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- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
She
Synopsis: Poetic licentiousness?
Spring 1 – Her big toes projecting on the
wafer slim leather sole of the soft kid sandals, are
right-angles-bent tortured penis parallels, bowing to her legs’ inexorable rise
of her nine-inch heels’ sky rocket size.
She is bare legged this day. Other days She
dazes and dazzles in stockings’ ways.
Stocking days She electrifies with her thighs’ rub of static
spark risking nylon, frisking a whisper from her skirt’s church bell, as She
stands, and her legs She switches to advance and retreat in the cause of
comfort: strain in the commuter train withstanding, her heels heeding passion
for fashion notwithstanding.
This day is hot. She is hot to trot.
On hot stocking days, a triangular spot in the darkness of
her tolling skirt amid, is filled with her immaculate lips humid. Her panties
are virgin white and pulled so tight that, unbid, they show the divide in her
pouch inside hid.
Inside, unbidden, the lips show her tightness from never
having been ridden. She is as tight closed as a silenced clam. Her immaculate
smoothness is as if pre-puberty, for She is shaven and smoothed to a state of
such nudity, as to show her vertical Mona Lisa smile with its outer lips
turning in, to hide the sensationally sensitive sensual pinkness that dwells
within.
Today in this heat She is sans
panties replete. And She can feel a curious fly on her
glorious thigh with his tickling feet.
His visit seems assured to be fleeting, but her visitor
leaves an itch behind its retreating.
And then her mouth parts, and her perfect white teeth are
licked by her tasty tongue long, to restrain the strange below feeling, and
stop a cry of keening, as She nearly flips, feeling the fly wander, the tight
crease betweening her virgin lips.
And there is nought She can do on the busy train, than let
the fly crawl away, without refrain from feeling her thoroughly, where touched
has no man nor maid nor She either, for wickedness makes her afraid, for She
knows her duty is to maintain her godly perfection of beauty as maid.
But the fly is not shy and continues to tease as he crawls
on her bare lips. And he itches and pleases as he zigzags along the line were
her cunt lip’s crease is. And then stops as if a kiss to proffer on the spot
where her dingle dangles on offer, now twitching and dancing in its little red
hidey hood, hidden inside her.
And She can nought do to stop the naughty tease as the fly’s
six legs and buzzing wings do as they please, and the tickle of torment finally
causes her honey to flow. And She can no longer bear
to have the fly crawl so, so She eases her legs apart to force its withdrawal.
But the fly, flies up into her salivating snatch, and her
legs, now back together him in her tight Venus flytrap catch: ‘SNAP!’
And She crushes him to instant doom
with her cunt as his tomb. And he drowns in her delicious myrrh, no longer able
to drone or even stir.
And in her imaginative daydream distraction She has not till now noticed the attention, of an older girl
her sexy motions have aroused to attraction.
And She blushes as her legs are
longingly surveyed, and lip service to love paid by lips licked to the moisture
that She herself has just produced in her oyster’s cloister.
And She wakes from her wet-daydream
of something obscene, of which She is incapable in truth for good cause: her
dream of the incessantly insistent fly meeting his fate in her crack, as it
eats him with a voracious snap.
And in the blush and the train’s crowded crush, the older
wiser girl presumes and intends to rush, to advise the young maid of an
ointment made for what She has assumed to be the itch
of thrush.
Spring 2 – How many years now has She been without? Her body shouts of its needs. She fights
with her prayers indeed. She sits with her thighs on display. Monuments to beauty and monumental in their way.
The commuter train takes strain and her crossed leg’s
thighs, rub stocking top on stopping top, blacker than the black of the stocks
that covers the rest of the dreams her legs inspire: the spires of her
incarnation as cathedral and higher.
Oh why do the nuns She would join
number with, send her out this way, her sexy mission, to seduce and persuade
into the Church of the Holy Girl, her fellow maids by improper proposition?
Stockinged thigh on stockinged thigh rubs, and She knows She
must not squeeze them together hard, for She fears the fire in the purse on
which sits at rest, on the rest of her miniscule miniskirt drawn up high at
hem, and which flashed the reflected light white from her tiny tight panties,
before She just now crossed her thighs in holy genuflexion, before another
lovely girl of her own generation.
As if on purpose the train’s rocks and rolls serve only to
serve up her breasts, as porpoises at play and free to have their way, as the
nuns had insisted indeed that today, She tease without brassiere to impede
their way.
