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The Fifth
Blonde
(by Eve Adorer)
Chapter 2 –
Etiquette
My stay in
hospital was brief. As part of the diplomatic hushing-up of the incidents in
the Spindon Soho Manor
House, the
The ‘Corps Diplomatique’ plates on the front of the
However
tentative the connection of Eve and Dawn Midnight with the US Embassy in
reality, the English government again deluded itself that
The two
English Rose blondes, and the superlatively lovely blonde French girl, Mademoiselle
Papillon Etalage, were
released from the wooden crates in which their exquisite naked bodies were
crouched foetus.
Bandaged in
bubble-wrap so that ‘the fruit’ would not be bruised in transit, they had been
injected to make them sleep for the road, flight, rail, and road again journey
to
My stay in
hospital was brief. As part of the diplomatic hushing-up of the incidents in
the Spindon Soho Manor
House, the
My surgeon
assured me that I was “a lucky wee girly”, as her
cheerful Scottish accent announcedly pronounced it.
Indeed, I had been lucky. Though at first the surgeons had concluded that they
would have to infibulate me, microsurgery proved possible, and there was no
irreparable damage.
Swimming
and daily use of a vibrating dildo, to stimulate my nerve endings, were
recommended for my recovery to full fitness.
And only
that, almost only that, was how I found myself, my full-on bosom threatening to
overspill my blue bikini’s 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.
Recuperation
was one reason for my being in sunny
Chief
Inspector Sonia Berkley-Hunt began her bedside chat with me, with the
understatement of any year:
“I know you
and I have not exactly hit it off with each other, Truly,
but I hope you know I respect your good old fashioned copper’s gut instincts”.
“You were
right about the
“You should
have trusted us. We had it tabbed. I didn’t want you involved because we knew
of your relationship with that lovely creature, Angelina Dream. I wanted you
based at the police station so we wouldn’t have your understandable emotions
getting in the way.”
“What do
you mean, ‘we knew’? Who is ‘we’ ma’am?” I challenged, as my heart pinged a
pang of pain at the thought of my loss of sweet Angelina.
“MI8”,
Sonia replied, casually.
“What the
hell would Military Intelligence be doing in on this?”
I challenged.
“When we
raided the Manor House, we had a squadron of the SGS on hand. The Special Girl
Service troopettes were going to freight the
“But that’s
just evil!” I whispered, aghast.
“No more
evil than the
“If you
hadn’t got wounded, we could have carried it through. As it was, the SGS
arrival helicopter was diverted to fly you to hospital instead”, Sonia
semi-concluded.
“With it
all becoming public, the
Sonia
paused, but I knew I should not interrupt the gap. It was a conversational lull
but a meaningful lull. Significance can often be communicated non-verbally. I
sensed she was about to impart import. I was not wrong.
“To come
straight to the point, we want you to do an undercover for us Truly. We want you to do a Jane Bond for us”, Sonia
continued, as if I should have expected her to ask, indeed as if she had been
easing me toward this, instead of her springing it on me mousetrap.
“Officially,
you’re out of the police, retired on medical grounds. Not that there are any
real medical grounds thank god. But that’s the front. In reality, you’ve got
yourself a transfer to MI8 if you want to take it. I know we can rely on you”,
she flattered to succeed, she hoped.
“They need
someone on the inside gathering data on the next major caper the
“You’ll
have some training from MI8, and be taught how to communicate feedback. They’ll
explain….”
“You surely
want your own back for the
‘That was
no rape’, I thought as I recalled my eagerness for the aggressive ingress and
egress of the
But this
‘medical-grounds enforced retirement’ scene just might wash with them. They’d
think it was at one with the diplomatic cover-up. They would be likely to
conclude that my ‘retirement’ was a cover-up in itself: that I was not so much
being retired, but dismissed from the police service for ‘conduct unbecoming a
serving officer of the law’.
After all,
if the police threw me out in a blaze of publicity, that
would create the diplomatic stink that the English and
Furthermore,
the
It was not
difficult to work out that Sonia Berkley-Hunt had reached the same multi-bluff
style conclusions, even if she was saying everything else but.
“Okay”, I
said. “I’m your girl. When do I start?”
……………..
Spindon
was once more a railway town.
