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Seraphima
(by
Eve Adorer)
Chapter 3 – Jewel
Newlyweds?
In the dark of the
movie-house Seraphima’s appreciative eye was on the
thighs: thighs nigh naked with high hem’s truthful lie.
A hint of lime-green thong
sung its longing song, a hymn on this undoubted her. A hymn of praise, a cause
for gaze between the two expanses of expensively black nylon bestockinged taut fit supremely smooth unblemished thigh.
The girl had caught her eye.
She was crowned auburn, with a tumultuous tumbling torrent of coruscated copper
curls cascading to slender shoulders and beyond to where they must have coiled
golden gorgon at her feet. The eyes were iceberg green and shone like lasers
with her zest, zip, and zoë.
The face was pale: a ghost
but that she blushed so divinely deeply when she spotted Seraphima’s
compelled gaze of admiration.
The stocking tops were
half-down the strong thighs and challenging the grip of the suspender clasps,
who’s stretch ceased just short of slap back snap, as this angel sat with her
boyfriend or husband, with her right hand held by both his hands in his lap.
The visible bare flesh of the upper thighs was near translucent, and
would be showing, were it not for the dark, the delicate blue filigree of the
intricate engineering that makes girl more supreme than mere engineered
machine.
Was it accident that the
angel flashed her pretty left hand to show the rings – engagement, wedding,
eternity: eternally infernally enfolding the finger next her smallest left on
left hand, branding their diamond gold and silver tripartite circles in Seraphima’s gentle heart?
Eyes had met. Laser green
had smiled momentary momentous heaven into dark-brown. But then this angel had
looked down at her held hand with its lovingly manicured impractically long
femininely feline nails, clasped so lovingly by, her husband for sure, for sure
a male.
To significantly signify her
unavailability and to unforgettable but forgivably taunt and tease, the angel
tortured Seraphima by letting her hem ride higher, as
she snuggled closer to her husband and stared fixedly at the screen she was
obviously not really interested in watching.
But Seraphima
sensed the peripheral vision. She sensed the angel was as attracted to being
sexily seductive of another beautiful woman, as she was overwhelmingly
attractive without need of wantonly weaving her magical mesmerism.
The documentary on-screen rolled on. The voice-over implored the high
interest its viewers should be taking in the chicken farmers of the Amazon,
ruining the rainforest for planting Soya: or some such confusion of calamities.
Unravelled and untrammelled,
its truth was fundamental, but Seraphima’s mind was
on a factor far more elemental.
Dare she touch?
Seraphima’s heart pounded, her mouth was dry. Her pink tongue
showed its gorgeous contrast with her constant-kiss-poised negress’ mouth, as she moistened her lips, with her
heart on her sleeve in metaphor and in her throat for sure, for more courage
this girl to adore.
It could be an accident: the
girl’s left hand was only millimetres from her own
long flexible fingers: the dark of the cinema would disguise…..
No! It was crazy!! One just
did not behave like that in decent society!
Yet the soft, transparent,
blue-veined, warm phantom-white hand, with its imprisoning rings for
entanglement, espousal, and epiphany, was so adjacent.
The lover’s kissed. Man
kissed wife. And Seraphima tentatively touched, and
then gently grasped the angel’s lovely hand. And it did not move! It was not
removed! Seraphima was not reproved!!
Seraphima just could not believe what she, Seraphima
herself, had just done. She was holding the hand of the erotic exotic autumnal
auburn angel. She could feel the rings three, and the
affirmative answering squeeze as she gently pressed her fingers around her
erogenous prize.
Letting out a shocked and
surprised gasp, Seraphima let go her treasure as the
girl turned to her, post her husband’s kiss, to be sure Seraphima
was alright. And the look of sweet gentle love that the auburn angel conveyed
with her crystal green eyes in all her natural nature, bowled Seraphima heels-over-head clean over in love.
The angel’s thighs were now
completely bare of a skirt so rare that to call it even a micro would be to maximise exaggeration of its size.
In answer to the angel’s
look of concern, there was, to the onlooker, the undoubted sight of the
gorgeous negress looking
down at the exposed white smooth taut bare flesh above the angel’s stocking tops.
“Are you okay?” the sweet
angel whispered, with a face adorned with fecklessly dancing freckles, and
glowing with love.
As she lifted the chair-arm
that divided the seats adorned by Seraphima and
herself, her handsome husband looked on, apparently sharing the concern that Seraphima seemed to have been choking.
