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Blaze Days
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis: Sometimes a scatterbrain moment is all it takes for a girl to lose out on all her breaks.....
Blaze Days
by Eve Adorer
Comforting crackles emanated from the coals in the glowing grate. At a double crack louder than the norm from amid the flames, Lucida momentarily turned her head toward the noise, and the flashing highlights in her radiant red hair gave the fire a lesson in how to blaze.
Just out of her morning shower, Lucida hurried worried. She was running late. It was her turn to visit the local stores. And if she didn’t complete her mission on time, her mistress, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, would smack her bottom.
The Friday night spankings were a routine in the Smythen-Featherstonehaugh household. When Amalia’s wife had been at home, she had spanked the naughty maids at the end of the week. But Susanrale had done it privately, and kissed and petted the girls to make them feel better afterwards.
But, now Susanrale was abroad, Amalia had taken on the role, and had once spanked Lucida on her bare bottom in front of all the maids: all forty of them, till all four of her lovely cheeks had flushed red and hot: two from the spanking, and two from her dying from embarrassment at enforcedly showing the De Milo smile between her thighs to the whole household. Lucida didn’t want that to happen again.
Black was not the best colour to contrast with the glorious red of her torrential titian hair. But black was the colour of a maid’s dress in the Smythen-Featherstonehaugh household. Today she would even wear black latex stockings.
Amalia liked her maids to look attractive when they were out and about. So, even though her figure out-curved an hourglass already, Lucida busied her nimble fingers pulling tight and then tighter, and then tighter still, the laces at the front of the spring-steel reinforced rubber wasp-corset she had to wear.
Suspenders from the bottom of this corset had now to be stretched to meet stocking tops, down the front of her thighs and, rather awkwardly impractically, if rather teasingly naughtily, over the firm domes of her creamy-white bottom.
At least she had remembered to put her black rubber thong panties on first before the corset this time. These, of course, were the ones formed like a codpiece-cup which can be tied tightly over it.
To go out in public without having one’s breasts under strict control, whilst not a problem for less generously apportioned girls, gave Lucida more than considerable double trouble, in the most beautiful ways. She did not wish to attract the attention of the Girl Control patrols. And that was why she cupped her breasts in the individual transparent rigid bell-domes of a vacuum brassiere, worn separately above the clinging wasp-corset.
Twelve-inch stiletto-heel platform mules took her to exquisite heights, and, with her flawless toes pointing to the floor when she stood in them, her stance sculpted sexy scallop dimples in the sides of her firm buttocks once more, as well as giving her long legs divine shape.
Lucida’s toilet was nearly complete, but before she put on her black rubber maid’s dress and her black latex gloves, she must needs apply suction to the holes in the centre-top of the domes of her bra: the tightly strapped bra pressing the rubber ring-seals at the bases of the transparent rigid plastic domes firmly to her chest.
For this she used a device that looked like a warning horn for a bicycle’s handlebars. The rubber ball at the end of this “horn” had a one-way valve in its end. Thus the application of the horn end over one of the titty-domes, drew the air out of that dome into and then out of the ball when the bulbous ball at the end of the horn was squeezed.
Full success in this necessary exercise was demonstrated when Lucida’s tit completely filled the transparent dome, and her nipple had been sucked out of the hole in the top of the dome so that it formed a stopper to prevent the vacuum in the dome being broken.
The seals pressed on her chest by the tightness of the bra’s straps did the rest. And thus were Lucida’s lovely breasts made into lewd forward thrusting wide-spaced domes, alike with the tits of a fuck-toy doll, but solid and soldierly in the brusque attention at which they now unnaturally and obscenely stood.
Her black rubber maid’s dress for this trip into the town, was as plain as it was short. Its hem was of such brevity, that even the briefest description of it would be too long. Suffice it to say, that quarter-moons of Lucida’s very feminine rear played delightfully wicked peek-a-boo, even when she just stood still.
Lucida would not wear her indoor-maid’s apron in her shopping trip. Instead she drew around her waist, a broad white rubber belt, which, noting that her wasp-corset had given her a totally incredible twelve-inch waist already, she did not need to draw tight.
Within the dress she could feel, with two sensitive intimate parts of her very feminine anatomy, the inbuilt Velcro rub. The Velcro fastened inside the bib of her dress, so that its roughness would constantly tease her nipples, and thus just as consistently, remind her that she was a girl.
After she had donned her black rubber gloves and tied their laces tight at her individual wrists, came a casual toss of her magical hair, and Lucida was ready to go.