Within her blouse and thus to further arouse the girl
opposite with her eye on the wonder of her thighs, and her playfully porpoising
breasts, her nipples are hard and scribble and scribe ‘L’ ‘O’ ‘V’ ‘E’ ‘M’ ‘E’
in the blouse covering her generous chest.
Wanting to know, despite her wanton’s heat, if She could make her day replete, by recruiting the opposite
girl to the Church with her charms, She raises her hand and slender arm, and
bends her fingers back to comb her curls aside, from the deep rich green of her
glowing eyes.
She waits the seeming eons needed for the opposite apposite
girl to travel her legs, to the spicy hot black bands of the taut tight tops of
stockings and the snow white flesh, fresh, above them bare, till the two by two
eyes stare with love, in knowingness of what and which they are both aware.
Then the train brakes of sudden and shakes two chains from
cleaved four forefronts, as bosoms swing in recoil before recall of their
nestling in natural nurture, and two crucifixes out flicked momentarily
transfix.
And two would be Church of the Holy Girl nuns, realise they
have commissioned mission of their fellow, and fall to pretty giggles, knowing
that neither will this day, win a new recruit their way, with their sexy
wiggles.
Spring 3 – Medusa’s curls were never this red,
nor did such sweet scented snakes cover her head. But the powers of seduction
are a common thread.
Natural as nature are these coils, coils no nurture has
spoiled. Twisting and turning in mesmerising whirls, they mark the essence of
this exquisite girl, and set your mind in total turmoil.
Yet She wears this halo, casually at ease cascading to
ground without cease, in torrential twists teasing‘ mercy please’ pleas, as her
angelic face smiles from within their halo, to shatter your heart and your
peace, forever without cease.
As the sunset’s halo tries to match the glow of her glorious
hair, She turns her sweet face from your admiring
stare, and your heart and your cock are all the more forced to stir. Every
millimetre of her total perfection would alone give a male a beyond massive
erection.
And the bridle path ribbons behind your ride, as your ponies
walk from the beach side-by-side, and you watch her breasts’ seismic echo of
her pony’s bounding strides.
As She rides bareback the track,
her reins are her pony’s mane in her pretty hands held slack, and her bare legs
dangle long and wide, astride. Her legs are divided either side her crutch, to
straddle with their stride as such, and you assume that in her bikini thong,
decided, must be that her lips are invitingly divided.
In only a sloppy white tee-shirt and the virgin white bikini
thong, her gold crucifix cross glints in the sun, as you ride from the beach
after hours of watching her reach, and her breasts and her long legs leap, as the
volleyball beach She keeps in play, for you to win some other day, when this
winsome girl will let you hold sway.
And on the rare occasions when She has to retrieve the ball,
and the breeze blows her hair to let you see it all, the sight of the site of
her bare bottom holds you in thrall. Bare foot, She
walks on the sand Egyptian queen, her bikini thong letting her buttocks be full
seen, and you are mesmerised by its seduction, and its wiggle production is
thus made obscene.
And She bends, with her two bare beach ball buns begging to
be slapped till they are as red as the setting sun, and her bend shows the
crutch of her white bikini where, her pouch is vouchsafed from the predatory
penis bare, that longs for to place the full length of its shaft, in the pink
sheath there: there in that place, or the equally pink lips on her lovely face.
As She rises again with the
volleyball retraced, her visage is covered with curls that She must replace,
from hiding the wonder of her freckled face. And you see in her eyes her
vivacious beauty, and you long that her care was not
your bounden duty.
And She giggles as She drops the
ball when using her fingers as her comb. And over her body your eyes freely
roam. But now She is in place to once more serve the
ball. And her fitness and litheness are all that will ensure that you again
lose the tussle despite your supposed superiority of muscle.
And as the ball to ground gives her the next point, She giggles divinely. But then her hand appoints to cover
her pretty lips as She sees you tumble, and the look of her care for you makes
you humble, as She rushes to help you up from the sand, frightened you have
been hurt by the way you land, and her lips you long to kiss as She bends to
lend aid, and her eyes show the gentle care of which She is made.
But you are not hurt, and She turns
once more to golden laughter, for She does not know what your mind is after.
And around her side of the net She once more wiggles,
a girl in her body and her mind and her giggles.