Seraphima treasured the sweet zephyrs of the angel’s breath as
she squeezed back a reassuring smile, and noticed the angel leaving her hand
free to be held once more, even as she, the angel, turned to pay suspiciously
close attention to her husband’s kisses, touching his face with her right hand,
to keep his attention upon her.
As sure as Seraphima could be that the husband’s attention was
distracted, Seraphima touched the angel’s bare thigh
flesh. There was no flinch. The angel put her free hand on Seraphima’s;
far from to discourage.
As Seraphima
stroked the smooth hot flesh of the angel’s upper thigh, encumbered by the
suspender clasp from the full caress she longed to employ and enjoy, she too
pretended to watch the documentary on the screen.
The flickering picture now
showed a farmer scattering Soya to feed her hens.
Seraphima’s caress burnished the angel’s burning bare flesh
under its stretched suspender, and the film showing a farmer scattering Soya to
feed her hens, was accompanied by an interjection from the sporadic commentary.
Returning again with its
bucolic English voiceover, as Seraphima caressed the
smooth thigh, it affirmed, presumably in reference to the Soya and one of the
greedy gobbling hens shown eating it:
“See there now: you don’t
have to ask if she likes it! ….”
………………
Suddenly, the angel touched Seraphima’s loving hand with obvious gentle urgency. Seraphima reluctantly withdrew. Without turning a curl, let
alone her face toward Seraphima, the copper coiffured angel, clear from her wifely clinch, began to
scratch about in her handbag, on her lap, soon finding her sought for
handkerchief despite the gloom of the cinema room.
The boring movie continued.
Moments later, Seraphima next now felt the touch of
the angel’s fingers on her hand, and something within them that was too rigid
to be the lace edge of a tiny kerchief.
The angel put her fluttering
fingers under Seraphima’s and left something on Seraphima’s seat. Seraphima saw
its glow, and grasped it in know. Was it carte blanche? As she surreptitiously
placed the prize in the elastic of her own thong, Seraphima’s
heart pounded and her breath heaved her heavy breasts to high heaven, Seraphima was so deeply moved.
………………
Seraphima had never got used to the noise, the dirt, and the
heat.
“Size of the tits on yer lass, you’d be a good milker foras to give the other girls their snap – their feed, yer know. We can bring it on fer yer. It ‘urts like ‘ell, I’ll
tell thee mind, but we pays the tit-girls double what you’ll get”, the
northern-English lassie was sweet and gentle beneath the gruff bluff and rough
language.
Seraphima hung her head, embarrassed.
“Okay luv.
I’ll tek that as a ‘no’. We’ll fit yer in wi’ somat
else, but yer mon
gonna hafter get that hair
cut afore yer much older, more’s
the fuckin’ pity, cos it’s
damned gorgeous too… Wish mine ‘ud curl like that….
But, if it did, us ‘ud never get our ‘elmets on would us?”, she tried to
joke and lighten Seraphima’s obvious nervousness.
“Strip thy sen off then lassie, and lets give
you the old medico once-over eh? Don’t be shy luv.
We’re all of us lasses together ‘ere”, the gentle rough diamond coaxed the shy Seraphima.
Seraphima stripped out of her microskirt,
six-inch-heeled mules, tee-shirt, and will o’ the wisp-sized thong.
As Seraphima’s
undressing progressed, the girl interviewing her, had her back turned, and now
did a one-eighty before exclaiming astounded and astonished: “Oh my god! Oh my fuckin’ god! That is so…. so fuckin’
beautiful! Oh jease, it’s down to your fuckin’ feet! Oh my god! That’s just incredible. You’re a
honey, and what a fuckin’ wonder
you got hidden in yer knickers!”
“Look!” the girl looked
around, as if to ensure there was nobody else in the room, even though she
already knew that there wasn’t.
“Look! Health and safety
rules ses you mon gotta get them pubes shaved
off, but I ain’t gonna say nothin’ long as you keep them hid in your knicks. Okay sweetheart?”
As she out-graced gazelle to
pick up her uniform, Seraphima’s impossibly curled
devil-dark-brown pubic hair, swinging seductively slowly between her lovely
legs, brushed the thus blessed floor between her flawless feet.
“Thank you”, she sang
sincere contralto, over her slender right shoulder to the young northern woman.