It was raining outside, so she grabbed her green-rubber fedora, and her umbrella, and dashed out of her attic room, to make her way out through the servants’ doorway at the rear of Chater House, only to have to stop, stand to attention on her shapely legs, and bow her autumn-gold crowned head.
“Good morning Jones”, her mistress, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, bid her as she fragranced entrancingly by with two of her pretty young bathing maids dancing eager attendance on her.
“Good morning my lady”, Lucida nervously responded, while simultaneously bobbing a very leggy curtsy.
The brand was all-important. Lucida knew she would have to go wider afield, as Woolmart had gone badly further downmarket, and no longer stocked it.
Lucida loved her momentary freedom in this high class area of London, even in the April showers. The scatter patter pattern of the rain on her raised transparent latex umbrella sounded so reassuring, that Lucida smiled. Her smile, being more than adequate substitute, it gave the sun an excuse to stay abed under the rolling grey duvet of the early morn.
And she loved the way her waspie-corset made her walk. Her bottom’s hemisphere’s still performed their erotic undulations with her every step, but the swing of her hips was wider and wilder because of her gasp-making breathtaking twelve-inch waist.
She walked wasting not a wiggle or a giggle, she felt so sexy. She felt so sexy indeed that even the rubbing of her nipples on the Velcro from the bobbling of her tits in the bounteously bold domes thrusting out her chest high wide and very handsomely twice over, was but a bonus. She was a girl being a girl and in love with the world that was encapsulated in the microcosm of her captivating body.
Lucida had come a long way from the curves-clinging powder-blue rubber mini-dress she had worn that day. It had been her first before a full class: a class full of teenage girls. It had been her first day as a teacher: her training done.
The Grant-Oral family were bankers. Lucida’s momma had wanted Lucida to take a post at Mellon Twins, the family’s bank, once she had come down from Camford. But Lucida had wanted to spend some time, as she put it: “giving something back to the world”. Teaching had been her choice.
The girls in the class would just not stop giggling. Lucida sensed they found her attractive. But her teacher training psychology lessons had taught her that it was only natural for teens to have a crush on an older girl. It was only when she reached up to point out a particular point in the furthest highest corner of the schoolroom whiteboard, that Lucida had lost face with a devastatingly deep blush, amid a posy of wolf-whistles and cheers from her class. She was so embarrassed, that she had instantly run out of the classroom.
The headmistress had been gentle understanding itself, but of course, had accepted Lucida’s on the spot resignation. The judge had not been so forbearing.
The downfall of one of the Grant-Oral daughters was a sensation in the media. And the judge’s line about it being the first occasion she had: “passed sentence on someone parsing a sentence” had been a gift to the more erudite newspapers.
The gutter press had merely stuck with speculation about whether Lucida had purposely worn no panties that day. A poll in one of these rags asking mothers to vote against school’s employing “predatory teachers” had been the final straw.
Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh had been Lucida’s judge. The sentence of a public flogging had been suspended: meaning it would only be carried out if Lucida was again found guilty of lewd behaviour in public office.
Nobody would employ Lucida after that: nobody in the world where the Grant-Oral family usually found appointments that is; and certainly not the family bank.
The position of maid of all works in the Smythen-Featherstonehaugh household had therefore been an offer Lucida just could not turn down. After all, she had lost everything. She had been disowned by her momma and her three sisters, and even completely written out of her momma’s will. She had been totally alone and completely destitute.
As Lucida swung in swing her lovely bum like a wild thing, while she merely walked down the street, a wolf-whistle crackled on the cool air.
“Hey darlin’! Where else ‘ave you got dat gorgeous red ‘air den?!”
Lucida tried to ignore the garbage girls, but she was walking on the sidewalk alongside which their truck, pulled by two lovely negress ponygirls, was slowly advancing, while they lifted the filled plastic trash sacks onto it from outside each home in turn.
Lucida blushed, but continued to wiggle inescapably inestimably provocatively, as she could not help from the nature of her body, assisted by the wasping of her waist to an outrageously curvaceous twelve-inches. Holding her head high, her sparkling green eyes tried to see only the horizon.
“Looks like she’s keepin’ ‘er lips closed den......
.....And ‘er mouff as well o’ course!” another teasing girl called out for the whole street to hear.
“You’re knock-dead gorgeous darlin’: yer know dat don’tya?” the girl in charge of the refuse collectors opined.
“Thank you”, Lucida whispered, and blushed the more.
“It talks den!”, one of the more unkind girls commented next.
“Yea, I bet it even does dat!!” her companion joined in, and Lucida tried to run she was so embarrassed.
“Take no notice of me mates luv. You look after it. Each to dare own, I alus say”
“Yea, that’s true, and I bet she can’t keep ‘er ‘ands off ‘er own neiver!”
