Seraphima

Seraphima

(by Eve Adorer)

 

Chapter 2 - Drool

 

And but minutes later, as Willy had walked front round to the driver’s seat, Seraphima had taken-off her scanties in a scurry hurry in the dark of the car. She would have Willy stamp her passport red. He must enter the harbour between the arbour of her bifurcated fur-forest, with his hard ardour.

 

She was decided on being divided. To save her stretch for the marriage bed was silly. The delicate diaphanous diaphragm nestling in the humidity of her horny hole was not wholly holy: she would give it to Willy’s wilful wanton willy.

 

Yet she knew it was sin to want it sundered. She had been told it would hurt and hurt all the more if it was split in sin, which, seemingly, was geographically located all-around church marriage island.

 

In the convent where Seraphima had been raised, an orphan: to keep the girls intact, they had even been forbidden athletic sports.

 

The nuns whipped girls found touching themselves. Those that gave full way to temptation, were ritually flogged, and thrown naked into the streets to henceforth earn their way as whores.

 

Seraphima had always passed the monthly inspection. The phrase “a snap inspection” bandied about among the convent girls, had made Seraphima giggle divinely when a teen. But she too had had to submit to the attentions of the abbess.

 

Seraphima lying on her back, tied with her legs wide splayed, the abbess had had a twinkle in her eye. Seraphima had turned her head in shame as she was examined once again. The cushion under her buttocks, the flashlight torch, the gentle enquiring finger’s linger, as Seraphima bit her lovely lower lip to stop her secretions from revealing her secret enjoyment of the moment of torment, had burned their brand in Seraphima’s very soul.

 

Earlier by far than now, she had wanted to become a nun. Seraphima had wanted to become a nun in the Holy Order of St Clitoris: the order that ran the convent she called home.

 

She had wanted to become a nun until the day she had accidentally seen Sister Matilda’s infibulated sex, and the crimson caps inserted into, to cover over her nipples. The realisation that a girl as sensationally sweet as Sister Matilda, had been sewn up so that she would remain intact forever, and her nipples too guarded against the temptations of the flesh, had told Seraphima that she was no nun, but had indeed compulsive needs.

 

The secret kissing among her then fellow schoolgirls, Seraphima had taken no part in.

 

In the drab greyness of the ankle-length gown all the convent schoolgirls wore, the growing magnificence of Seraphima’s significant bosom had signally double-filled its otherwise shapeless drape. Her tensioning of its upper front with her tantalising temptations, had also drawn its material materially tight over the rotundity of her rampant rear.

 

And, when her nipples had hardened with the winter chill, to poke and provoke and scribe a thrill on the rough woollen material of the dress, which had rubbed her to even harder distress, so as to make her bless her coarse woollen school knickers with her unction, Seraphima had blushed, and lowered her head in modesty.

 

The other girls had whistled wolf at her, and whispered temptation in her ear. They had tried to hold her pretty hand. But Seraphima had taken her teachers’ and their teaching preaching seriously.

 

She had back then, wanted to become a nun, and had covered her ears at the sounds of surprised pleasure and longing, when the head-girl took one of her juniors into her bed.

 

Way back then, Seraphima herself had always slept with her legs strapped together at the knees and ankles, and her hands held in the girlacles, sprinkled with holy water, that tied her to the bed’s head, till the nuns would release her and her fellow, as of then, would be novitiates, from their voluntary bonds, at dawn.

 

The clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death.

…………….

 

The drive was out of town. Seraphima clung ivy-vine divine to Willy’s comfortingly strong arm. He could see her mouth in the rear-view mirror. Seraphima knew he could see her mouth, and made no play to display, but just let its shear negress beauty have the say no mere words could convey.

 

Composed and closed, Seraphima’s mouth made a maid’s kiss not to be missed. Her upper lip’s uplifted curved flatness cried out to be kissed in its own right. Her lower lip’s breadth took breath away.

 

Unseen by Willy, Seraphima’s dark-brown eyes tried to look at her mouth in the mirror, to ensure it formed the informed flower of succulent pleasing teasing temptation, pleading passion with the wholly holy kiss it naturally formed in repose. She knew her lips were lovely: she had so often been told so by the other convent girls.

…………….

 

They parked up, as they always did on a date, outside the enormous hothouses that formed part of the farm that financed the Convent of St Labia Majora and Minora: the convent in which Seraphima had been raised and schooled.