“Yer
won’t thank me none when yer down there lass”, the
northern girl mused, sympathetically.
“Yer
sound posh, like you was a convent girl or summat”,
she speculated.
“What’d yer
do: get discovered ‘avin it off wi’ a lad?”
“Na. Don’t tell us. But listen on lassie.
Some of the ‘arder chicks down there don’t hold back
none. When they feels like ‘avin
a feel, they’ll ‘old yer down and tek
what they want, wiv no questions asked….. if you get my meanin’. A girl as
gorgeous as you is and with that fantastic tail dangling from yer mons….. Well, you’d just best
watch out they don’t jump you, that’s all”, the interviewer warned.
Seraphima now stood dressed ready. She wore only a pair of
schoolgirl style knickers, and a strong sports-bra to keep her heavy breasts in
check. She had put her own mules back on her feet. On her head was a white
reinforced plastic helmet, with a forward-facing battery-powered flashlight lamp
mounted on it front centre.
The totally impractical
pristine white of Seraphima’s bra and knickers glowed
in sparkling contrast to the incontestable beauty of Seraphima’s
shining Nubian black.
The bra was filled almost
beyond its straining capacity by her capacious bosom, and fought not to let her
breasts escape and escapade renegade on her chest.
Her knickers were pulchritudinously pouched out where she concealed the coils
of her pubic hair, as well as by the provocatively profound locus found, that
her pubic hair grew around.
“Yer
goes ‘ome dirty, but yer
comes to work clean. That’s company policy mind”, the northern girl, Seraphima’s supervisor, parroted from the memorised instructions she gave the new starters by the
dozen a day it seemed, such was the turnover these days in this industry.
“We ‘ave no showers ‘ere, so yer goes
‘ome in yer muck. They’ll not tek yer on the ponygirl coaches nor
in the rickshaws, so yer’d best get used to walking
the streets in yer dirty knickers, and yer’d best live nearby if’n you
don’t want to walk or cycle too far when yer
knackered at t’end of the shift”.
“When I says
you come to work clean, that means you and your clothes. You only gets issued the one bra and the one pair of knicks per year, so you gotta
wash ‘em to sparklin’ every
time yer day’s done, cos yer gets fined a week’s pay if yer
comes to work in dirty keks.”
“The shifts is twelve hours wiv no breaks. If’n yer get thirsty or ‘ungry, yer can get a suck of milk out of one of the tit-girls to
keep yer goin’.
If yer
need a pee or a crap, yer takes yer
knickers down and does it where yer can. But you lose
an hour’s pay each time.
“Yer
tool, is that there shovel. Lose it luv, and yer jobs gone and so are you. And yer
don’t get paid none neither, cos yer
wages owed is taken to pay for its replacement.”
“Yer
job is to shovel the mined stuff onto the conveyor. You use the shovel for the
smaller bits, you load the big lumps wid those pretty
hands of yorn”.
“The conveyor’s a moving
belt that never stops, so neiver do you, ‘less yer wantin’ pay
deducted, that is”.
“Pay is one-dollar an hour, tek it or leave it. It’s the same
wage they was payin’ the girls back in the 1890s, and
the management says if it did for them then, it’ll do for the likes of you
now.”
“But there’s a bonus scheme.
For you shovelers, whoever clears the most tonnage in
a shift, gets an extra dollar. But watch out for the catfights. Some of the
other girls ‘ll try and do
you ‘arm if they think you’s getting’ ahead of ‘em see.”
“You woks 365 days a year,
lessen it’s a leap-year, when you woks 366. Any questions?”
Seraphima listened astounded. She’d known the life of a girlminer was tough and poorly paid, but not that it was as
harsh as this.
“Yer’d
best get goin’ luv. The
shift starts at six. You gets off at six this evenin’. Just follow the other girls into the elevator
cage, and, once you’ve walked the mile to the coalface down below, you’ll soon
pick up on what yer gotta
do …..” the northern girl concluded.
“Eh, and tek them off yer
feet!” she called, after noticing Seraphima’s sexy
mules, “Yer goes down there barefoot or not at all.
We can’t risk shoes as might cause a spark to explode any damp – that’s what
you’d call ‘gas’ I reckon – down there. So tek ‘em off luv, there’s a good girl”,
she added as a departing instruction.
As Seraphima
now walked barefoot to the door, to join the hundreds of other girls heading
into
“My god but yer a beautiful mover sweetheart!” her supervisor sighed.