“How big is your tits for real den darlin’?” came another voice.
Lucida hung her head, only to see, of course, the huge obscene domes that her breasts had been made into.
“You got more dan a coupla ‘andsfull dare, dats for sure, innit?”
“Ant she got great legs?” another garbage girl chimed in.
“’Yea, and ‘ave you seen the bum on ‘er!!”
“Tell you what you need luv. What you need is a fuckin’ good spanking. Dat’s what you need: you need to ‘ave dat luvly bum of yourn fuckin’ slapped till it makes yer cry, and den ‘ave it kissed better!”
Despite her shy look, Lucida had loved the attention. And her blushes were the sign of what it had done for her. The strides she took with her shapely legs, were now aided by intimate lubrication. The constant rub of her exposed nipples on the Velcro on the sweaty insides of her rubber dress had added to her natural arousal. The sexual desert in which she had dwelt for the twelve months since her classroom sin, made her long for such attention. And the crudity of some of the remarks had, secretly, pleased her all the more, for, rather than respecting her as a girl, lowering her to a sex unit.
...........................
The girls behind the counter at Fortune and Nathan were far more respecting of maids such as Lucida. Behind her back, they would refer to her as: “the sexy redhead”, but where politeness itself to her face.
They meant no harm by their description of Lucida either. There might have been a little jealousy that Lucida needed such an evidently large vacuum bra to ensure her breasts behaved with appropriate decorum when she was in the streets, but otherwise, it was just their way of distinguishing her from the other maids who shopped for their mistresses there. They knew no, and it was not allowed that they should ask any, names.
To rid the raindrops on her umbrella, Lucida turned her back to the shop’s door and was working it briskly open and shut on the sidewalk, unaware of the eyes of the counter-girls casually assessing the beauty of the creamy crescents of her bare bottom below the mischievous hem of her dress through the glass in the doorway.
The uniform of Fortune and Nathan staff comprised a crisp immaculately-white rubber mini-dress, neck-high to its Chinese style collar. The girls’ breasts were clearly forced into a cone-cupped wide-separation control brassiere under it. The white nylons were always on very shapely legs tiptop-toed in white patent-leather six-inch stiletto lace-up booties. And it was all topped off with a rakishly angled white rubber bellhop’s hat, with a coloured bobble in top centre to confirm relative rank. The hat was required to be strapped under the chin on hair drawn up into a tight bun high at the rear of the head. The uniform of Fortune and Nathan, even down to the choice of a girl for the excellence of her legs, spoke of brisk efficiency.
The pretty girl employed to operate the rotating doors for customers, waited patiently. Her bellhop’s hat had a yellow bobble. She was the lowest rank of all.
This brunette had operated the door for the lovely redhead before, and hoped she would get a smile again.
That she did, and a “thank you”, which made her day, as well as making her blush.
Was it the contrast of the wet paving and the steady drizzle, with the dry inside the store that brought on the urge?
“Good morning miss”, one of the counter girls called.
“Oh: good morning”, Lucida responded as she wiggled over to select her shopping trolley, and put her furled umbrella in it the while.
In the console room, the security guard paid more attention. It was that girl again: the one with the titian hair.
As, inside the shop, Lucida bent over to inspect a product on a lower shelf, the guard found no reluctance in focusing the nearest camera on Lucida’s wasped waist and the slow rise of her hem up the bare thigh atop her latex stockings, till it revealed her firm rotund bum impressively impressed by the rubber suspenders stretched over its oh so spankable smooth creamy whiteness.
Though unaware of the admiring camera, Lucida looked around. She was blushing. Her rubber gloved hands reached for her hem, and her pretty arms, bare from just above the wrists up to the short puff-sleeves high at her shoulders, went behind her as she tugged on the misbehaving hem.
The operation was successful, but she had to let it have its own way, when she bent once more to look at some tinned food.
But then another maid came into the same aisle, and Lucida was seen on the security camera, bending at the knees to put the tin back down, and thereafter struggling once more with her rebellious hemline.
Lucida was worried that this shop might not have what she was looking for either. But she always enjoyed being out of the house. Shopping was a pleasure she could no longer indulge for herself. As a maid, she had a bed and was fed, but no money for her services.
Round the end of the aisle she wiggled. The decorative champagne fountain had always fascinated her. It had been a feature at Fortune and Nathan’s London store since she had been at school. She reminisced about that as she wiggled past with her trolley, even though its trickling tintinnabulation met some sympathy in her body.
At last Lucida spotted what she thought she would find here: what she had come to Fortune and Nathan for. And so she continued wiggling toward the target aisle.