And the wind catches her curls and flies them piratical
flag, and just for the moment her bare feet sand drag, as if in her mind She is suddenly aware, that you are wishing her naked with
your constant stare.
And She turns and attunes her
intelligent gaze upon you in trust. And you look back over your filthy lust,
and your answering smile says She can trust you are
just.
And now her face lights with the delight of your
reassurance, and She wiggles and giggles to return to
the play, and thoroughly defeats you in every way.
And now as her pony trots, She bounces, legs divided, on her
crutch, and you wonder how much her wonderful cunt, with its pink on display,
is being pummelled to lust in that way.
And her feet point to ground giving her bare calves, a
supremacy of shape that a sculptor could only carve, if Michelangelo’s David
was dragged to her yard, and that inadequately endowed manhood put to the
chisel, and replaced with a cunt in its legs’ middle, and the rest of the body
given new shape, in the form of a girl to make earthquake, such as the girl
whose thighs now rise as She strives to make more comfortable her intimacy’s
ride, between her parted thighs, with her heaven’s doors surely open wide.
And for the moment your vision alters this picture, to a
totally different mixture, where She is naked and in terrible pain, as your
crop beats her buttocks again and again, and you pull on the bit in her pretty
mouth, hard on the reins that control her wildness, as you whip her to the
horizon’s witness of her tits frantic frolicking wild swinging wideness. And
the wheels of your spurs run down her bare thighs, and though her long legs are
coping to stride the loping you demand as you savagely ride, you whip her the
more in your fury, for the desire She invokes, as the dildo you have forced up
her cunt her provokes, and her body runs with sweat strain and blood, as you
increase the agony of her pain, by whipping and spurring her again and again,
amid her obedient’s tears’ gentle flood.
And now you think of her convent education ongoing, and you
know of her decision, and that She is going to give up
her place in the sun, to become a
And you know you have thought thoughts about her that you
did not ought to; for this beautiful girl is your loving daughter.
Summer 1 – Just left church: Sunday. Pavement sun shimmer. Her legs wander wonder wand in the distant rise
heat haze glimmer. Her hell-high heels hello erogenous click
clack clatter. Sweet sixteen. Marble white to
marvel at, in black: dress; tailored jacket; veil with hat.
Cool despite her thick woollen dress, jacket, and veiled
cloche hat. The dress hem high. Stockings,
Closer, behind her behind as She walks seductive sway, the
domes of her derriere rise and fall bewitchingly, alternately, as She heavens
her way.
From under her hat conflagrational curls of peerless
priceless assay, essay to tumble to the humbled ground. Her face is of
sweetness profound.
Portray the proverbial picture She
is as pretty as, and trash it, for only a mirror can show what beauty She has.
The eyes devastate: the lips a kiss await, already
proffering their own irresistible offering. Add freckles speckled delicately on
her soft spectral complexion, and a pretty little nose,
and you have the confection that is a girl in all her perfection.
As a man comes her way her eyes avert. She can divert; but She is no flirt. As he turns She
feels his astonishment. While She graces on, his open mouthed stare causes her,
aware of her powers, to lower her head in maidenly blush. And just that is
just, for She is wholly holy whole, with all its
magical power, and her maiden’s ring yet to become a former flower.
Summer 2 – Seventeen. Once more on the crowded
train, the sensual scent of her hair fragrances and flavours the flagrant
admiration of the older man, whose tired eyes follow the flow of her league
legs, longing, knowing now that heaven has earth in thrall, where the one
square millimetre each of her heelless stiletto-toed ballet shoes en-pointe her
tall.
And She turns to squeeze a shy
smile that says: ‘please admire me as a daughter’. A gold neck-chain glistens.
A seat is vacant, he signals with his hand that She should it favour. And her
shy ‘thank you’ with her emerald diamond eyes and pouted lips burn his memory
forever.
She glides over, and slips, with underwear whispering its
minimality. Replete with the suspender clasps that grasp her nylons at sighs’
sides, her cool cotton dress no longer hides the bare flesh of her upper
thighs, as the seat She bides with her hem bell’s rise. And one leg over the
other She slides and nylon on nylon rides, and the sound of the sizzling static
of stocking sliding on stocking’s glide, sensationally sounds crackles, as She
lowers the sweet head that should show her pride instead.