The
coalmines had closed two-years since. It was not that coal had run out as well
as the oil.
The closure
of the ‘Spindon Rump’, and ‘Spindon
Minge’ tunnels had thrown a lot of girls out of work.
But
government investment in re-establishing the steam railway-engine building
factory at Spindon, was just beginning to bring benefits. One day, its
trickle-down effect on the Spindon economy might even
lift the depression in the Spindon Soho area; but it was better not to hold one’s breath in hope of that one.
Petroleum
gas had become the new nectar for the gods. Nobody but the rich could afford it
anymore. Even the English queen rode in a carriage pulled by a team of twelve ponygirls. It was not, of course, that English royalty
could not afford gas, but rather that they must show their subjects that they
too were sharing the suffering from the fuel shortage.
Spindon
City Station was busy with commuter-girls, many in their Ahanemi
styled business suits, with pinstriped jackets and matching micro-miniskirts.
Exposed
stocking tops and visible suspender clasps were the new fashion.
I just
loved the new fashion, especially since tiptop-tiptoe heelless ballet shoes,
also now ‘in’ fashion-wise, had got all the girls walking permanent pirouette
en pointe on the squared-off toes of their shoes.
At thirty,
a girl can choose to look maturely beautiful or take the risk of going with the
sweet young teens. I had the legs for the en pointe
squared-toed tiptoe-top shoes, but I preferred my underwear under where it was
a mystery, rather than have my suspenders running down the front of my thighs
for all the world to see.
For my
interview, I’d raided my wardrobe for a scarlet woven-wool jacket and matching
miniskirt. This went with a pure silk blouse in saffron. Okay, so I was wearing
no bra and only an itsy-bitsy scarlet thong, but you don’t need to tell the
world about that, unless you really want to make me blush!
I could at
least follow the new fashion panties wise. Madame Aesop’s fabulous underwear was all
the rage. Whether I was wise to wear one of her little apologies for a thong,
such as I had on for the first time that morning, was something I was wondering
about though.
It was too
late now. I’d taken a rickshaw to the station, a rickshaw pulled by a stunning
brunette incidentally, and it was too late to go home and change. My train was near
due. I had to get this service or miss my interview.
But back to
my thong: I knew the teenaged girlies loved to wear these daring baring little
strips of material, with the crutch that was worn inside one’s she lips, but
when you’re fully shaven, as I always am, and it’s a cool breezy morning, one
might as well be without panties at all as wear one of these so-called
diphthongs to keep one’s purse warm.
I’d upped
my hair into a ponytail. It enhanced the view of my high cheekbones. Girls have
told me that to have my hair up like that makes me look haughty or severe, like
as if I were a dominatrix. I do so hope not. All I intended was to look as if I
was what I was, a mature and experienced woman seeking to pass an interview to
become a chauffeuse.
Okay, so I
was now working for Military Intelligence 8, the number eight’s curves telling
the tale, that MI8 looked into the shapelier problems in the world: naughty
girls.
But I was
relaxed about my undercover mission. If I’d thought about it overlong, I’d have
given myself away by acting nervous and obvious, as if I were on a lie detector already, even without actually having my nipples
wired up to one.
The best
choice for me was to relax. I had been to the gymnasium yet again that morning
and worked off my worries boxing the punch-ball and running the treadmill. I
was in great shape now. My injury from the bullet gave no problems at all. I
was in great shape: and what a shape my shape was. My shape was all woman.
Now I was
thirty, though I was still an all-oestrogen girl, I
needed to exercise more to keep my figure the full dizzy eye site for the
eyesight. Though I say it myself, no roller coaster could match the hills and
dales the pupils would ride over my body. And none of my curves were in the wrong
role.
Walking my
natural feline swing-step along the station platform above the rail line that
morn, my eye caught brief sight of the longest of long legs on the stoker in
the cab of the engine pulling my intended train.
Charged as
she was with loading coal from the tender into the fire to create the steam for
the driver engineer, hers was hot physical work.