 

Never had Willy known Seraphima so pliant and compliant; and yet so complaining with her moans, that he was not going far enough in his roaming of her randy raging body.

 

For a whole endless two hours, his right hand caressed her naked right thigh from knee to half-moon, sliding down its incredible smoothness with a ruthlessness provoked by Seraphima’s incessant sighs.

 

But Seraphima wore no panties and knew she was accessible and wanted no foreplay, but to be sacrificed on the spike of Willy’s swollen manhood.

 

She wanted no fingers within her. She wanted to be splayed and rammed in her clam. She wanted her hymen sundered split and rodded to irrecoverable raw ruination. She wanted to be sacrificed, her cunt lubricated only by the blood of her torn maidenhead.

 

Yet too, she wanted to stay whole and holy in her hole, and to give only unto him in the marital bed. Seraphima’s mind was as split as her hymen was whole. She was a girl in deed as well as thinking. She wanted but she wanted not. She was hot to trot, but not in hell to rot.

 

Yet why would he not hold her breasts? Were they too big or not big enough for him? Why did he not taste a nipple? Her top was off in their loving scuffle. Her profoundly huge right breast rested softly on his chest, its up-hard nipple zigzagging  ‘L.O.V.E.  M.E.’ with the apex of its huge brown-pink cone on his shirt.

 

Then the first ever kiss came, and Seraphima’s lovely eyes closed, knowing this was love and that Willy would never rape her. So she crossed her huge thighs to save him the embarrassment of having risen, but not to her challenge to take her and make her a woman.

 

Seraphima’s mouth was for the kiss. Seraphima’s mouth was made for the kiss. Seraphima’s mouth was the kiss.

 

Time stood still as Willy told her of his love with his mouth closed on her passionate petals, sipping the nectar of her femininity: the luckiest man alive: kissing very heaven: the mouth of a pure negress: the mouth that is the epitome of the kiss.

……………….

 

For the whole two hours of the foreplay, the infrared cameras had copied it all, till the pretty blonde director whispering into a microphone, called: “Okay Now!”.

 

And, with Willy’s mouth sucking her left nipple to heaven, Seraphima found the car door being suddenly forcibly swung open, and two lovely Chinese, in nun’s habits, grasping her slender arms and dragging her out in her shamefully fully fulsomely aroused state, as she screamed in her shock for: “Willy!!”

 

The cameras focused in on Seraphima’s high-lifted top and her bountiful breasts bare with their nipples, hotly aroused, a dark brown-pink on her negress’ ebony black. The cones mountainous pointing sharp as needles, bobbing and throbbing with her very heavy arousal.

 

Her mouth too, its gorgeous lips still moist with Willy’s inadequate kisses, was camera candy. And, could it have seen within her slit, it would have shamed her by filming the shine in her shrine, showing she was saturated with succulent nectar, for Willy to slide inside with his stiff staff were he man enough to take to heaven this distaff.

 

As they ripped Seraphima’s crop top off over her head, and pulled over her instead, the familiar coarse iron-grey roughness of a convent schoolgirl’s dress, they threatened her with a wire whip, should she even think of trying to escape.

 

As the rough woollen convent dress fell down her incredible curves, a hand reached up to pull Seraphima’s micro-skirt off.

 

And so, was clear glimpsed minutely-momentarily by the infrared in the near dark, all curls in a kempt unkempt kept bikini-line bordered triangular conjuncture: over four-foot long but that it was curled, dangling in mesmeric helter-skelter whirls, the hanging garden of this babe’s Babylon. Scattering helical springs swinging, blown by the cooling breeze, flowing down between her wonderful thighs to the insides of her ankles, hiding within their seemingly impenetrable jungle, her moist love-lips: Seraphima’s pubic hair.

 

Still hot and aflame with her natural desires, the fires of her love still shining in her gorgeous eyes, after the two hours over which her willing body had been caressed, Seraphima realised she had been taken prisoner by the abbess and was being returned to the convent from which she had escaped for that night, and those many stolen nights that had by now preceded it.

 

Seraphima had been followed. That she had found herself a boyfriend was soon discovered. The location of their meetings and of their follow-up petting sessions in Willy’s car, if such could be called ‘petting’, since, before that fateful night, it had never gone beyond holding hands, was soon espied.

 

The convenience of the darkness in the glade just outside the convent, for taking Seraphima in the heat of love, was ideal.

 

The chance to make a film and thus money from Seraphima’s punishment, had been serendipitous.