………………
Shear need for survival
drove Seraphima through the twelve hours of
unrelenting hell in the mine. Her beautiful body ached in every delicious
curve, curve, and curve. Till her soft skin hardened over time, her hands and
feet blistered and bled.
Expelled the convent after
the disobedience that had led to her ritual deflowering, Seraphima
had been forced to take up the only employment available to girls in her day:
that is girls who did not want to walk the streets as a hooker. She was forced
into the girl-made hell of a coalmine.
Her mind was numb with the
screams of the drills hewing the coal just ahead of where she worked, girlhandling the fallen lumps and chunks onto the greedy
conveyor that took it aloft. Her delectable perspiration blanketed her so that
coal dust caked her from her head to her pretty toes. She could scream and
holler out loud all she wished, for no-one could possibly hear her above the
endless din. Instead, she screamed and hollered in her head.
Her only succour
came from the tit-girls. The rumble of the falling coal hewn
by the drills and pickaxes. The smack of the sledge hammers that split
the larger chunks into girlhandleable lumps. The whir
of the cycles peddled by the long strong legs of the girls paid to drive the
conveyor belt. The flickering lights when the girls peddling the dynamos grew
tired. The cursing of the girls hewing the coalface, when the dynamo girls
slowed and their drill power thus faded. The scrape of her
shovel among the other half-dozen girls feeding the voracious belt. The perspiration that rivuletted down her
body. The showers of coal dust that fell from the roof above her. The
rattle of falling roof-coal chunks hitting her helmet. The
pain of the chunks that hit her bare shoulders. Her aches and pains from
the weight of the coal she must lift to put on the conveyor. The strain on her
legs as she squatted, all erotically powerful haunches, to lift another heavy
chunk, embracing it in her loving arms, pressing it to her fit flat belly,
hugging it to her divine breasts, caressing it with her touchingly tender
hands.
The coal dust filled
atmosphere that the light of her lamp could hardly penetrate, but rather
reflected the beam back at her. The grunts and curses of the
girls swinging their pickaxes into the coalface. The coal dust filled
atmosphere she must breath. Her eyes
stinging with dust. Her ears ringing with cacophony.
Her nostrils blocked with dust. Her mouth eating dust.
God how she longed for one of the tit-girls to come around again, and how
eagerly she took the comfort of suckling on the proffered nipple, first licking
off the coal dust that caked it to expose its smeared exquisite pink, and then
drawing the warm white nectar into her hungry and thirsty mouth with her
constant-kiss poised Nubian negress’ lips. This was
her only relief in a never ceasing twelve unrelenting hours in this girl-made
hell on earth: the hell on earth of the coalmine.
………………
Seraphima was at least fortunate in her digs – the rooming
house she shared with six other girlminers. The
lovely young women there would let the exhausted Seraphima
fall into the shower and then her bed, washing her knickers and bra back
sparkling white again for her, ready for the next day’s twelve-hour shift.
In exchange, Seraphima contributed to the household, her new-found
skills at preparing inexpensive vegetarian meals, and the ability to make the
very little money the seven girls had, even when pooled, stretch to healthy
food and the occasional treat, such as a chocolate bar to divide between them.
She also did all the housework in the apartment when she was not down the mine.
At the expense of hardening
the skin of her bare feet, and the palms of her dainty hands, the physical
burden of shovelling coal for twelve-hours a day for
the past six months had honed Seraphima’s lovely negress body to an even higher
peak of extremely shapely perfection.
Her one leisure pleasure was
the nearby cinema. Lovely as her companions in the rooming house were, Seraphima liked to get away and have some time in her own
company. Movies took her into a dream-world for two blissful hours, before a
night’s sleep before she must return to the hell that was hers: the hell that
is mines.
………………
A week had passed since the
girl with the cascading hurly burly abandon of twirling swirling rusty-red
ankle length hair, laser-green eyes, and soft bright-pink lips on her
ghost-pale freckle speckled face, had surreptitiously passed Seraphima her business card, with the obvious intended
invitation for Seraphima to call.
Ever
since, Seraphima had been too frightened to phone. The auburn-haired wonder was self-evidently from the
monied classes. Unless she could afford the bribes,
no girl could find a job these days, so the sunrise haired wonder must be of
‘independent means’, or living off her fabulously lucky husband’s earnings.