So hot and
sweaty was she from the furnace she faced feeding with her shovel-loads of
coal, she had stripped to just her g-string. Resting while the train was in the
station, she presently had her coal-dirtied tee-shirt around her neck. As I
passed by, her smile was adorable. Her face and near-naked body coated with the
smears of coal and smoke mingled with her sweat, she was using her tee-shirt to
wipe perspiration from her forehead; her thus uplifted breasts waved a warm
welcome as I slinked cool-cat past her.
……………..
I had
forgotten it was the school vacation.
She was on
her way home from living-in at a private school. I saw the badge over the holy
hillock of her gentle left breast. I willingly reminded myself of a familiar
school motto scribed in red gothic script in a diagonal strip across the
shield-shaped badge, embroidered on the vestal vest invested by her chest: ‘Non
Possumus’. Under it, was the institutional name: ‘
She was ‘gaol-bate’. She was ‘old enough to know, but not old enough
to go’.
She was a
teenage teaser too. She was asleep with her ravishing red curls tumbled into a
coiled copper whirlpool outshining lovelight on the
spare seat alongside her.
A glimpse
showed she wore no bra, nor needed one: she was affirmatively firm. Moreover,
that glimpse saw too that her vest was not tentative about the tents that her
tits and nipples teased taut tepee materially in its material, twice over.
If the
girls in her class had been competing to see who dared wear the shortest skirt,
she had surely won hands down and hem up.
Like me,
she wore steel toecapped ballet-shoes. Her white
smooth slim curvaceous legs were bare, and so, oh god, so were most of her
fulsome thighs.
She wore
only nature’s makeup. Her face was a frolic of freckles, her mouth a rosebud,
with mirror moist lips: those lips the coral one just knew matched her nipples.
She was
half asleep, or pretend-asleep, in the seat opposite mine, but I knew she had
seen me slide into my place in the train carriage for the journey, and that she
liked an older girl ogling her, because she reached up the loveliest of hands,
and lifted her curls aside from curtaining one of her momentarily half-opened
honey-coloured eyes.
And, as she
did so, she smiled knowingly to herself and the world, and crossed her legs to
show me her full left thigh, right up to where it became very cheeky. Was this
to tease me, please me, and raise the question my fore-mind would not admit I
was asking: the question whether she was wearing any knickers?
My pretence
that I was not admiring this kitten only told her subliminal consciousness that
I was captivated, and the smile that crossed her lips said she knew I was
smitten.
I took out
my book. I must pay my attention emphatically to it, and not the clit-tease!
I was
reading an Eve Adorer novel: ‘Belgian Handmaid’. I’d read several of Adorer’s
works. They were alright after a fashion: a bit of light reading; nothing
special. I had problems with her use of English. More like abuse if you ask me!
And,
talking of abuse, the tortures that the poor girls in her stories suffered!
They were imaginative true; but hardly believable. I mean, for goodness sake,
you would never come across that kind of thing happening in real life. Nothing
like that would ever happen in downtown Spindon for
sure. I mean, for example, such things would never happen to an ordinary girl
like me!
I was just
finishing the orgy chapter where the heroine is dipped head to toes in
chocolate, so that her two-dozen lesbian lovers can lick her clean. I must
admit that the idea of the Turkish delight in her mouth, the hazelnuts on her
nipples, and the nougat in her she, was an incredible turn-on.
But
concentration is impossible when one’s mind sees the chocolate coated heroine,
not as the jade haired Japanese schoolgirl of the book, but as the titian tressed, ghost-pale, frolic freckled English schoolgirl,
dressed in white vest and almost non-existent uniformly-school-uniform-grey
miniskirt, sat opposite you.
And it is
more difficult still to concentrate, when you are just compelled to look for
the evidence you want not to find any of. I was desultorily compulsively eyeing
the stunning gaol-bate honey, when I could not keep
my eyes on my book, which was mostly, to look for any sign that she wore
panties.
The absence
of the slightest sight told me too how tiny they must be if she did sport any. And
the site would be shaven smooth in honour of her
virginity. That was undoubted.
Her hem was
so short that, if she did not wear panties, she must be anointing the seat with
her lick snick, and, for me, the thought of her honeysuckle-sweet virgin aroma
leaving its subtle scent on that seat was causing love’s labias
lust.
I’m sure
she did it on purpose. The flash. I gasped. It was
reflex. I cough-covered after, and pretended it was something I’d read in my
book that had shocked me.