 

Her boy had been a pushover to get co-operation from. He had betrayed Seraphima in the instant he was offered a ‘front row seat’ to watch her being punished.

 

Bare foot under now, Seraphima’s borrowed high-heels having been removed, Seraphima’s lovely body filled the frumpy ankle-length coarse woollen dress with the burgeoning sexuality, in reality, it was designed to hide inside. With twin bulges to the fore, and to the rear, making four, two supremely smooth more, Seraphima’s body was all to adore.

 

Into the blazing lights of the main hall of the convent, the raven-haired Chinese dolls dragged Seraphima by her wrists, tied rope in front of her.

 

These were the same girls who had so blatantly ogled Seraphima in the Poolside Bar, where she had played snooker, flaying the balls. Those same girls now made her walk, her bare feet chilled by the cold of the marble floor.

 

Tethering her slender wrists with the ends of the rope by which they were already tied helpless, the Chinese devil’s angels, the nuns from the Inquisition, now stretched Seraphima up to an oaken beam, till she was standing in pain with her arms high aloft on the top tips of her big toes.

 

Seraphima was in agony. She could not relieve her arms. Her toes had little to no purchase on the floor, and she would dangle by her arms alone if she lifted but one lovely leg.

 

Let us but dream of the shape that her gorgeous legs must have taken on in this cruel stance.

 

We are denied a glance by her long dress covering her distress. But can picture her calves’ curves, the length and strength of her thighs tickled by the magical curls of her pubic hair, and the concavity of her tensioned buttocks, for a dream to be met in the sleeping waking wake of wet.

 

Seraphima looked around at the gathered nuns, novices, and schoolgirls, and into the lovely face of Abbess Mercy, the auburn haired wonder whose paleness and whiteness paid due duty in contrast the jade black beauty of Seraphima.

 

Seraphima’s eyes asked the question “Why the lights and the filming?”

 

“We need the money. You are going to make the money we need. You are going to pay public penance for your sins. You were selected and elected by the unanimous vote of the convent. Your boyfriend agreed, as long as he could watch. Your astonishing loveliness is also your Judas Seraphima. You are going to be broken on camera for our pleasure, and that of the public who will pay a fortune for the DVD download. You’re going to be punished for ignoring my express condition for your staying in the convent: that you never leave the convent without two nuns as chaperones.”

 

“Give her six while she is still hot and horny from her boyfriend’s clumsy strokings!”

 

Sister Faith and Sister Love, the Chinese with the raven hair trailing in train on the ground behind them, knew how to swing and bring a six-foot long single-strand wire whip to best bearing on a girl’s body.

 

Seraphima was clothed; but that would be no protection. The dress Seraphima wore, the coarse wool dress of a St Clitoris Convent schoolgirl, had her still hot. The rubbing of the rough wool on her sensitive nipples, had kept Seraphima’s sexual fires burning still bright.

 

“Oh god no! Please! I beg you please!! Don’t!!! Oh god, don’t whip me!!” Seraphima pleaded with passion in her naturally horny-honey contralto voice.

 

“Your body is still fresh with arousal from your boyfriend’s stroking your bare thigh, kissing your mouth, and sucking on your tit. You responded with passionate abandonment for over two hours. You have let your body be felt and stroked and stoked to the highest fire of desire. You are still freshly physically and mentally aroused. And you dare to beg not to be whipped?!” Abbess Mercy quietly sneared.

 

The Chinese angels were left and right handed, and wielded their whips in the whistling trips they took to slice the air like lightening shafts, following a path that was as inexorable as Seraphima’s bonds were inflexible, from coil on the ground gathered and weighed in the practiced pretty hand, to get the handling right, to a murderous whistling flow toward, and wrap around the poor victim, whose lovely body would stop its flight through the impact of its horrendous strike when it embraced her lovely body in its razor sharp bite, leaving its calling card: through her violently cut dress, a livid living breathing bleeding stripe.

 

The whips curled round at chest height, and Seraphima twice howled with the excruciating pain, as “THWICK” was followed by “THWICK” and her dress was twice sliced and her soft breasts’ flesh thrashed onto her unyielding chest. And her breast flesh seared as her tits danced with the vicious tentacle of the savage wire strand cutting her smooth sensitive skin for the sin of her wanting a boy within.