The face on the tins was particularly attractive: youthful and sweet; a blonde with a shy smile. Lucida checked each of the seven tins, before she put them in her trolley, and changed two, when she saw the labels did not confirm that the product within comprised what she specifically sought.
As Lucida waited in the queue to be served, her eyes casually glanced over the counter girls, and admired what they saw.
Lucida did not have to wait long for the till-girl to serve her, and put her purchases in a Fortune and Nathan carry bag for her. But the last tin was waylaid by the till operator’s assistant, who lifted it and looked at the picture on its label.
“Oh god that’s Natasha....I went to school with her!”
Then, fearing that Lucida might demand that the manageress have her whipped for gross impertinence: “I’m so sorry miss”, she apologised to Lucida.
“That’s quite alright”, Lucida whispered.
“Did you want all seven the same miss? I only ask because often customers like a variety miss”, the first serving girl enquired.
“Oh yes... yes...all the same is right thank you”, Lucida answered sweetly.
Would you charge my mistresses’ account for these please?” Lucida added.
The first counter-girl then held an x-ray-reader in the region of Lucida’s left nipple, which was secretly saucily aroused under the sweaty rubber of her dress, and waved it till she heard a ‘beep’ to show that Lucida had been registered, probably over the internet, to buy under a specific account.
“Oh, so you work for Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh then miss? If I may make so bold as to say so miss, you are a lucky girl miss. She’s a real lady she is miss!”
As Lucida left the shop, she turned to give the counter girls a thank-you smile, only to end up blushing when she saw they were both staring appreciatively at the wiggles of her dimple-sided bum, and to end up struggling with her gloved pretty hands, one holding her folded umbrella and the other the bag with the tins in it, to yet once more pull down the hem of her very naughty dress.
As she began her wiggle home, her twelve-inch heels tapping out a vivid valentine on the paving, Lucida raised her umbrella to the still falling rain. And she was reminded by it of the champagne fountain, and of an urge: so, as she wiggled busily home, she casually peed into her panties.
Other maids scurried on their errands for their mistresses. The simply gorgeous negress from the neighbouring house came wiggling by, looking stunning beyond stunning in her all-white rubber maids dress, with white latex stockings on and her wonderful tits in taming cones under the breast of her dress. But both lovely girls lowered their eyes in order that they should not be attracted or distracted. Maidenly love was totally forbidden.
It was because of that particularly devastating sight, that Lucida didn’t immediately notice that the garbage collection girls were now on the street where Chater House stood. When she did, at the thought of being accosted by them once more, and having them make lewd remarks about her body, Lucida hurried herself along and thus wiggled all the more and thus all the more sensationally sexily.
When the long low wolf-whistles appreciated her legs this time, Lucida almost fell over the garbage sack outside Chater House.
She knew better than to do so anyway, but she did not speak to the girl who was tied up in it.
In the brief chances she had had to gossip with her fellow maids, she had understood that “Poppet” was not considered up to her duties. Clearly, Amalia had decided Poppet must be disposed of, and she would soon be swung in her sack onto the garbage truck.
Lucida had chanced a glance and been relieved to see that Poppet had her curly blonde head sticking out of a green sack. So at least the girl was being recycled rather than being dumped on a landfill site.
Lucida had heard more than enough stories about the scavenger-girls who took discarded maids from the garbage tips and gang-raped them for days, before throwing them back. The very thought made her shudder.
............................
Immediately after whisking the rain from her umbrella, Lucida wiggled around to the rear of Chater House, to the kennels at the bottom of the garden beyond the tennis courts, and took the contents of her Fortune and Nathan carry bag out to put them on a shelf in a store there.
Even as she beckoned with her beacon bottom bared by her bending to stock the shelf, her pretty eyes, glowing their irresistible green, double-checked that each tin contained the meat of choice. Montgomery was very fussy and choosy about his food. He would only eat the meat of a live-roasted girl’s thighs.
............................
Back in her room once more, Lucida knew she had to change into her indoor maid’s outfit for the day. She had just that moment opened the nozzle in the crotch of her rubber thong-panties, and poured some of her piss into a wine glass, so that she could enjoy a sip or two while she changed clothes. But she had not even removed a glove, when her lovely eyes, following the direction of the tinkling from the bell sounding in her pretty ears, told her that Amalia was summoning her to the library.
..........................
As she stood tall on her lithe legs, awaiting her mistress’ attention, crackles from the coals in the glowing grate beat time with the flame flickers, reflected as lovely love sparkles in Lucida’s dreamy green eyes.