That very fact put Seraphima at an overwhelming
disadvantage.
Love supposedly knew no
boundaries. But Seraphima knew that that was just a
saying. The auburn angel had had her in transports of love and, if she was
honest, lust.
Seraphima had wanted Teasetta at
first sight. ‘Professor Teasetta Loveschild
BA MA MBA PhD LLD – Faculty of Jurisprudence –
………………
Weary, and bleary-eyed,
barefoot and caked with dirt, wearing only her filthy bra and sweat-soaked
knickers, so black with coal dust body and clothes, that she looked as if she
were naked, Seraphima trudged the streets back from
the mine to her home, taking as last, her regular shortcut across the public
playing fields for the offspring of the rich.
………………
The screams were musical.
They were not of pain, nor of fear. They were plaintive plainly of no more than
mild protest. It was formulaic protest. It was protest that the schoolgirl was
conditioned by her upbringing to make. But it was protest that she was denying
the sincerity of, by showing no more than token resistance, in pushing her hem
back down, after the older girl had already put her hand up her skirt to feel
her intimacy through her knickers.
The two frolicking girls
wore the same school uniform. The pretty little negress with her hair in ribboned
tails fought the hand and arm off, but screamed again, when the older girl,
clearly predictably and completely preventably,
danced around behind her, and took hold of her breasts through her contour
caressing white blouse.
It was just explorative loveplay. The screams of the little negress doll, had attracted more girls whom her face
mouth figure legs thighs and other charms had bewitched during the day in class
at school. The spellbinding little negress
knew that they were lining up to have a feel of her in their turn, but made no
attempt to run away.
As Seraphima
drew near, and thus became the cause of its ceasing, the playful pleasing
teasing and screams of excited pseudo-protest, halted.
Playing the innocents, the girls now stood around the garden-hut in
which the little negress angel would soon be
willingly unwillingly dragged, stripped naked, and intimately kissed and
stroked, just as she had been last evening and the one before, and the one
before, and before that.
As the wonderful Seraphima drew near, the little negress looked up, her eyes aglow with veracity,
vitality, and vivid vivacity, and simply said, shyly: “Hi”.
Seraphima smiled at the gorgeous teenager. Then, as she, Seraphima, graced past, among eyes drinking to intoxication
on her swaying rear, she heard the girls talk and giggle among themselves.
“Isn’t she just so gorgeous?!”
came the unmistakeable voice of the former protesting
screamer.
“Oh for god’s sake, Hinanamia” came an instant snobbish response, “She’s a
bloody girlminer! One should have some standards!
Trouble with you Hinanamia, is that you’d chase after anything in knickers!”
The swingeing
stinging hurt of this became the last words Seraphima
overheard on her weary walk home after another twelve hours deep in the bowels
of the earth.
………………
As she lithed
into her lodgings, and onto the old newspaper scattered on the floor between
the entrance door and the shower, to catch the filth all the girlminers came home covered in, the forgivably mischievous
voice of a fellow-lodger called Seraphima from the
kitchen:
“Hey Seraph’ you had a phone
call from a Teasetta Loveschild?
She said to call her right away, and no excuses! Girl, did she sound sexy, and
like wow! How did you meet such a honeybun?….. No. Don’t tell me: as if you would! You are the
secretive one aren’t you!?” the loving mid-distance voice teased.
……………….
Later that evening….
“Seraphima?”
came the velvet-sugar momentarily querulous voice at
the end of the phone line: the voice of Teasetta Loveschild.
“We met in the Bijou Movie
House”, Seraphima reminded shyly.
“Oh god! Oh how lovely! I’ve been longing for you to call.
Sorry but of course I didn’t know your name. ‘Seraphima’,
that’s so sweet I could and should have guessed it. The name is so apt”, Teasetta enthused with disarming and wholly genuine charm.
“Seraphima, I’m just dying to see you again.
I’ve got tickets for the premier of ‘The Hothouse of the Eastern Sun’, you
know, with Maria Menonti and Yvette Xeneta, ‘featuring their first ever screen kiss’ as all the
cheap newspapers put it. It’s at the Bijou this coming Friday at 8.00 sharp.
There’ll be another girl with us, one of my young students, Aranga
Bernisia? She’s really sweet, you’ll just love her.