Her station
came. She awoke fully. She did not look at me. She was all concentration to
find her school satchel. She did not look at me, and so I now doubted she had
been teasing me after all at all.
She had
uncrossed her legs, and now kept her knees tight together as she gathered her
glorious hair over her left arm. Then she was on the edge of her seat as she
looked out of the window and parted her legs.
Oh god, she
looked out of the window and parted her thighs. She showed me her keyhole. She
showed me the gates of heaven. I knew her hymen was hymning guard as she
flicked a flash, and then rose a pure English rose on
her taut tiptop tiptoe standing ballerina shoes, letting her copper curls float
off her arm to the ground, so that after they had swung side-to-side, they hung
intricately swirled, inescapably breathtakingly coiled cape.
I could not
help but stare at her hair and her wonderful legs. I am only a girl; she the
saint. As she turned to ensure she had left nothing bar her aroma-Arabic on the
seat, physiognomy revealed her light honey eyes alighting nowhere near mine, as
she flicked her eyelashes and then turned to depart.
I watched
her struggle to get her suitcase from the rear compartment rack. A brunette businessgirl, getting off at the same stop, helped her by
carrying it to the platform for her. Oh god how I wanted to be the carrier of
this sweet miss sweetmeat’s burdens.
I turned to
the window: “Thank you miss”, I heard the schoolgirl lisp, and watched her bob
leggy curtsy to the totally enraptured businessgirl.
“Well
really!!” snapped an older woman sat across the carriage corridor, expressing
disgust at my blatant lust. And I turned toward my critic, and I blushed. And
by the time I had turned back to the coach window, the schoolgirl was gone. And
that I concluded would be the last I saw of that devastating Delilah.
……………..
Oh yes. The interview. I passed the interview. No problems there.
I got a
steamboat trip to
I mentioned
the stunning schoolgirl, because I was having girl trouble out here in
I had
expected never to see Angelina Dream again. But she was here at the
Angelina
was taunting me. She was sweet. She was sensitive. She had been deeply hurt by
what she saw me indulging at the Spindon Manor House
bust. Now, somehow, she was Dawn Midnight’s girlfriend.
I didn’t
know how that had come about. All I knew was the way Angelina clung ivy around
the fantastic negress, Dawn
Midnight. So too did Emma clothe Eve Midnight veneer. But that did not hurt me
as it did to see Angelina ever ready for yet another kiss. And the thought of
Angelina riding slide on Dawn’s fifteen-inch pole, hurt me inside more than it
must have hurt sweet Angelina when she was deflowered by it.
……………..
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?”
In charge
of the household staff was the
She wielded
her cane with consummate skill. I’d had one taste of it, and decidedly wanted
no more. For but one millisecond, I’d dared to defy her command for me, the chauffeuse, to take crated bottles of wine down to the
cellar: something I did not consider to be my job.
For my
cheek, she lashed me in the crease where my right thigh turns into my bum
cheek, and oh god did it bite!
The
Global
warming had prompted the French to move north to
Of course,
for the finest wine, the pee had to have been drunk by the girls so that it has
passed through them a minimum of ten times. That was where the French girls
still scored. Their wine-producing ancestry was somehow implanted in their
genes.
The
Girl-pee of
that quality was rarely consumed. It became an investment. In another ten
years, a 35 Olion De Crecy
would double in value. Ten years on again, and it would have doubled again.
A lately
identified single bottle of 35 Olion De Crecy double-red 50, produced during one of her monthly
bleeds, was practically priceless. It alone would have sold for several times
the Olion De Crecy red ordinaire.
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?”
The crates
I had been ordered to move that day, were of girl-perry:
the cider-wine produce of girls fed solely on pears, pear juice, and their
resultant pee.
It was for
a dinner-party that evening, and I was to take it out of the crates, and stock
it in a bank of six tall refrigerators, to chill it after its exposure on a
delivery cart, hauled incidentally, by a charming señorita with her black curls tumbling
tumultuously from under one of the huge straw hats the ponygirls
were given in Spain to shade their lovely complexions from the sun.
“Not that
fridge, and not the two either side of it either, you stupid girl!” Grieves had
moaned resignedly, while I held two bottles of the perry
looking dumfounded.
