone walk in such monstrously weird and deeply sexy foot-ware?

The cameras took in the puzzlement on my gorgeous face and my look of astonishment at what came next.

My torture was begun. It was a two-girl operation to fit the booties on me. One held my right leg up and the other eased my toes into the first bootie. This gave me a chance to study one of the booties more closely, as I must to understand them and how I was to stand and move in them, as I would inevitably be forced.

My foot was being easily slid into the rigidly formed pirouetted-ballerina-shaped foot housing of the bootie. It opened like a bellow, and was lined with velvet-like white material, with support for the arch of my foot within it. My foot went in easily enough, though I found it decidedly uncomfortable as the rigid sole of the bootie bent my foot backwards to ensure my big toe would point straight down when I stood.

To make sure my pretty foot was right home, the bootie was placed, with my foot deep into it, on the floor, and my heel grasped and pushed a little. I winced as my foot went finally down to the end of the compartment made for it, and my big toe was pushing on the velvet that would be my only cushion when I was standing in the bootie. The bootie had clearly been precisely tailored to the size and shape of my foot.

Now I fully realised, that what I had at first thought must be the heel, was indeed at the front of the bootie. This “front-heel” pointed straight to ground when my bootie was on the ground. I was therefore reversed. My big toe was behind the “heel”. The “heel” could only be used to balance when stationary.

Once my foot was fully in, the bellows-like compartment of the bootie that held my foot was made tight around the foot by an outside strap that was buckled around the bootie at the point where the middle of the sole of my foot was inside.

At the top end of the bootie, the “front-heel” turned into a broad strap that would go around my ankle to hold the bootie immovably in place. This strap was also now taken round my ankle and buckled and padlocked in place at the back of my ankle.

The cameras lingered for the foot fetishists who were a big market for Jackie's videos, on the operation being repeated with my poor left foot. Fixing the booties had finished with both of them having their top straps buckled and padlocked tightly around my strong but dainty ankles.

I now sat with both stilt-booties tight strapped buckled and padlocked firmly in place on my cruelly bent-back feet. With the stilt-booties on the ground, my feet were held in a permanent en pointe stance. My big toes were pointing rigidly straight to ground. I sat with my already naturally beautiful calves given a new and compellingly sexual sexy curvature. My girlness was deliciously delightfully enhanced.

These booties, these incredible booties: rigid ballet shoes with stainless-steel soles bending my pretty feet back so that I had my big toes pointing straight down, with their “front heel” like stilts as the only saviour of my falling over forwards in them when I stood still, and minimal saviours at that, were now tight strapped, ankle strapped and ankle-strap padlocked on my feet.

I had not practiced ballet since I was a child, and my feet were no longer used to being bent back this way: tears were in the corner of my eyes; it was so painful. There was only one order that could now be given. The one I dreaded at that moment the most.

“Make her stand”, Jackie barked.

The girls took my hands. I had no choice. The cameras whirred drinking this moment in. I sat back on the chair once, then twice, then a third time in my failure to lock my knees to hold myself erect. And then I did it. I was standing, my hands were let go and my chair taken away. I was standing, very uncertainly my sexy legs shaking like a newborn lambs in my stilt-booties. It felt absolutely incredible I just knew that I was being displayed so very fantastically sexily.

I was standing permanently pirouetted in my ballet-booties, on the very tips of my big toes like a prima ballerina. It was dreadfully painful too but oh so very sexy. I rested the front-heels on the ground. I stood with my beautiful fantastically shapely super-strong sexy girl's legs quivering with the strain. I stood, resting on the front-heels, with no rear heels, I stood murderously tip-toed, sensationally steeple legged, I stood the epitome of sex on legs: sex on super-girlised legs.

I was a girl standing on legs so fit and strong and so bounteously beautiful, but legs so helplessly held as to put her in the prison of fear from her precariousness. My legs were captured and held sexually imprisoned. I had no escape. I could barely stand. I could maybe walk. But I had no escape from my captors. I was helpless. My gloriously sexy legs were imprisoned, so I was imprisoned.

And yet I felt liberated. This was how my fabulously beautiful legs were meant to be displayed.

A girl's legs have function and wonderful beauty. I was, for once, letting the full wondrous beauty of my legs be seen, function could take second place.

Function would be curbed and controlled by these booties. The curbing and controlling of the function of my legs only enhanced the wonderfulness of the way they were now displayed. And the way I would be forced to walk would add more of the sensuous sexualness already natural to my girlity. I would be super-girlised.

It was dreadfully painful because the whole weight of my body was on the very tips of my two big toes and the nails of those toes was being driven back into the flesh of my toes by the pressure upon them.

My weight was forced entirely onto my big toes because the only way I could stand in the stilt-booties was, of course, on the booties' totally unstable tiptoe-ends with the front-heels of the booties barely contacting the ground and providing only minimal respite when I succeeded in transferring some of my body weight to them from moment to moment.

The fear the thought of falling engendered in my belly made my tummy churn. I held my stance stiff as a soldier at attention, but found I had to move minimally but constantly to hold my balance. I was a prisoner in my booties. I was a prisoner of my booties. I was a prisoner tortured by fear of falling knowing the certainty that I would break an ankle leg or thigh were I to topple over.