She’s got no place to sleep at the moment, so John and I are letting her bunk
up at our home… The seats are numbered, so you’ll be in the row just behind Aranga and me. I hope you don’t mind, they were the only
seats left. But we can chat in the bar afterwards: free cheese and vino there, don’t you know. I’m dying to get to know you, you have such a lovely face and such gentle hands. See
you in the cinema itself on the night. My chauffeuse
will drop the ticket at that darling little home you share with the other girlminers. I do think you are so brave working down a
mine. I could never ever do that. Anyway, must rush poppet, John is sat with
our ponygirls chomping at their bits. Got to go to another boring sales night at his out-of-town studio.
You know the kind of thing. I’m just there for my high heels and short skirt,
flashing my legs to please: quite the token little wifey
among all those rich bitches that make up the art-buying world these days. But
angel, do be there. The time is on the ticket. Back row corner in the balcony
for you my darling girl. I’m longing to get to know you… See you in the Bijou
prompt at eight Friday. Please forgive, got to go else
John’ll murder me. And me a
part time judge too, what a sensation that would be when it got into the
newspapers eh! Kiss kiss sweetheart. Please, please,
please, do come. Love your gentle hands angel. Bye…..”
The voice alone had Seraphima enraptured. It was warmer than a kitten in a mink
coat, with a hint of the same lovely loving mischievousness. With the monologue
duologue concluded, and Teasetta having downed at her
end, even the irritating buzz in the earpiece of the phone handset sounded like
a serenade to Seraphima.
“Our Seraphs in love”, came the gently teasing voice from the flatmate
who had given her Teasetta’s message: the gentle
voice being followed by a sisterly loving kiss on Seraphima’s
forehead, as she took the handset from the poleaxed Seraphima’s long slim fingers.
“Hey
Seraph! Remember me?”, the same
girl teased the stunned Seraphima moments later, and
then lovingly giggled as she handed Seraphima a
handkerchief for Seraphima to dry her sweet tears, as
she clasped her sobbing body in a sisterly comforting hug.
……………….
The scarlet mini-dress with
its breasts and bottom contours caressing tightness,
was Seraphima’s best. She had fallen in love with it
at ‘La Prix’ on the
It was a contest between
this bright red dress and her bright yellow thong, as to which formed the
sexiest contrast with the glorious Nubian black of Seraphima’s
gorgeous complexion: a contest in which there could only be, and were only, two
equal winners.
Seraphima had been forced to trim her hair to boyish curls.
Her pretty little ears were thus revealed to joyous applause. It was
impractical to wear long hair in the mine, and more practical to wash
close-cropped curls. Besides she had to wear a hard hat all day at work. Her
other hirsute wonder remained though.
She thought the silly little
pillbox hat and the hand gloves, both of which matched her panties, a little
over-the top, till her loving flatmates persuaded her
otherwise.
On her lovely face, she wore
only her wholly holy natural beauty and her constant-kiss lips. She was
bare-legged, as she could afford neither tights nor stockings. On her feet she
wore the mules she had tried to keep on, when at the mine on her first day.
“How do I look?” she asked
shyly.
“Heavenly”, came the only possible and true answer.
……………….
When Seraphima
handed in her ticket at the entrance kiosk at the Bijou movie house, the new girl
behind the counter removed the stub, and stared at her in wide-eyed wonder, as
she returned the ticket itself to Seraphima.
“Please ’scuse
me askin’ miss, but you are ‘er
aren’t you?” the stunned youngster whispered evidently hesitantly, dry mouthed.
“I mean, its
got ‘Sara Pimma’ or somatt
like that written in on this stub, but you gotta be
Yvette Xeneta ain’t you: ‘er what’s in the film tonight?”
Not waiting for an answer,
sure she had the starlet’s personal company, the part-time earning schoolgirl
leaned conspiratorially forward: “‘Ere woz you really kissin’ Maria Menonti for real, like they ses
on the telly? …….She’s just so gorgeous!! …..”
The innocent closed her eyes
and seemed to dream she was kissing Maria Menonti
herself. Then, realising what she had just said, and
wanting not to be hurtful, and to cover her faux pas, she added: “But you’s gorgeous too Miss Xeneta………
gorgeouser if anyfink…!”
Seraphima smiled love as she slunk past, and headed for her
upstairs back row.