 

Seraphima’s screams, echoing off the convent hall walls, would have melted the heart, but were but the start, as the whips whistled again, spaced to have impact seconds apart on each of her deeply cleaved bosoms: “THWICK” and “THWICK” in an explosion of pain, left and right, and her screaming again, a soul without solace, as two more cuts were sliced in her breasts and she could feel her blood trickle from the brutal wounds. The sting and the after-sting of the savage lashes drying the tears in her delicious eyes with the surprise of its beyond painful savagery, in so swift follow-up to the first two that had made her sob so.

 

The heat from the hand that had caressed her thigh, the kiss on her mouth, and the suckling of her huge nipple, in love play, had never left Seraphima’s body, even as the six foot long pliable wire whipped up and round once more, to thrash her profound protuberances, potent pert and impertinent in their heavy thrust, to slice through the wool of her maiden’s dress yet again, and cut her nipples open for her distress.

 

“THWICK” and “THWICK”. And her screams were nightmare dreams as she danced in her bonds with her fabulous eyes conveying her astonishment that her admonishment and the administration of her punishment, had found her body in betrayal of her mind, as her split nipples danced anew and her slit flowed too with a new joy that she was no boy and that her sexual parts could impart a different and deeper arousal.

 

Seraphima controlled her face. Her tears welled anew. They were now from the pulsing of evidence in her cut nipples, that she had been turned on by her tits being sliced, and from her continuing pain as her cuts bled and the blood soaked into the material around the long holes the whips had torn in her demeaningly demurely chaste dress.

 

When the whips had sliced them open, Seraphima’s poor nipples had still been inspired and aflame with her love for Willy.

 

Realisation why Willy had come-on so passionately in their kissing and cuddling in his car, now tolled on Seraphima. Yet, though she now knew Willy had betrayed her, and why: she had forgiven him.

 

The cameras lingered on her cuts, and on the blood flowing from her split nipples, and the shame on her face, from the disgrace of being punished for being ravished by a boy, in an innocent and entirely natural kiss and cuddle in the dark of a park.

 

Then slowly, from the shadows Willy appeared.

 

Forgetting his treachery, Seraphima’s lovely deeply sexual contralto, called: “Oh god Willy. Help me! Oh please help me! Make them let me go! Help me!! Oh please help me Willy!!”

 

Behind Seraphima’s back, Abbess Mercy nodded, and Willy came close to the glorious Seraphima, who even managed a tearful smile for him, followed by a flood of tears and soulful sobs.

 

Through her tears, Seraphima was vaguely aware that Willy had some kind of ointment in the palm of his right hand, and she once more tried to smile among her tears and her dreadful pain. He had come to sooth her agony. He was sorry for betraying her. He wanted her forgiveness. He had brought ointment to sooth her pulsating pain.

 

Looking tearfully at her hero saviour, as she now saw her Willy, Seraphima did not flinch as he brought the balm in his palm up to the left one of her two split nipples.

 

But how she bucked and hollered with agony, twisting in her bonds, after he had smeared the white-yellow ointment into the savage split in that nipple. Too she fought not to have him caress the residue of that liquid into the deep split in her right nipple; but she could only swing in her bonds and torture her wrists if she twisted away so.

 

As Willy rubbed the supposed balm into Seraphima’s majestically proud nipples, her moans of pain from the sting, echoed through the hall. The ointment she had longed for to ease her pain, was in fact the proceeds of Willy’s love for the beautiful Seraphima.

 

The balm to calm Seraphima’s suffering, was in fact Willy’s semen. Whilst watching Seraphima taking the whipping, he had masturbated his excited cock till he ejaculated. At Abbess Mercy’s express instruction, Willy had then rubbed his fresh semen into Seraphima’s split-open nipples.

 

Still crying and sobbing in pain enhanced by the stinging semen, Seraphima was now untied, and led, blindfolded, into one of the huge greenhouses in which the nunnery grew its exotic fruits for the international market.

 

There, still in her dress, still bleeding from her slit-open nipples, she was sat on the floor.

 

In the imagery of the filmmakers, all these events were taking place in an African convent in historic times of the missionaries, and Seraphima now in the jungle, in a supposed clearing, outside the convent walls.

 

The ‘clearing’ heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death. The jabbering of monkeys and the call of exotic birds. All manner of sounds inappropriate to England filled the air, as the blindfolded Seraphima felt her big toes being tied, individually, either together or to either side of her, to something else at her sides. Which of these, she could not decide in the dark of her covered lovely lanterns.