“I’m so sorry my lady. Please forgive me my lady. I had no time to change my lady. I really am so sorry my lady. It won’t happen again my lady. Please forgive me my lady....” Lucida breathlessly gabbled as she curtsied repeatedly and thus repeatedly flashed the glory of her stupendous thighs.
“Shush now Jones”, Amalia gently soothed.
“Oh thank you my lady. Thank you! Thank you!” Lucida whispered with her pretty face, its brow kissably creased with her total sincerity.
Once Lucida had calmed herself, and stopped bobbing seductive curtsies, Amalia announced: “Jones....I have decided that you will replace Poppet”.
“But my lady....!” Lucida, in her unpreparedness and total astonishment, innocently but inadvisably blurted out.
Like lightening in the dark of a summer night, Amalia’s face as suddenly flickered a warning that thunder must follow such impertinence from one of the lower orders.
Yet, in the event, as ever, her voice showed her breading. She raised its modulation not one fraction of a degree above its normal measured self-assured calmness, as she dismissed Lucida, with:
“I will not have that tone from anyone Jones. Go to your room. You will be dealt with later.”
Lucida curtsied, and wiggled from the room, her tears only beginning to flow when she was safely in the corridors.
............................
A lull in the conversation was punctuated by crackles from the coals in the glowing grate. At a crack louder than the norm from the competing flames, eyes turned to the lovely redhead walking before the blaze around the gathered party.
The Handsole Hotel was select even among the select. This annual gathering of the great and good of London society, was one she had taken over while her wife was away overseas. It was small-change to Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh that she was paying £2k dollars an hour for entertaining there.
This was a masked ball, without the waltzing. Discretion was assured. Even if anyone recognised anyone else, they would still only address them by the discreet number on their masks. The amusement it had given Amalia to give the prime minister of England the number “10” on her mask, did not mean that Lady A*****, the present incumbent of that office and official address, would ever be embarrassed.
Lucida was the adorable redhead eyes were feasting upon. She was in a pair of cornflower-blue patent-leather ballet booties, the heels and toes of which would leave Amalia with a repair bill for the wooden slats of the parquet floor of the fortieth floor of the Handsole. For Lucida tottered timorously as she traipsed her dainty steps, injecting heaven where the needle-pointed tips of her shoes’ toes kissed, and the needle sharp termini of the heels bearing up her flawless beauty touched a mere lowly floor.
With her booties’ incredible twelve-inch needle heels and equally appointed pointed toes, her dainty feet were raised en-pointe ballet, and her stupendous legs thus surely illegally erotically shaped, in consequence of the height at which she teetered, with her conspicuous calf muscles constantly flexing as they and her strong thighs sought to secure her stance and ensure she would not take a terrible tumble.
Her pretty little hands were encased in cornflower-blue latex gloves, which flowed up her graceful slender arms to her armpits. Her waist was in a cornflower-blue steel rib reinforced rubber corset, which had been laced at her curved back with such force, that she wiggled with a waistline enforcedly curved at its middle to a totally incredible eight-inch wasp’s dying gasp.
The steel core supported quarter cup brassiere built into her breathtaking cornflower-blue rubber corset, held her bountiful breasts proudly boldly firmly thrust up and out, and covered them so minimally, that more than a hint of her nipples’ two-inch diameter areole peeked like pink sunrises above the corset’s quarter cups.
Lucida’s flame red inflaming red hair flowed to her bottom in a whirl of fire, inspiring only the darkest deepest most devilish desires.
And apart from her long gloves, her wickedly cruel shoes, her waist savagely squeezed so she could hardly breathe with the eight-inches it was laced down to, and she could not stop her rolling wiggle in consequence of it either, these cornflower-blue accoutrements, with a cornflower-blue choker around her slender neck too, these cornflower-blue accoutrements, their colour chosen for best contrast with her bewitching autumn hair and her creamy flesh, these with her breasts held out obscenely on open display, these were her only clothing. Apart from these her ghost white soft white smooth white unblemished milk white redhead’s body was naked, except...
...except that a suspender belt dangled one hook for it from the base of her corset at the mid-front. And the matching suspender and hook for it dangled from her corset’s mid-rear. The inbuilt string hoops held it at either end: the shorter to the front of course, and the longer doing duty between the cheeks of her dimple-hollow-sided bum, as it journeyed to its connection with the hook at the rear. And her sanitary towel was thus kissing it: kissing the immaculate-innocent-shaven post-pre-pubescent-smoothed lips of it between her creamy thighs.
Lucida’s shy shame showed in her emerald eyes. The timing of her humiliation had been of Amalia’s choosing. The timing of Lucida’s humiliation dictated the timing of this annual gathering. And the timing of Lucida’s humiliation purposely coincided with the week when it was in bleed. And she was on display, openly on display, bleeding her sacrifice into the sanitary pad that was the only thing covering it.