Summer 3 – She is enjoying her eighteenth
birthday treat. Humidity diamonds her humility in a delight of trickling
perspiration as She plays you, her uncle, to defeat.
Beneath her white tennis skirt, her bare thighs shine with
sweet sweat, and flash their shapely strength as She
wins the first set.
For her to play in white tiptoe ballet shoes is almost a
cheat, for the beauty of her legs must lead her opponent to defeat: a defeat
from attraction to the inevitably distraction, of following the flow of her
strong legs in folly, as She flashes their fit shapeliness in the fast fought
rallies.
She giggles in her joy at cutting the baseline with final
ball. And you could spank her for holding you in such thrall. And her sweet
voice joys at her musical call of: “Six love I think
you’ll find!” as She dances on her tiptoes making her leg shape divine. And
love is indeed all that is on your mind, as She is
shied by you looking at her with the lust of all mankind.
And She waits for your serve at the
next set’s start. And you hit the ball long in deliberate dart. And it hits her
full on her breast as you intend, put pretend not, as She
gasps with the blow that will bruise her nipple; and yet crouches again, her
sweet face so trusting and simple.
Your next serve is harder still, and hits her other breast,
so that She twists and falls. And She
has scored neither of these balls, for She knows in her heart that the birthday
treat that was to be
Bravely She rises, her bruised nipples
making her cry, and your next served ball hits hard her bare thigh.
And your next hits her full in her belly, so She doubles
over with lost breath and hurt, and her breathtaking breasts dangle in her
shirt, so you long over the net to dash at the double, and use your racket her
bum spheres to thrash and pummel.
Despite that your intent has become elementary, She rises
and holds her racket at sentry, and your serve is full with the hardest yet
whack, and the ball, as you intend, hits her full in the lap, and hard on her
sweat-made-transparent panties, with a resounding slap!
And She cries with the pain of her
cunt being hit. And She flashes her white thong as her
hem up-flips. And the ball is still lodged in her thighs again, as She appears to roll it with her shapely muscles, and enjoy
it’s feeding her pain.
And you cry out as if it were in the rules of the game:
“JUICE!!” not ‘deuce’ as is the usual name. And She
knows full well what you mean by that refrain. And you want to hit her again
and again.
And you want round the net next to take your chase, and
strip her to her tiny waist, and tie her arms back with her sweaty shirt, so
her tits leap up taunt and flirt, and you whack them hard with your tennis racket,
so her nipples are squeezed through the squares of the of the catgut trellis,
with slaps you impart with increasing relish, as you beat her to perdition with
voluminous bashes, till her tits are meshed with bloody squares from your full
volley slashes.
But instead you hold your racket up to apologise, and glow
with sweet sincerity, as you know in your mind She is
suffering in verity.
And from thence on you whip her in the game She once led love-six: topping it with six-love, six-love
instead. And her giggles are gone and her play has vanished, as from the tennis
court She is vanquished.
All this is over in less than an hour, and you sneak your
avuncular hand on her shining sweaty bare bum, as you prompt her to her shower,
longing that her rape was within your power.
Autumn 1 – She knows. Her eyelashes lowered,
alluring fans fuelling the flames of desire for her. Her alabaster face bedewed
and bejewelled with bewildering freckles, and crowned and around with
surrounding conflagration from incandescent furls of her incendiary curls.
Commuter still. She is in vest
invested twice boldly by her beautiful chest. Her hair cascades carat claret
curls galore to caress the floor flawless in red, to form carpet for her regal
tread.
The emerald lasers of her startling sparkling eyes, tell the intellect of this dove. She is to be engineer
or scientist or professor or doctor: and She is love.
Cavernous cleavage centre of epic domes, with domes on the
domes from the domesticity of mothering teats. Teetering on
tiptoe taut in leg and buttock, fronted with this sweet softness affirmably
firm: a gold chain dandles a crucifix amid the abyss of the essentially sensual
rise, either side the deep valley in which it resides.
Eyes cleave the cleavage. A girl, stood alongside where She
now sits, looks down into the shadowed darkness as her eyes cannot help, at two
wonders that do everything puppying, bar yelp.
The train is too crowded for her to move. The blush on her
face could speak of a prude, or of some stirring in the shaven honeypot on
which She sits nude. Her tits sway heaven’s way,
affirming their firmness and freedom to roam, without the confines of a
brassiere to kennel them in homes.