The
refrigerators had all looked the same to me, as I busied with unloading the
bottles. I now assumed, now that I had spotted them that is, that the padlocks
on the three fridges Ms Grieves forbade me to stock, were to protect against
theft of the finer girl-wine.
However, I
could not see the sense of that since the cellar itself was already always
locked, and only Grieves had a key. But, I assumed some idiot might mix a
precious vintage with a mixed-malt that had no pedigree. A Cecile Dumauriere18
was unlikely to be mistaken for this comparatively cheap girl-cider, but the
cellar was dark, and servants were unreliable readers of ancient labels I supposed.
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?”
Grieves was
encyclopaedic on proper etiquette. She had charge
over everything, from the dining table, where she tape-measured even the spaces
between the laid out cutlery for precision, to the hareem,
where she would beat the eunuch-girls savagely, if she found they had been
letting the hareem girls make love among themselves.
Later that
same day, in the afternoon, I had, since I was near to hand, at Grieves’
command, readied a girl from the hareem for Eve
Midnight’s bed in the coming evening. I assume Eve was planning a threesome
with Emma Eyeful, or had decided on a change of perspective, with the little
tart from the local Volmart that I had by her pretty
hand.
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?” Grieves had snapped as I led the
pretty creature toward the
The only
places Grieves’ rule and rod were not law, were the kitchens, where Mademoiselle
Papillon Etalage, yes
the exquisite French girl, was in charge, and the stables, where the ponygirls were trained and exercised by Jocelyn Trotter, an
English ex private-schoolgirl and a delightfully shapely tomboy.
……………..
Regretta
Grieves, the butler, was devastating. She was six-feet tall and of model model’s build. She wore her gold-blonde hair in a high
ponytail that curved up and then back and down from the crown of her head. That
ponytail swished emphasis for her silent ‘yes’ or ‘no’ nods and headshakes as
she eyed command over the table servants working to serve food and wine in the
chandeliered banqueting room.
Her face
was never visited by a smile, save from the young girls who lusted after her,
and there was no shortage of those.
Her haughty
demeanour was only enhanced by her black tailcoat,
with its wide lapels, her crisp white shirt, with wing collar and white bowtie,
her tiptoe-top heelless black ballet shoe shod feet, and the fact that her
mystery was only just covered by the black thong she wore over her black nylon
tights.
To see
Grieves about her duty, must inevitably show the sight of her jacket’s
swallow-tails swinging, with her beautiful bum, bold and bare bar the hug of
her tight tights, a site to behold.
My chauffeuse uniform was in crisp coarse white, save that the
I too wore
a white bowtie. My bowtie was a bit of a cheat, being preformed rather than
performed as far as the act of tying it was concerned. It formed a choker
around my neck, for I wore nothing on top bar a double-breasted uniform jacket,
double-breasted also by the thrust of my bust, all 38 double-D-cup of which was
uplifted by a cantilever brassiere putting all of my
bosom on display within the V of the lapels of my jacket.
And you’ll
be pleased to know that I wore black suspenders with my thighs, at the tops of
my stockings at front, fronted, but not affronted, by saucy echoes of my
necktie in the little white ‘bowties’ on my suspender clasps.
At my back,
my suspenders took a decidedly cheeky route. They stretched over the mountains
of the moons of my monumental rear, pressing on the firm smooth complexion of
my bare bottom.
You can say
that my stockings, black as crime, were exactly how they seemed, for my seams
followed the flow of the backs of my long legs all the way to my witch-black
suspenders.
It was
wicked to expect me to drive in en pointe shoes. But
the
My blonde
hair tumbled down to the top of my bottom. I wore it long below my airline pilotess’ style white chauffeuse
uniform peaked cap.
Oh, and I
nearly forgot my uniform’s skirt.
That would
not be difficult to do, there was so little of it. I am a full-grown girl with
a bountiful behind. The skirt was no more than a white wisp whisper of a
creation, just down to just above the crease where the flat back of my thighs
becomes the foothills of my moon mounts.
It belonged
on the tennis court, and, when the breeze blew, caught me shouting that I was a
girl, without speaking, my lips being tight closed. Indeed, when the breeze
would blow along the crease of my interned love-lips, it would carry my musk on
its zephyrs, because I was forbidden panties.