Teetering in tiptoe topple trot steps in her needle toe twelve-inch needle heel ballet booties, sweet Lucida was visiting each guest by turn, and bobbing dangerous curtsies: dangerous for her as she stood in her murderous shoes, and dangerous for the girl or girls she bobbed her thighs and displayed her heaving heavy breasts before, as she courteously curtsied, before indicating with the merest momentary flicker of her sweet eyes that she was talking about her heavenly chest.
“My two naughty girls have been particularly wicked ma’am. And they are to be punished ma’am. Would you like to see my two very naughty girls being punished ma’am? The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am. But all the money will go to charity ma’am”.
A sale made. Lucida wiggled onwards on her wonderful legs teetering in her en-pointes and blushing when a girl she passed patted her irresistible bottom.
It was to this girl Lucida now turned, and bobbed a full-thighed curtsey, before her eyes shyly indicated her fulsome frontal beauty: “My two naughty girls have been misbehaving dreadfully ma’am. And they are to be tortured to punish them ma’am. Would you like to see my two very naughty girls being punished ma’am? All the money will go to charity ma’am. The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am.”
“They are huge!” the girl whispered as she stared, as she could not help but stare, and Lucida’s living breathing heaving breasts.
“Thank you ma’am, but they must be punished ma’am. They are two truly wicked girls ma’am. Would you like to buy a ticket and watch my very wicked girls being punished ma’am?” Lucida pleaded.
The humiliation was endless. Wretched in her bleed as she was, seeping heavily into her sanitary napkin as she was, Lucida continued to teeter-totty-tiptoe-trot on her divine creamy-smooth creamy-white legs around the room, waiting respectfully to be paid attention, before she pleaded for a ticket sale.
“My twin girls have been extremely naughty ma’am. And they are to be punished for their wanton misbehaviour ma’am. Would you like to see my two naughty girls being punished ma’am? The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am: all sales income for charity ma’am”.
The next girl she wiggled toward in her pinpoint shoes, her calf muscles flexing divinely as they and her strong thighs kept her from tottering and toppling, was Faranatina Mandrake-Warner. This Lucida knew, despite Faranatina’s mask, but was discretion itself, as she stood, and then bobbed a thighy curtsy to her one-time best school-friend.
“My twin girls have been leading each other into terrible mischief ma’am. They are equally as bad as each other. They are to be punished for their own good ma’am. Would you like to see my naughty girls undergoing correction ma’am? The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am. But all the proceeds will go to charity ma’am”.
Lucida now wiggled toward a gaggle of pretty girls leaning against the bar.
“My god, look at the fucking legs on this! Sweetheart, you can wrap those fucking fantastic thighs of yours around my face any time you want...but not till you’re off your fucking bleed though!”
Lucida blushed, as she indicated her breasts with a swift look from her bewitching green eyes, and repeated her humiliating sales pitch: “One of my twin girls has been wickedly naughty ma’am. But neither of them will say which one did it. So both of my naughty girls are to be punished for the one of them that was particularly naughty, so as to teach them both to own up in future. Would you like to see my two naughty girls being taught a lesson ma’am? All the money goes to charity ma’am. The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am.”
“Oh, fucking hell, would I like to see that?! Jeese you’ve got great tits! There’s five of us want to watch that sweetheart. So give me five tickets, all for seats on the fucking front row!”
Lucida wiggled her creamy-white bum as she graced along the bar to another group of girls. And although they had already overheard her debasing herself, they ogled her legs with open lasciviousness, lubricated by the champagne they had been quaffing.
Behind her back from where she had already passed, Lucida heard: “The dirty cat: fancy parading yourself around like that when you’re ....you know....!”
“Quite! You’d have thought she’d wear some panties to hide that she’s menstruating!”
“I don’t imagine she was given the choice. It’s part of humiliation”, another voice answered.
“Whose humiliation: hers or ours? It’s perfectly disgusting if you ask me....”
“My naughty girls have been stepping badly out of line ladies. They need to be taught a lesson they will never forget. Ladies, unless my naughty girls get what they deserve, they will think that they can always get away with being naughty. Would you like to see my naughty girls being taught a lesson ladies? The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ladies. But all sales money goes to charity ladies.”
And so Lucida’s humiliation proceeded, as did she, an angel from heaven conveying the devil’s message to the assembled two hundred guests by turn, almost every one of them individually.
But, at long last, all tickets sold, to loud cheering and even louder wolf-whistles, Lucida was led away on her cream-white legs to be prepared in a neighbouring room.
............................