Disobedient of all bar their own will, their slow swing and
rise and fall as her breaths thrill, and a brief glimpse of her nipples is more
exciting still.
Her nipples could themselves be breasts on a less
well-endowed girl. Thus She is double blessed on her
chest, with a quarter of each breast, given to her nipples’ knurls.
Constantly dancing never at rest, her tits declare their
independence from the rest of her chest, and her nipples press so hard in her vest, that its fabric contorts, as her chest cavorts.
She looks up at the girl looking down to assay,
the wonder of her chest at rest and play. But the sweet look from her innocent
eyes in plea, for the other girl not to mentally undress her, is met by a shock
means for that girl to assess her.
For the train hits a kink in the rail, and the consequent
jerk, causes two other girls’ drinks to unavoidably squirt, and her vest is
soaked in the lemonade cola.
And the wetness helloes full sight of her nipples, huge in
dimension and hard with the wet cold. So She is left
blush incarnate, amid the stares bold, of the whole of the compartment’s
multitude, craning her nipples to behold.
And even her frolicking freckles blush, as She hangs her red
curls shamed by the her slit’s sudden gush, that confirms her a girl, as the
cruelty of the stares She is exposed to, score a palpable hit that her heavenly
face glows to.
Autumn 2 – Leafs’ turn, leaves leafs longing
for comparison less unfavourable to her flaming curls. The tumble of their
majesty befalls the Fall to fall behind in the league
of nature’s wonders. For her hair thunders that this is girl,
and all nine wonders of the world are thus thereby humbled, let alone the mere
deciduous shed, as the leaves parachute pendulum down to carpet in red, where
they long her sweet feet may deign to tread.
Kicky-toed She tiptoes her dainty way, flicking the leaves
that lizard lounge in lay on the floor, to look up her skirt and espy the
mound, flawless, punctuating her panties with pronounced pouch, as She saints
by in dance, with the curves of her calves conspicuous from her being tiptoed
straight lance, in shoes in which a ballerina would dance: shoes giving supreme
sensuality to her stance.
Schoolboys passing glance. They stop. They turn. They stare
astounded and astonished at her. Is She a vixen lost
from her lair? Foxy with fiery curls of red hair, they see her as wolves would
bunny rabbit instead. And their whistles whistle loud and sincere, as She
wonders her wander past the seers She sears, her face aflush with maiden’s
blush, as She is shied by their decided cries of adoration, as they are
transfixed by her buttocks’ ruling role in her sumptuously seducing slow
stroll.
And now She must walk past a window
where the daily event, is a man with his cock in his hand leant, to paying her
honour with his rampant pole, in the only way open to him without access to her
holy holes.
And She is shamed by his blatant masturbation in worship of
her wholly holy beauty, and his adoration, of her face and her body and her beautiful
legs, long lithe and fit in her ballet shoe shod feet, as the wonderful girl,
sexuality replete, lowers her head aside, to try not to see him his foreskin
slide, with savage rapidity, to capture the moment of her passing on her way
home from work, with his daily squirt of semen from his massive orgasmic jerks,
as he stares at her passing, and the wiggles snaking her skirt.
Autumn 3 – The convent school seems so relaxed
these days, unlike when her mummy suffered their ways. And mummy is here again
to witness her daughter on stage.
This is remembrance of a not so distant past, by the ‘She’
of this story when She was just a fourteen-year-old lass:
in educational duty, and even more so in beauty, top of her class.
Solo singing with guitars strumming is the choice She has
made, and the stage is filled with this wonderful maid, as She stands with the
microphone thrusting at lips, that god could only have made to experience the
kiss.
And the microphone’s dildoic shape suggests another
pleasure, in using her mouth at slow leisure, by filling it with a huge display
of manhood at play, and exploring her throat with a vicious display, of how a
girl can be choked to till She swallows his spray.
This is her first song on public display. Going on stage fills
her with dismay. And her arrival there only gives cause, for stunned stares and
rapturous applause.
She wears this night the gift of the girl with holy ring
still tight: a silk mini-dress of pristine white, that shows She
is attending the convent, to lead the innocent life, leading to becoming
another girl’s wife.
On her slender shoulders with their bones delicate, the
straps of the dress are simple not intricate. The garb in itself gives cover
short shrift, consisting essentially of the lightest of shifts,
with a hem so high it displays both thighs. And, as if in a dream, between them
her intimacy can be seen. It is naked as nature before the arrival of puberty,
with the soft down removed to demonstrate her purity.