 

Glad of the secrecy her blindfold seemed to grant her, Seraphima’s mind whirled girl as she tried to fathom the gain she had from the pain and humiliation she had just endured.

 

Why was her body so aroused? She had lost the boy to whom she hoped to have become espoused, but her punishment in consequence of allowing him to caress her, had exposed a new source, a frightening cause for her body’s applause.

 

The pain of Seraphima’s stripes stung like hades. Her nipples, cut open as they were, throbbed with astonishing agony, and yet danced the joy of being sexual toys tortured to turn-on masturbating boys, who would long to spunk in her body, and would see the whips as their penises, delivering the love they could only spatter on their bedroom floors, for a girl on DVD they could only enjoy but never enter, as much as they adored her.

 

Seraphima’s slim pretty wrists were now being tied behind her, where she sat on the hard soil of the hothouse floor, her legs, drawn up to her whip striped breasts, giving erotic shape to the grey woollen sack dress she wore, with the torn tatters that marked the tracks of her six thwacks from the savage whips, still soaking her seeping blood.

 

The cameras and lights were being prepared. Unseen in the background, the traitorous Willy stared, stirred by seeing the horny honey he had so recently stroked and stoked to fire, striped with the wire lashes’ fury. Some of his copious semen was still damp in his pants from where he had cum from a glance of Seraphima’s nipples being spitefully sliced by the kiss of the unerringly accurate whips, in a twice trice. But such was his enjoyment of seeing her suffer, his cock had still stayed stiff, and he had easily managed to masturbate into his palm, to provide the stinging balm rubbed to singing harm into poor Seraphima’s nipples.

 

Now he watched his helpless love make heaven the floor on which her flawless body sat. Her eyes blindfolded so she could not see, and therefore could not know what they were going to do to her next, and her hands tied hopelessly at her back.

 

At the removing of the blindfold, the cameras moved in on the magical dark-brown heaven of Seraphima’s emotion-stirring eyes.

 

Abbess Mercy started a Latin-language chant suggestive of coming sacrifice, and a coterie of nuns, schoolgirls, and novitiates, joined in her choruses, and answered her “Amens” with an “Amen” of their own.

 

“Quousque tandem abutere, Seraphima, patientia nostra?…..

Res ipsa loquitor……

Probatum est……

Quis separabit?………

Medio tutissimus ibis……”

 

The dirge continued in plainsong monotone, as the clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death recorded and played back, for the noises to give authenticity to the story Seraphima was the star in, despite any of her wishes having even been sought.

 

Seraphima’s eyes went wide when she saw how she was tied, and knew what they were going to do to her.

 

Sister Faith and Sister Love stood with shining sharp axes, with their shoulders as the axis of the flow of their arms when the signal came, to Seraphima’s alarms.

 

Seraphima looked in terror at the tightness with which her big toes were wound round with strong silk rope and tied to the trees either side of her.

 

The trees, strong saplings, some ten feet apart, had been stripped of their branches and leaves, and advantage taken of their youthful willingness to bend without breaking.

 

They had been tied over at their tops and pulled in semi-circles inwards toward where Seraphima sat. Then the tops of these saplings had been tethered down with strong ropes. Each tied down bent over tree, was a stripling compared with the trunk of the chopped-down tree in the middle of them. The trunk the tight ropes to keep the saplings bent were tied to, was a very substantial anchor indeed.

 

The saplings bowed down in worship before Seraphima, as indeed they should.

 

Seraphima’s blindfold had been removed, and eyes now followed the flow of the bonds wound tight round her big toes, and saw that the silk ropes that bound her inescapably, led, one rope each, to the tops of the bent-over supple saplings.

 

Sat immovably petrified with terror, shaking uncontrollably with horror, Seraphima’s lovely mouth, mouthed silently a prayer, she was too stunned to voice out.

 

Her eyes closed, and her head then hung in terrible shame, for just as Willy’s appetite for seeing her suffer was whetted again, a significantly sibilant hiss could be heard. Seraphima’s dreamily delightful delectably delicious piss now trickled, unforgivably wasted, in an effervescently bubbling stream, as she wept in the skirt of her dress on the ground, the tangy tears of terror: the celebratory champagne of absolute fear.

 

“Quousque tandem abutere, Seraphima, patientia nostra?…..