As the ticket bearing guests filed into the neighbouring room for their dinner, they saw that the dining tables had been arranged in a square, and that a semi-naked redhead stood on a raised platform in the middle of that square.
Lucida, the near-naked redhead, stood not only on a raised platform, but also fastened to a tit-behaviour-corrector.
Her shapely body was bathed with the beautiful perspiration of her fear: her glorious green eyes were staring fixedly in terror.
Her bare big toes were on high on the floor of her platform: the platform to which the tit-behaviour-corrector was firmly affixed. She faced the rigid upright of the behaviour-corrector.
The stainless-steel tit-behaviour-corrector’s upright had a cornflower-blue leather corset belt to hold her: the corset she had worn during her initial debasement: the corset that took her already egg-timer waist down to an eight-inch waif’s whiff of a minuscule midriff.
The corset now had the tit-behaviour-corrector’s upright running through a dozen stainless-steel rings on the front of the corset, such that the girl in the corset could slide down the upright, or rise up it again as she might choose; or rather, in this case, not choose if she could possibly avoid it. But also so she could not flinch away from it.
Other than for the corset, and her cornflower-blue choker, Lucida was all but naked.
She was still wearing her sensual arm-long armpit-high arm-enveloping cornflower-blue latex gloves, but had had her slender wrists firmly girlackled to strong stainless-steel rings at either side of the corset, such that she seemed to be standing in an expression of annoyance with her gloved hands fixed so that her slim gloved fingers played nervous harpsichord on her violin’s hips.
Her glorious golden hair cascaded in majesty down her back and was so burnished by the spotlights kissing its beauty, that it shone as if she had a halo. And her frightened eyes looked on as the perspiration of fear bathed her freckle kissed ghost-white visage.
She continued to menstruate of course, and the evidence of that was on her thighs’ insides, just as it was also sliding in a livid scarlet trickle gliding slowly around a rigid platform-floor bolted, four-inch diameter, cold stainless-steel upright dildo, the rounded top tip of which had already been inextricably introduced between her thighs and up into it. This rigid dildo would also stop her escaping her fate.
And her fate cupped her two naughty girls. Up from the corset that could slide up and down the tit-behaviour-corrector’s fixed upright, up over her ribcage up under each of her two naughty girls, there now ran two inverted-L shaped stainless steel supports that each ended with an out-jutting ‘shelf’. And on each of the two so formed ‘shelves’, agape for the present, like two love books opened at their middle pages, were the tit-behaviour-corrector’s jaws.
The cornflower-blue corset as worn during Lucida’s ticket sales circuit, had had its detachable brassiere top removed, and the right-angled brackets fixed into the lace-up waspie that remained. The brackets were also in turn held to Lucida by a strap under her tits: a strap through rings on the front of the brackets’ uprights: a strap that did the duty of a bra-strap, helping with restraining but without actually containing her abundant beauties.
Each individual tit-behaviour-corrector jaw, was made of transparent flexible plastic, and shaped, each half, like the halves of a dome: domes the size needed to contain, in their closed state, the wonders that Lucida had resting within their open maws.
The halves of each jaw were hair-trigger-spring-hinged at the bottom, and had quick-lock catches on their opened edges. And the half-dome shaped jaws were opened, each with a beautiful live naughty girl resting in it.
These ‘opened-book’ jaws were fixed to the ‘shelves’ of the brackets, so as to be a savage substitute for brassiere cups.
The opened out half-dome shaped tit-behaviour-corrector jaws, also had strong steel rings, one apiece at each top of their open ends. Above them, above Lucida’s incendiary hair, was the crossbeam. The stainless-steel crossbeam was equally as solidly strong as the two uprights on which it was rigidly supported, and they could have held up the statue of liberty.
Two chains dangled from the beam, one above each of Lucida’s naughty girls. From the rings in the top half of the opened tit-behaviour-corrector jaws, two shorter chains – one pair for each naughty girl - ran up to each of the single strong beam-hung pair of single chains.
Within each opened out love-story-book tit-behaviour-corrector jaw, were the teeth of the tit-behaviour-corrector: scores of stainless-steel needles of three and six inch lengths. A heavy concentration of needles was evident at the distant end, facing back toward Lucida, ready for where her nipples would be forced to go. These latter needles pointed back at Lucida, ready to play welcoming host for her expanding breasts when squeezed by the closing jaws.
Lucida’s beautiful naughty girls, her wonderful breasts, presently played nervous fakirs, as they rested, unharmed, within their individual beds of ‘nails’.