In white ballet shoes She on top
tiptoe walks, her legs shaped divinely with her young muscles taut. And now She blushes shyly, as the audience’s applause show they
treasure her so highly.
To the front of the stage She
parades a little angel, and sweetly curtsies to a leggy angle, that causes her
lovely breasts to dangle, in a portent of what is to come. And to those longing
to see her innocent cunny and the whole of her pretty bummy, the hem of her
dress, grants complete success.
The microphone on its stand thrusts erect, before this
plus-perfect member of god’s sweet elect. She is to sing a song to please an
audience gathered, to be willingly relieved, of $1,000 dollars, perceived for
the convents reprieve, from the last of a long lasting financial disaster, so
that girls such as She, can continue their education thereafter, and their
beauty’s incarnation can light the joy of all the nations.
Sweetly shy She stands with her
hair tumbling down, a halo of auburn, a curly coiled crown, that flows from her
head to kiss the thus humbled ground.
Her never kissed lips form the sweetest of pouts as She
sings a love song; from her voice sweetly out, singing words of connubial
bliss, despite that She is completely innocent of
this.
The audience is silenced by her lovely voice, as She strums her guitar to accompany her choice, till the
sudden advent of a discordant noise.
The poor angel’s guitar string breaks and whips up to near
miss her pretty face, whipping her shoulders in its place, and cutting both
straps of her white slip of grace.
Continuing to strum like a true troubadour, her lovely voice
trills and thrills as her dress, down her supreme soft smoothness, slides to
the floor. Hesitating and stopping momentarily on her pink nipples’ ripples,
before sliding inexorably, as her young nipples flicker flexibly, and let it
go, so that where once was her dress, are her unbearably beautiful bare breasts
are now on show.
She sings on of love’s longings in the state of undress all
girls should be in when they sing of their need for caress. And a second guitar
strings tight as a whip, decides it will escape and take a vicious trip that
hits her left tit and splits its proud pink nip.
Crying out with the pain as her blood pours, She just cannot sing any more, and lowers her guitar to the
stage floor. Out of the dress surrounding her feet, her pretty legs in their
ballet shoes leap, and the audience watches her cry and weep.
And then kicky-leggy She runs in a
flood of tears and pain’s rage, to the comfort of her mummy at the side of the
stage. And into mummy’s arms the honeybun runs naked, so her mummy can comfort
the daughter She holds sacred.
And mummy kisses her face and strokes her hair’s grace, and
wipes the sweet tears off her lovely face, and then kisses the place whipped by
the string lace, putting her lips on the cruelly split nipple of the miss, to
give its pure beauty a soothing healing kiss.
But the kiss lingers longer than even justified by the
nipple’s painful harm, and She registers her mummy’s attentions
as cause for alarm. And her voice sounds plaintive of a plea that is key: “Oh
please mummy, that is not the right way to kiss me!”
And her mummy lets go her ravishing charms, releasing the
angel from out of her arms.
But still She longs to kiss her
again and show her sweet daughter loves gentle game. But now her head hangs
with bitter shame, for feeling arousal, for the offspring of her espousal, to
the daddy whose joint thrusts, left her in trust, after divorce had taken its
bitter course.
And She sees her mummy’s pain, and
runs naked into her loving arms again. And bathes mummy’s face with the grace
of her kisses, to remind her poor mummy of what heaven and bliss is, as mummy
holds her naked pubescent miss, and their kisses turn to the rapture of proper
love’s capture, and the love that is not remiss in the comforting face kiss.
Winter 1 – Her furs infer that She does not
care; but they are false and thus unlike her.
Were She naked She would be
wonderfully warmed alone by the surround of her floor-trailing hair; but nature
gives way to society’s affairs, and so She wears numerous lairs.
The soft zephyrs of her sweet breath silently vapour from
the gently flaring nostrils of her pretty nose, with many of its summer freckles
in hibernation’s repose, and the vapour that streams, from the sweet moist lips
of the rosebud’s rich strawberry mouth, seems steam.
Now her long tongue lizard flicks, as her upper lip it licks
to explore if She need restore its natural softness from
becoming sore, in the cold winds bitter raw roar.