Res ipsa loquitor……

Probatum est……

Quis separabit?………

Medio tutissimus ibis……”

 

 Abbess Mercy was the first to spit into the yard-long grail, a gold goblet filled with holy water, that she now passed to the audience of nuns and students, to spit into with equally lusty abundance.

 

Between the sound of the spitting the chanting continued, till Abbess Mercy had the holy grail back in her beautiful white hands, with their long tenderly gentle, and highly flexible fingers, caressing it, as if it were an erect penis.

 

“Quousque tandem abutere, Seraphima, patientia nostra?…..

Res ipsa loquitor……

Probatum est……

Quis separabit?………

Medio tutissimus ibis……

Amen……”

 

It was done with a nod of the head. Unseen behind Seraphima, Abbess Mercy nodded to Sister Faith and Sister Love, who took their axes back to their shoulder blades with practiced unity, and crashed them down with complete uniformity, to cut the ropes that held the saplings bent in bow.

 

And Seraphima’s hideously pitiful cry of “Mummyeeeeee!!!” screamed in the unscreened ears of the congregation, and shattered the sensitivity of the recording of her torture, as Seraphima was swished and ripped up off the ground by her big toes in a blinding flash, with sensational savagery.

 

As the saplings straightened, the poor girl was pulled from her derriere like a rocket into the air.

 

Seraphima’s beautiful legs were suddenly completely exposed, by her dress being savagely sundered at the skirt from Seraphima being pulled into an upside-down full-stretch horizontal splits.

 

Seraphima’s powerful legs’ majestic strength, proved no match for the pull of the ropes tied to the tops of the saplings that had ripped her into a horizontal splits impossible in nature, with a loud crack that told of her muscles sinews and joints being stretched horrendously painfully.

 

The straightening saplings, pulling Seraphima’s legs asunder, whistled the air with the whip of their trip back to the upright, with the sound of a thousand punishment canes. In milliseconds they flicked back to upright and beyond, with the force of their release from tied-over tension, taking Seraphima’s body to hell as she yelled in terrified torment that her legs would surely be ripped off by the force with which they would be parted.

 

Just as the saplings had gone beyond the upright in their return to their natural state. So too did Seraphima’s body journey, as if launched at the heaven from whence she came, fly beyond the horizontal the ropes on her big toes would eventually hold in her in. And the terrible crack as she reached her zenith, was from her straight legs being torn up, till her toes touched her shoulders momentarily, before the restraining toe-tied ropes stopped her upward motion, and the settling upright of the saplings left her now, swinging arrayed, her wonderful legs completely horizontally splayed.

 

Seraphima’s incredibly beautiful legs were stretched out with such excess of tension, that her lovely muscles were torsioned, totally tighter than steel hawsers.

 

Her upside down body formed a ‘T’ in which her gorgeous legs were the cross-member. Her feet were pulled so hard out that they were a mere continuance of her long legs, and her long legs thus forced into a cornucopia of careering curves that even the highest of high heels could not possibly have formed them into.

 

Her calves were lusciously long, and the calf muscle high and highly tensioned up to toward the back of her knees. And, even though her thighs were fantastically strong, they could not withstand the pull of the parting saplings that had shot her into the air like an arrow from a bow, so that as her beautiful legs were now so stretched into an unmerciful horizontal splits, it was as if she had become ex the arrow and now the totally tortured tensioned bowstring itself.

 

Seraphima’s gorgeous legs were so wide-stretched by her tortured big toes, that her slit was wide opened. And her hymen suddenly savagely snapped. And from between Seraphima’s impossibly beautiful legs, with her ankle length pubic hair coils dangling down at back and front of her, a holy wonder occurred.

 

This unparalleled wonder, Seraphima, was paralleled by the incomparable but compatible: a font of livid scarlet blood, shot up between her supremely beautiful extremely parted legs: the spout of a holy fountain, telling of the loss of her hitherto wholly holy intact virginity, on the cross that her body now in itself formed.

 

Then, in a second instant incident, uncoiling and electing to lightening erection, rising stiffly a full fifteen inches out from the top of her slit, and curving like a whip, was her powerfully painfully pretty rose pink proboscis.

 

Seraphima’s salivating clitoris was thrust hard out of its hiding hood, and, indeed out of her slit altogether. It was now shining in its pulsating dance, thrusting out from within Seraphima’s never trimmed dark-brown pubic curls.

 

This incredible child of the butterflies, had a secret she shared with their delicate wonder. She had a proboscis-clitoris. She had a clitoris that was normally curled and tucked away in its hidey hood, until it uncurled when she was sexually aroused.