The usherette showed Seraphima to her seat in a cinema already with its lights
lowered. The seats were staggered and banked, so that Seraphima
sat on her divided-heaven behind, between, and above Teasetta,
whose mesmerising tousled tangle of copiously twirled
copper tresses were unmistakeable. The blonde girl
next to her, on Teasetta’s right, wore as far as Seraphima could judge, as her eyes got used to the gloaming
gloom, motorcycle leathers. This must be Aranga, the
student, Seraphima concluded.
Neither girl acknowledged Seraphima’s presence. That hurt Seraphima,
but she put it down to concentration on the ‘modern-day classic movie’ that was
about to start.
As the titles went up on the
screen, Seraphima looked down at the delectable Teasetta. Teasetta was a study in
lime-green, a colour that paid honour
to the inestimable glory of her old-gold hair.
Seraphima could not see Teasetta’s
feet, but the tension of her calves and thighs told that she was wearing very
high heels, perhaps even twelve-inches. Teasetta’s
lime-green stockings had tight tops only just above the angel’s knees, and she
wore extra-long suspenders that centrally caressed along supremely white,
supremely smooth, supremely shapely, supremely strong, extremely near naked
thighs.
A very outré oestrogen musk was a
decided olfactory factor, strongly suggesting that Teasetta
wore no panties, and was heavily on heat, enduring her monthly bleed.
Teasetta’s skirt was just a tiny pelmet. It was so short it was
nearly non-existent, and, quite evidently, she must be blessing the seat she
adorned with the supreme honour of her completely
bare bottom, as well as seeps of her weeping holy blood.
Teasetta’s blouse was buttoned up to her neck, more tightly
that a virgin maiden’s. Her pretty hands were by her side, and, Seraphima could clearly see, she had Aranga’s
rough suntanned left hand, with its chewed and dirty fingernails, firmly
planted on her right thigh, under the elongated suspender, lewdly caressing her
nude nakedness.
At the arrival of stunning negress, Yvette Xeneta, holding the hand of the lovely Italian starlet
Maria Menonti on screen, the all-girl audience
cheered and whooped. Every eye was on the onscreen action it now seemed: every
eye included the two laser-green orbs of the astounding Teasetta,
but not those of Aranga or Seraphima.
Seraphima’s eyes were transfixed at what she could look down and
see from the spaced seats of the back row, as Aranga
caressed Teasetta’s beautiful bare thigh endlessly,
or at least till she was sure she could attend to the buttons.
Although she had fought girlfully to resist it, the overwhelming oestrogen aroma from Teasetta’s
heat, and the sight of the lovely angel being girlhandled
by the rough Aranga had caused a darker yellow to
appear in Seraphima’s panties, as she wept her crème-Français.
She watched now, with the
fascination of horror, as in the dusk of the cinema, Aranga
slowly but surely unbuttoned Teasetta’s blouse from
her tiny waist, up to her long slim neck, and then eased it aside to openly
publicly expose the full glory of Teasetta’s naked
breasts.
The breasts were exquisite.
They were not large: indeed no more than a single
handful each. They were not even pendulous, being firm enough to be prominent
and defy the gentle persuasions of gravity. Of a white that gave the south pole a dirty name, they were tipped by coral pink
nipples, shaped, for all the world, like perfect strawberries.
Teasetta showed no sign of hurt, as Aranga
purposely flicked her nipples, but went clearly rigid as Aranga
leaned across, and then sucked and bit her left nipple till it bled, before
licking the blood eagerly, and purposely so that Seraphima would have a perfect view.
The reaction in Teasetta’s nipples was astounding. Peeked, they swelled
peaked, and poked out painfully aroused, a rigid inch from her beautiful little
breasts.
Equally astounding was the
reaction in Seraphima’s honeypot,
as her proboscis clitoris uncurled and tried to bend up and out of her, but was
treacherously and thus torturously betrayed from doing so, by the tightness of
her tiny yellow thong.
Some would call it a ‘drink
on a stick’, others an iced-lolly. The iced-lolly seemed to have been produced from nowhere. It was
childish in its space-rocket shape. It looked as if it must be a hideously
sweet lime in flavour.
Clearly fresh from a freezer
and some kind of thermos conveyance secreted at Teasetta’s
feet, when Aranga touched it there, it stuck to and
burned Teasetta’s tortured and bitten extremely
excited left nipple, and the poor girl audibly gasped.
But her gasp was but one of six-hundred, as at long last, on the
screen, Yvette Xeneta kissed Maria Menonti. And there were as many sighs as sobs as Xenata got down on one knee to ask for Menonti’s
hand in marriage.