But She need have no concern, for
the allure of her lips is not remiss in signalling that She is a walking kiss.
The face is pale the body hot, for beneath her furs She
drips her drops. The scarlet tears She is crying are
caught in a once virgin white pad held to her other mouth. Her face shows her
period hurts her. She is paler than her pale pallor in usual nature, as her
sacrificial blood falls from her altar, to alter the white line of the lining
in her pristine white panties, with the red leak of her losing streak, dripping
a Rorschach picture depiction, of a shapely girl being bad, on the white
canvass of her period pad.
Winter 2 – Within her furs this different
time, between the pouring of her monthly red wine, She wiggles street as She
cannot but help, for She is built so her body makes for such appealing stance,
and advance of stealing stealth in dance.
Is her ‘monthly’ her punishment for this way of hers, to be
sheer She, as She cannot avoid?
She is sincere in her beliefs and has uttered her prayers in
the church of the Holy Girl, for She is of the Girlist
faith, Girlianity’s cross bearing witness, as it traces a pendulum swing,
between the frontal domes of this walking cathedral of the wonders of woman
eternally ethereal.
She wants so to be good, and, to show her faith, has given
her troth to the lap of her god. And yet She knows as She traipses in her hot
furs, that She glows with her natural wonder, and stuns with the sun of her
smile, and captivates with her gentle ways, and arouses … but this, She prays,
will not have its way, till god says She may.
And never come that day, for in her dismay, She is minded for the nunnery, and already made, a sacrifice
of her love of mammon that way.
She is made to devastate as a sign of her sacrifice. She
must entice but never ever let be spilled in her, spice, for her pleasure, or
that of any other man or girl’s vice.
She accords with the beliefs of the church to which She accedes, and seeks to succeed to in time. She is dressed
to thrill in order to ‘kill’, in her own ardour’s prime.
The time must be three years in the wilderness of the outer
world, using all that makes her girl, to recruit for her church those who would
take her to their beds, and find She will say only ‘no’, to their wish to be
fed and to feast in her holy holes, with their penetrating poles their spitting
seed to ease their fiery ache, and their thirst to slake with her pregnancy in
wake, real or in appeal to their manly desires, for such husbanding of her
fallow fallopian furrow, with Eros’ plough, and her furrows answering feminine
fires.
Though in fact, her mission is not to recruit those who
would her ride, but to seduce the distaff side.
Winter 3 – In
shower She now shimmers in riven rivers, holy water tributaries attributable
only to tears’ tribute and duty, to the contribution of her uncontrovertibly
overwhelming beauty.
Her cross gold on its gilt chain dangles and dandles, and
dances as it dares to touch her awares, where no boy or girl is allowed within,
and ne’er She either to caress for guilt of sin.
Her moist mouth pout poised shows her mind sears as she now
soothes the soap over her smooth rear. Her graceful hands smooth soap to sooth
her thigh. She is naked as sigh.
Her holy chain swings out as She
bends, and it captures nipple as She rises again.
And nipple balloons monumentally momentarily, sensitive to
the gentle flicks from the blessed cast gold Mary Magdalene crucifix. Mary
naked on her cross, being dragged across nipple’s fore, till the holy cross is
freed and centres the vale, twixt her pink crowned minarets once more.
She gasps.
Her myrrh secretes sacrifice at the altar in her cathedral.
She is in recall but not recoil. The men, the schoolboys,
the girl who was her fellow nun to be: the knowing by her and them of her
sensuality’s essentiality and essence. She knows She
is girl. But She is in denial; or is She?
She has vowed. She is but child in life’s league length and
never to know. She is given wife to her holy faith, her whole future to go.
Yet, as She feels her body flood
from the touch of the holy cross, even though She decides that later, She must
pray. For now today, She cannot help but wonder, if
She could have shown her complete devotion to mother church in some other way.
Was this the devil at play?
Mirrored in the slowly obscuring steam trickles down the
black tiles of her shower’s walls, She looks and is
fleetingly appalled.
She can see the signs well. She had been told that day, the
day of her decision, three years ago tomorrow, that if She
chose the cross, there was a painful thread to follow.
Now She was wondering if the whole
thing was sham.
And also this day, her thoughts did say:-
‘After these three years of my trial, is tomorrow the only
way life to play?
Must my virgin’s cunt, forever and a day, stay so tightly
sewn-up in this sacrificial way?’
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