 

At first it unrolled and extended to such length and curvature as to cause it to dip into her vagina to sip the sweet nectar from her honeypot. Then, if she got fully excited, it would flick right back on itself, and become a very sensitive and sensationally feminine erect ‘penis’, curving up and out of her, hard and high, in bright pink contrast to Seraphima’s polished ebony skin.

 

Seraphima had a proboscis-clitoris, four inches long and one-quarter inch thick in its flaccid state, and now swollen to fifteen inches by her sexual excitement.

 

Her incredible super-sensitive coiled clitoris had dipped deep down into her honey pot, to sip her secreting sucrose. There it lingered long and luxuriated in the sweet honey. For those long lingering moments, Seraphima was proto-hermaphrodite, and she cried out and sighed with astonished pleasure as her own clitoris pulsed and twitched inside her vagina, having gentle sexual intercourse with her. This goddess created creature was able to have coitus with herself. She was able to shag herself with her clitoris.

 

Seraphima moaned and closed her eyes with the unsurpassable pleasure of being gently loved by her own clitoris: the sweet pulsing of her clitoris’ thrusts, high up inside her vagina, made her want to sing with joy.

 

The sweet sensitivity of its throbbing was such balm for the horrendous agony of having her legs torn out into a straight line splits. Yet was it because her muscles were torn that the pleasure of her self-intercourse was so very high?

 

In all of her eighteen tender years, Seraphima had never masturbated. The one girl who should ever have been allowed to make love to her, had never touched herself to enjoy the fruits of her incredible body.

 

Even in the secrecy of her own bed, Seraphima had never ever once caressed her breasts let alone pinched her own nipples. The terror of being stripped stark naked and given five-hundred lashes with a bullwhip, under the strict rules of the convent, was not needed to ensure Seraphima would not touch her slit.

 

Seraphima had always been a good girl. She knew that her holy divide was a gift from the goddess: a gift that Seraphima must only give for others to enjoy. The nuns teaching her, had convinced her that she, Seraphima herself, had no right to expect pleasure from sex: that it was more holy to sacrifice her body without enjoyment, let alone fulfilment: and that, as well as the five-hundred earthly lashes for masturbating; eternal fire would burn between her legs in hell if ever she even touched her pussy in a naughty way.

 

As Seraphima’s incredibly lovely legs, in a horizontal splits, twitched in her agony, and her ankle tickling pubic hairs, in their fabulous long helical curls, nestled on her bottom, or dangled from her crutch down between her cleavage, Seraphima’s hymen’s blood having fountained out, was left in sufficient residue for her proboscis-clitoris to drink from the fountain’s source, as it was in the process of penetrating her more deeply with its gentle sensitivity, than it had ever been able to do before.

 

Seraphima’s wonderful moans and sighs of the deepest pleasure from the horrible pain of her torn legs, and the dreadful agony of the splitting of her hymen, had turned to uninhibited squeaks, and the heaviest of sighs, from the instant her clitoris had flicked, unfurled, and back flipped into her vagina to shag her.

 

But the pleasure of being fucked by her own clitoris could not last. As her sexual pleasure from her own body shagging itself grew, so it was inevitable, that her clitoris would become even more excited and even more erect. And her clit becoming more erect meant it bending back on itself.

 

“The tearful cry of “No!!…. No!!….” as Seraphima’s clitoris bend back on itself and thus pulled itself out of her eager nectar pot, told the tale that was true. That truth was that, not only had Seraphima never ever masturbated, but she had also, never in her eighteen sweet years, had an orgasm. This walking talking orgasm on long legs, had never had a cum.

 

As Seraphima’s honey and ex-virgin’s blood dripped from the tip of her clitoris after it had dipped into, sipped from, and flipped out of her vagina, to now curve up banana-bent and thrusting like a whippy penis. Her cries of disappointment that her self-shagging had ceased, were those she had echoed throughout her tender years.

 

Whenever Seraphima had had a wet dream, it had caused her proboscis-clitoris to fuck her: it had provoked her body to shag itself. And always this would take her to the very edge of the edge of orgasmic delivery, till the excitement caused her clitoris to swell further, and flick out of her honey pot, leaving her completely frustrated.

 

This, was a situation it was literally in her own pretty hands to redress, save that Seraphima, as a good girl should, would clasp her hands behind her back and pray, until her searing fires of passion faded to embers, aided in their damping by her tears of frustration.