I was permanently pirouetted, forced onto tiptoe by the booties.

My wonderful legs had taken on a new powerful and overwhelmingly sexy shape. My calves were stretched long tightly and femininely muscularlarly. My dimpled knees were locked a little back from straight, as the whole of my legs were delightfully bowed very slightly backwards. My gorgeously rounded thighs looked monumentally strong. My back was wonderfully curved. And the perfectly pert extremely smackable hemispheres of my bum were deeply side dimpled and even more extraordinarily spankable.

Despite my superb fitness, my legs continued to shake with the strain of standing thus, and beads of girl-sweat were on my prettily furrowed brow.

The muscles in my enforced dimpled smackable bum twitched enticingly as I constantly fought merely to stand, the blue veins in my thighs and legs showed lightly through my tanned white skin.

I was all girl-flesh and girl-blood and girl-sinew and girl-muscle and girl-arteries and girl-veins and girl-curved with my powerful legs imprisoned controlled and tamed. I was a prisoner of my stilt-booties. My legs, my incredibly gorgeous legs compellingly curved, contoured, controlled, unconsentingly captured, and captivatingly caught.

“Oh god I cannot stand like this” I pleaded.

“Not only will you stand like that, but you will also walk or even run if so ordered” sneered Jackie.

“At no time will you be helped: whatever happens. If you stagger or fall you will be left to stagger or fall. No mercy will be shown you by anybody at any time”, she continued in her quiet but forceful tone for me and for the film audience to be.

“If you fall, it will be taken as disobedience. Such disobedience of your order to stand and walk or run in your stilt-booties will be severely punished. If you fall, whether you are injured by your fall or not, you will be whipped without mercy to force you stand once more”, she hissed.

“You will obey all orders you are given, without hesitation. Even the slightest infraction will be severely punished.”

“Your wildness will be tamed. You will be made tame-girl by whatever extreme measures are necessary to employ. You are a wilful wild bitch. Now you are our prisoner, you will be forced to become one-hundred percent tame-girl no matter what it takes” she scowled and hissed in a harsh stage whisper.

As I listened to this tirade I blushed: I blushed because my girl-slit was beginning to moisten with my musk. I was becoming very deeply sexually aroused by this cruelty to me in both its physical-mental and aural-mental manifestations. I was beginning to be tamed by being emphatically girled. I must submit to being cruelly girl-tamed.

My body was being girled so that my mind would be girl-tamed. I would be driven by their torture to be so conscious of my girlness that I could have no other thought than my girlness.

I would become my girlbody. I would become my girlbody, mind and soul. I would crave nothing other than to be tame-girl. I would focus every last scintilla of my heart and soul on being tamed-girl. I would achieve the only manifestation of heaven on earth: absolute girlness. I would become heaven on earth: girl.

My young tormentors now brought a micro-mini-dress to where I stood in the spotlights. It was in blue rough denim of a very simple straight “tube” line, with broad straps at the shoulder.

They rolled it up around its open top and lifted it over my arms to pull it down over my otherwise naked body.

It hung on my shoulders by the two 2½-inch broad straps fastened to the dress itself front and back by three buttons front and back on each strap. The neckline, more a “chestline”, was level all round.

At front it was just low enough to show the beginning of my delightful nude-breasts' cleavage. The hem was just six inches below my now wonderfully tight dimpled buttocks. They fitted a broad black belt loosely, to gather in the dress, and to show how slim my waist was. The fitting of the belt pulled the dress' hem another inch up my nude thighs.

By now I was surrendered mind and body totally to sexuality. Lightening had struck three hundred and sixty degrees by one million dimensions in my girlbrain. I had surrendered girlbody and girlmind to my captors.

“We are going on a journey” announced Jackie to me and the future audience of the video. “At this very moment, a cab is on its way here. You will walk unaided to the cab and from the cab into the good old London underground, dressed and shod exactly as you are right now.”

My incredulity at this seeming impossibility and my awareness of my vulnerable nudity beneath the airy now four-or-five-inch hemmed micro-mini-dress, showed on my lovely frowning brow and in the gasp of astonishment I uttered.

“You will not be alone. We will be filming you and your pretty escorts. The line if we are challenged, and believe it or not, we almost certainly won't be, is that we are on a fashion shoot, and that you are a model demonstrating tomorrow's clothes and footwear today.” Jackie's voice was firmly unemotional.

Jackie concluded: “Your escorts carry whips and believe me they will use them if you even show the slightest sign of daring to disobey me or them. You have no entitlements whatsoever. You are ours body mind and soul. You are nothing. You are just bitch meat and you will be treated like bitch meat, until you are made tame-girl.”

The “rattle, rattle, rattle” of a diesel engine could now be heard getting ever closer outside. It drowned out the little squeak that had escaped my pouting mouth. A squeak caused by the shock as my humiliation and torture had fully sexually dampened my cunt, and my girl-lips were even now glistening with my girl-moisture beneath my micro-micro-mini-dress.

I was girl before, indisputably girl before, outstandingly girl before, but now I was more girl than that girl. I was now all girlness with girlshapeliness. I had overwhelming girlity. I was completely girl: just girl and nothing but girl. Girl: infinite and absolute girl. I defined girl. I was girl. Not just a girl, but girl.