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?”
……………..
The black
vintage limousine I drove as chauffeuse for Eve and
Dawn Midnight, I was also to maintain.
I have a
mechanical bent, and was bent over very cheekily, doing my daily duty by the
oil and water checks, when I heard Angelina’s incredibly sexy innocent giggle.
I must
about my duty, and even though I could sense two sets of eyes running the
marathons my legs’ lengths outran on their curvy course, I could not look up
from where I was eased over the open bonnet hood, showing everything a shy girl
likes to hide.
“It’s a
beauty. It’s so smooth and shiny”, Angelina’s sweet voice
opined.
“Yes. It’s
got huge headlamps with the sweetest bulbs you ever saw too. I love the more
mature models”, Dawn Midnight responded.
“Is she
powerful?” Angelina innocented.
“Yes. She’s
naturally aspirated with big pistons. With that broad beam she floats along
with the grace of an ocean liner. She has a muscular structure, but is every
inch very much a she. Those superb lines are so streamlined.”
“Of course
she needs firm handling. She is a bit wayward unless you keep a strong grip on
her and steer her right. She also needs a good thrashing once in a while to
keep her in tune. She’s a greater runner, superbly smooth in full stride”, Dawn
drawled….
“…. And so
is the car”, she then suddenly teased. And I heard Angelina hit Dawn with her
gentle fists, followed by a silence I knew was another kiss.
My
immediate duties done, I rose and turned to face my employer and her
girlfriend.
Angelina
completely ignored me. Leaning her long youthful slimness on Dawn, Angelina had
her glistering blonde-downed arms around the negress’ waist, and looked lost in love and to love,
as she lingered her head on Dawn’s shoulder her face a daydream, but her mouth
ever ready for the next kiss.
“You’re
doing a fine job with the auto, Winsome. Well done”, Dawn praised.
“Thank you
my lady”, I responded, as I dipped a reflex long-leggy strong-leggy curtsy to
my two mistresses, for Angelina, as Dawn’s lover, was now my mistress as much
as Dawn herself.
“How would
you like a ride in one of Hispano-Suiza’s finest
creations sweetheart?” Dawn whispered to the wrap that embraced her with her
innocent powerful passion.
“I’d prefer
a kiss”, came Angelina’s soprano solo, so low it was
less than a whisper.
Dawn moved
to kiss the stunning blonde honeychild again, and
then remembered I was there.
Dawn at
least recognised that I was there to be seen, even if
Angelina treated me as indivisibly invisible.
“You can go
Winsome. See Grieves if you would”, Dawn ordered.
“Yes ma’am”
I obediently responded, dropping another leg shaping deep curtsy.
As I
slinked away to find the butler, and see what duties she might have for me, I
felt appreciative eyes, Dawn’s at least, on my swinging bottom, and the curves
and swerves of my luscious legs, following the seams of my stockings from my
ankles to where they seemed to promise to lead: the promised land with the
divided dividend.
Then: “Come
back here please Winsome”, came Dawn’s purr. “We’ve changed our minds. We want
to go for a little spin in the auto after all”.
“Yes ma’am.
Of course ma’am” I responded, as I walked back toward my mistresses, and then
dipped them the obligatory curtsy, before wiggling to the car to start her.
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?”
……………..
I had to
swing start her. I had the starter crank handle to swing in order to turn the
engine over. It hung in its ‘L’ shape out from the bottom of the radiator
grill.
Eyes never
left my full-grown woman’s handsome legs, as I walked to the driver’s door, put
my cap on the seat, and turned the auto’s ignition on.
Then too as
I walked, all legs that was not legs, to the front of the auto, where I must
bend over, standing en pointe in my ballet shoes,
straight curvy legs legged, to whip the starter-handle round.
If I had
been a free girl rather than an employee, I would have politely signalled that for me to bend whilst I was watched would be
embarrassing for me. But I had no right to prompt my audience to move, and I
knew that Dawn Midnight loved to watch my beautiful body just as too, I sensed,
Angelina was enjoying my subservience to her.