With so short a skirt it was
surely impossible for Teasetta’s thighs to become more bare, but somehow the laws of nature were defied, as Aranga eased her forward in the seat.
As Aranga
touched the solidly hard frozen iced-lolly on the
lips of Teasetta’s cunt and
Teasetta leapt in reflex, Seraphima
gasped as loudly as Teasetta herself cried out with
pain and joy, only for the joint cry of total astonishment to be drowned by the
loud sobs of girls crying as Yvette Xeneta and Maria Menonti on screen, were pronounced girl and wife by the
tribal priestess.
The burning bitter cold of
the iced-lolly touched upon Teasetta’s
touchingly touchy organ had made her near leap from the seat, and heads to
turn, and see the copper-tressed wonder in distress
to ponder.
When those that turned
disturbed to look upon the distinctly disturbing Teasetta,
as the cause of disturbance, saw she was stripped and exposed, and that her
left nipple bled, they smiled at this evidence that love was running its
course, no matter how coarse, and that there was no cause for the alarm clause
to pause their applause.
Teasetta’s gasps and squeaks of pain and
pleasure, as Aranga nextly
and now slowly slid the cruelly cold comestible into, to challenge the capacity
of her cunt, were accompanied by Teasetta’s
shudders and headshakes that even for love’s sake Teasetta
could submit to being so abused.
And yet the sighs were highs
in the crescendo of the music of time telling the tale that the temptress’
allure begs a cure for the desires she inspires in we lesser mortals, and to
abuse her so, is to ennoble her all the more, for it shows the poverty of our
mere mortality that she tempts us to torture, and that that torture only
enhances her intrinsic entrapping entrancing enchantment the more.
The burning cold in the
humid heat of Teasetta’s holy hole as the ice-cold
sweetmeat was inexpertly slid silently slowly inexorably into her shuddering
sheath, climaxed her to cries crisis from the cruelty of it climactic climatic
chill.
She could have fought it
off, yet she surrendered to its cruel coldness knowing it showed the heat of
love. The bitter ice filled her cunt and she
shuddered as her sheath was frozen as if she were frigid, a fact so far from
truth as to comprise calumny.
This angel was girl in every
atom’s atom of her being. She was hot to have the cold spear rape her. She knew
her allure was only enhanced by the humiliation of being so publicly ravished.
She was showing what she could take for love’s sake, and that to make her
suffer this humiliation, was to raise her above any other girl there that night
or in the world beyond who could not give her incontestable gift such a
challenge so unwillingly wilfully willingly
undertaken.
The iced-lolly
up her to the hilt in her sheath, Teasetta turned her
head to beg that Aranga kiss her as she, Teasetta, came, only for Aranga
to torture her angel all the more, by denying her the balm of a kiss for her
overwhelming charms, in preference to watching the autumn auburn angel gasp and
cry and shudder and judder with the tone of the tons of her openly public cums.
When Aranga
withdrew the iced-lolly’s
stick, the stick alone, and it was clear how rapidly Teasetta’s
womanly heat had melted the lolly: to her everlasting
shame Seraphima orgasmed
too. And she orgasmed again as she smelt the warm
musk of Teasetta’s cunt,
and thought of the joy for Aranga, who was leant with
her head between Teasetta’s glorious legs, drinking
the melted lolly’s juice, mixed with Teasetta’s honey and the salt of her menses, straight from Teasetta’s post orgasm cunt.
And she came again as she
smelled the warm musk of Teasetta’s cunt and a gentle hand touched hers. The hand of a girl in
a tiny pelmet skirt, the hand of an auburn haired goddess, wearing tiny white
panties: hair in tumultuous tumble trailing in a train to her feet.
Seraphima had had a cum for the first
time in her sweet young life. She had felt heaven and earth move, if only a
little less than her very being moved earth and heaven.
As she looked adoration into Teasetta’s
ice-green eyes, Seraphima knew she was irretrievably
in love with Teasetta.
“Sorry I’m too late for the
film darling”, Teasetta breathed and breezed. Aranga has a rotten head cold and couldn’t make it. But at
least you managed to come”, Teasetta’s husky voice
kittened, to the still waking totally exhausted Seraphima,
without the slightest lightest hint of suspicion, let alone irony.
[to
be continued….]
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