 

Never before had such a delightful mouth uttered such obscenities as Seraphima now shouted in her pain and sexual frustration.

 

It started in the instant that her hymen had snapped, and its loose ends had whipped the insides of her vestal virgin’s vagina walls, with a stunning sting that had rung a ring through her brain, of more pain than even her whip split nipples or the pulling of her legs and feet to form the straight line from which her body now dangled, and thus erected her clitoris in the shock of the pleasure. Seraphima’s mind was denying she was enjoying enduring this, just as her slit was slavering in confirmation of the apposite opposite.

 

With her tangle of pubic curls dandling down to match the darkness of her coiffure ringlets in the impossibility of swirling twirl whirl curls, Seraphima was in agony and ecstasy. The splitting of her nipples with the whips and the pulling out beyond nature wide of her fabulous legs, even if combined, was as nothing in their pain to the sundering of her sacred sheath. And yet, even as her ex-virgin’s blood dripped down profoundly to the thus made holy ground, the sound of her cries above the continuing monotone plainsong dirge, were decidedly one-sidedly supremely sexual.

 

The ripping of her maidenhead had aroused Seraphima to a supervening sexual arousal evidenced by her rock-hard nipples and the slaverings bubbling in her slit, as well as by her clitoris dancing the orgasm tango. She was lost to the world as she hung helplessly in her upside-down splits, enduring the agony of her stretched legs and torn muscles, but knowing her legs’ beauty was only enhanced by the terrible stance in which her tortured body danced.

 

And Seraphima screamed words that nobody could believe she had ever heard let alone learned. And the pain of her predicament grew as too did her arousal and her maniacal shouts of: “Whip me!! Oh fuck whip me!! Oh shit!! Oh god!! Oh you fucking fucking fuck fuckers, whip me!! Whip my legs!! Oh fucking god, whip my fucking legs!!! Oh whip my legs!! That’s it, fucking whip my legs!! Whip my legs!! Oh god whip me till I bleed!! Whip my legs off!! That’s it. That’s it. That’s it!!  Whip my fucking legs off!!!! Flog my fucking legs!! Oh god fucking fuck whip me!!!! Oh god fucking fuck whip my fucking fuck fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking legs!!!!!!””

 

As her mounting orgasm rolled toward its crescendo of crises short of a queendom’s cum, Seraphima swung her head in violent half-turns that played her curly hair springs into horizontal streamers almost as extreme in extent as the stretching of her parted legs.

 

Thus, out-shot droplets of her sweet sweat, ringing around her head in a rainbow reflecting halo, as she fed on her pain for the gain of the orgasm for which it now seemed her whole eighteen tender years had been lived in lead-up to, while she continued to continually swear, obscenely demanding they finish her with whips on her beautiful legs.

 

The torn tatters of Seraphima’s dress had ridden up her, which is to say, in her upside down state, slid down her supreme smoothness, only stopped from covering her face, by the huge obstructions formed by her magnificent down dangling breasts.

 

But, in her struggles to increase her pain, Seraphima’s dress finally fell off her fabulous bosom, and her heavy tits, hauled down toward the ground by god blessed gravity, displayed the flawless unmarked complexion of their deep black undersides, unkissed by the lashes Seraphima now longed for.

 

Now Abbess Mercy knew the sound of rising crisis, and caught the note of Seraphima’s cries.

 

When the note broke that told the Abbess that Seraphima’s cum was inevitable fate, such was the erotic girl’s orgasmic state, and in the moment of Seraphima’s arriving crisis, Abbess Mercy tossed the long holy grail, held firmly in her hands, so that a golden stream of her blessed piss, and the spittle that had joined it, rose up like a gentle whip’s lash, and curved in a parabola, to splash into Seraphima’s wide-open cunt, where, as Abbess Mercy intoned a gracious unction, it stung the tatters of Seraphima’s torn hymen, and killed the poor girls ardour in a chilling, acidically-burning, instant.

 

And finally there was no finality and no finish to furnish Seraphima with the cum she deserved, the cum for which lifelong she had kept her hymen preserved.

 

The holy water had cooled Seraphima’s cum from coming, and now dripped its residue to the ground, where it joined Seraphima’s blood, Seraphima’s sweat, Seraphima’s cunt-juice, and Seraphima’s tears of persisting preponderant prolonged profound sexual frustration …..

[to be continued….]