As I bent
over to wind the crank handle to start the vintage limousine, my huge breasts
knew no compromise from gravity as they swung to try and escape my jacket. And
my skirt knew no difference from a stage curtain as it rose on the show of
shows, with my bum bold and beautiful giving a wow as I took a bow at the
beginning rather than at the conclusion of my cabaret display.
But,
although the horizontal curtain of my hem rose to reveal the players on my
stage, the leading lady remained tight-lipped and protective, keeping her
vertical virtual-curtains closed over the florid pink of the flower within her
bower.
She was the
magician and the top act on my stage, but she was going to keep the secret of
the rose she secreted. Instead she was performing like a tormenting striptease,
keeping close-closed what the compelled eyes feasted to see if she would
feature, her flash of red. She that was the she of me, was centre-stage and
worthy of the applause her act of secreting her secrets and her secretions
merited, the applause being for the shear magic of her existence, and her entry
on my stage, centre-stage, as a dramatic entry in herself into myself.
I was blushing the deepest of deep scarlet with embarrassment as I
bent over, thankful for the curtain my gold blonde tresses provided for my
distresses.
As their
elasticity was tested, I felt my rear suspenders making sexy hallowed hollows
hello below where they caressed and pressed into my impressively bare bottom.
The pulling up of my black stockings on my smooth strong thighs, gave me the
coolness and calm of the balm of the breeze as it kissed my zipped lips’ now
exposed. My lips, scented sentinels centre signalling
my indisputable beautiful sex, were siren to sucking,
succubus to searing, lacking licking, but not onlooking
leering, as my mistresses’ eyes were transfixed by the sight of the site of the
tight doors of my girl gate.
On tiptoes
in my balletic shoes, I bent and sent the signals
from my sex, straight strong legged, long legs longingly parted, as I gripped
the handle and whisked the auto into vibrating life.
Standing
with the crank handle now removed, I curtsied to my two poleaxed
mistresses, and wiggled to the rear door, to open it for Angelina to enter the
limousine, my skirt still high on my bum, and my bum not shy to show its twin
inverse moonrises.
“Thank you
Winsome”, Dawn whispered, with a tone that strongly signalled
her thanks were for my display that day as such, as much as for my holding open
Angelina’s door, as was my duty anyway.
I curtsied my still fully-bare-bar-stockings legs, as my
slid-up skirt still insisted it make my bum a flirt. I then wiggled my
half-bare behind, before the divine Dawn, to open her door on the other side of
the auto, before which I curtseyed submissively once again.
Once Dawn’s door was closed, with yet one more curtsey, I lissomely leggy-legged back to the driver’s door, managing
to pull my naughty hem down over my escaping moonscapes, after I had stowed the
crank handle in the auto’s boot trunk.
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?”
I then
opened the driver’s door, donned my chauffeuse’s cap,
and took my seat.
It stuck up
right up into my she like a round-knobbed penis. I
felt every vibration of the auto’s motor through it. Dawn had watched me
straddle it with my coot-bald pussy with quiet pleasure.
In the
driver’s seat I was surrounded by mirrors angled, so that those on the rear seats, could enjoy my cleavage and the adage that ‘longing
is longer when it comes to shapely legs’. For they could see my black-stockinged legs reaching dimple-kneed down to the pedals,
my ample handsome thighs not despised by the leather of the seat also kissing
my bare bum, as my skirt had betrayed me, and thus displayed me disporting my
legs without disappointing.
Oh, and
that between my legs and up my sin? That was the gearshift.
The gearstick came up through my seat. I could only just reach
the accelerator, brake or clutch pedals of the auto even with my
tiptoe-stretched feet, without sitting square in my seat. But I could not sit
square in my seat without the gearshift inside my purse, within my sin, such was the tight spot I was in.
The
wonderful vintage Hispano-Suiza had been modified so
that the gear stick stuck up my she. The length of its
lever, vibrating with the tick-over of the motor, was high and deep within the
divine lips of my lovely love box.
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?”
My
predicament was with a stick meant as a vibrator to drive me as I drove and
strove not to have the road to which I came a cause of
my cumming.
As I looked
down the long bonnet hood of the auto, it seemed the horizon met the silver
figurine of the pretty girl with her skirt supposedly blown up off her
delicious legs by the rush of the forward motion of the car: the mascot on the
radiator top yet to come to this bliss, as we were still stayed in stasis.
This motif
mascot model, the
As I sat
with the enormous power of the majestic limousine communing with my body
through the gearshift throbbing in the cause of my sighs between my thighs, I
was only too aware of the willing struggle on the back seat, as Angelina had
reached inside Dawn Midnight’s panties, and was now working Dawn’s mighty cock
up to hard rock.
My mouth
opened as I felt my musk ooze, thinking of the prowess of the Midnight twins
and of the girl that Grieves, the butler, had had me prepare for Eve’s bed this
coming evening, just after Grieves had whipped my right thigh with her cane
that afternoon.
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?” Grieves had demanded as I had begun
to take that pretty little innocent shop girl to Eve Midnight’s bedroom.
My pain and
jealousy as I sat awaiting my orders, when I could see from the emotional
motions of her blonde downed arm, that Angelina was fisting Dawn’s cock, were
only increased by the misery of my knowing I had lost Angelina forever, and
that I was virtually a slave.
“My ladies?” I intoned, politely, querulously, for guidance as to where I was to
drive.
I could
feel Dawn’s eyes in the mirrors enjoying the shimmying of my heavy breasts
never at rest from the auto’s vibration, my bosom made more huge seeming by the
uplifting from my bra, giving me cavernous cleavage too with my two, as my bare
nipples, excited by my tits’ joggling, jousted with the rough material inside
my chauffeuse jacket.
“Oh. Just
take us for a spin to the other side of town and back here again please
Winsome”, Dawn instructed dismissively.
“Of course
my lady”, I replied obediently.
And I
pressed the clutch with my beautiful left leg. And was left no doubt what the
lever up my she was about. As I eased my body and
pushed it fore to first gear, we rolled road. My she
astride the lever inside me, I legged leggy on the pedal once more, and pulled
the lever back toward me, and into second. And I gasped as the lever gapped my she and parted my soft lips. And I long-legged the clutch
pedal yet again, and reached my pretty hand between my legs to ease my pain
from the lever, as I must now wiggle work it fore, side, and then fore again,
to gain third, as if it was a cock I was grinding. I watched Angelina’s head go
down on top of Dawn’s hard knob, her tiny mouth only managing to envelope the
huge head it its hot box. And in reality as well as in the wicked mirrors, my
cantilevered tits, displayed splayed splendid with cleavage, danced tantalising vibrato, with my nipples, ripe strawberries,
rubbed raw on my inner coat, as the lever in my she smote, when I hauled it
into fourth and top with my she. And my she spoke with
moist mouth. I was being masturbated massively by she the auto, as the she who
was my love, licked long a black cock that she longed would spurt sperm. And
the mirrors positioned to display me played both ways. And as I shifted the
limo into top gear and steered her on her course on the coarse roads, I could
see Angelina’s tongue in the septum of the semen seeping crack of Dawn’s, whose
cock she grasped with her dainty little fist, as she played mischievous miss
with her innocent mouth and tongue. And I longed it was Angelina’s mouth on
mine, and Dawn’s cock was up my she, instead of this steadily vibrating gear
shift, giving me all the journey of the automobile; all the journey of arousals
espousal; and none of the arrival of my rival, whose salt pearls Angelina was
now sucking thirstily, to miss none and savour them
oyster on her sweet young tongue, even as for any, but any, relief from my
arousal without arrival I longed. And I once again thought of Grieves the
butler and the girl I had had to ready from the hareem
that very afternoon for Eve Midnight’s bed. And, as I thought of Ms Grieves mistressy over me, and the pretty little girl I was taking
straight to the bedroom, till Ms Grieves had put me right on proper etiquette,
the gearshift vibrating up my she at last made good its threat, and I jerked as
with a millenarian’s kingdom come, with a cum I must not let my mistresses know
I had won, as I replayed voices:
“And just
where do you think you are going with her?”
“To Miss Eve’s boudoir ma’am”.
“You stupid slut Winsome. Strip her naked and lock her in one of the padlocked
refrigerators. She has to sit for six-hours minimum in
a refrigerator. She’s a blonde not a redhead or brunette. Brunettes are served
hot, redheads at room temperature, Miss Eve always has her blondes served
properly chilled….”
[to be continued…..]
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