For the present, as he stood on tiptoe barefoot, Lucida’s superb legs were tautly stretched while she fought to keep herself on the tip of her big toes on the base on which she stood. For, if she lowered her heels, she would lower her body on the behaviour-corrector’s upright, and the chains from which the opened jaws of the behaviour-corrector dangled, would set off the jaws’ hair-trigger springs, and cause them to clap closed.
She was gagged. Lucida was gagged. Her sanitary pad, soaked with her feminine bleed, had been forced into her mouth, and was held there by a tight cornflower-blue rubber gag, so she must lick and taste her monthly with her tongue as she choked.
In order that the whole assembly sitting around the square of dining tables at this money-raising gathering, should be able to enjoy Lucida’s naughty girls being taught a lesson, the base on which Lucida stood, was slowly rotating.
“Are you going to let that beautiful bitch stand distracting us with her gorgeous legs like that all night, or are we going to get the entertainment we paid for?” a drunken voice slurred, as the first course of the dinner was being served.
“Number 10 can be assured that the entertainment will be worth the wait. But, if necessary, I will have her whipped to break her”, Amalia’s voice calmly reassured.
“What’s all this ‘naughty girls’ stuff you had the slag talking about while we were all next door?”
“Oh that was just a little conceit of mine. The girl in the stocks is my maid. Her tits have been driving me to distraction forever, so I thought I’d teach them both....I suppose you might almost say ‘all three’.... a lesson!” Amalia answered.
“Don’t I recognise her? There’s a strong family likeness. Isn’t she one of the Grant-Oral daughters?”
“I thought that too. I bet it’s the youngest one: ‘Lucanda’ or some such name. Dirty little hussy went into a schoolroom on her first day as a teacher, wearing a rubber micro-mini-dress would you believe, and with no knickers! I ask you! Apparently, she claimed she’d clean forgotten to put her panties on. But, if you ask me, there was nothing ‘clean’ about it!”
“Quite right! She was supposed to be settling down, after the highlife. She was as drunk as a skunk every night, and having girls lick champagne out of her navel. At least that’s what I read. At least I think it was her navel she had them licking inside. Turned to so called ‘good works’ and trained to teach impressionable young girls. Well, with that sort of background, what did they expect? ‘The leopard never changes its stripes’, I always say!”
“Mentioning stripes, if she was my maid, I’d put more than a few across that gorgeous bum she’s got on her!”
Lucida’s muffled cry of agony followed in that same instant, and then the jeers and then the cheers and then the wolf-whistles. She, her beautiful legs that is, could hold her up on her top-toe-tops no longer, and her heels had only lowered a fraction. She had only relaxed the aching muscles of her curvaceous calves for a microsecond. She had only let herself move a fraction to ease her pretty knees. Her thighs were strong but still she had stood on her tiptop tiptoes for so long. A fractional relaxation in her concentration and, despite her terror at what she knew would happen to her naughty girls, overcome by tiredness and the dreadful strain of walking in her needle-point shoes, and now standing on her bare big toes, and Lucida had flexed her lovely calves, relaxed her pretty knees, eased her enormously strong thighs, lowered her dainty feet, and in that instant she had lowered it further onto the stainless-steel dildo, and the lubrication of her menses flow, had shot the dildo up it, and with the shock of its relentless cruel cold inevitability as it had taken her with its four-inch diameter violence violating high and hard and wide and deep inside it, and she had shot up to her toes once more to try and stop it fucking it, only for her menses to make it slither down its shining smoothness once again, till it was one-foot deep into it and seeking out her womb, and her second slow fall to disgrace on the raping dildo lubricated by her moon-cycle blood, had triggered her naughty girls being slap-clap-trapped in the snapping maw of the corrector’s jaws, as the strong springs in the hinged undersides slammed closed the half-domes of the corrector, the half-dome jaws that would eat her naughty girls, and she had been bitten by the dozens of needles driven into her, through the flawless flesh of her naughty girls, and she was riding it on the dildo as she danced and writhed in her agony as her naughty girls were bitten through by the teeth of the jaws that had slammed shut on and crushed their beauty and were still doing the duty of punishing them with their sharks’ teeth for their wanton wickedness as they remained clamped closed with the clicks of the snap-locks at the tops of the formerly open jaws: the jaws that had swallowed her naughty girls and now made love to them with their teeth tearing her flesh as Lucida tried to pull her naughty girls free, riding it on the dildo the while dancing on her divine legs a dervish devil’s dance of dreadful pain as she went down and up on the dildo over and over and up and down and up and down over and over and up and down and down and up again and again and again, slithering its wantonness lubricated by her menstrual blood as she hollered and screamed choking on the menstrual blood on her used sanitary pad forced into her mouth, gagging with the relentless pitiless pain from her naughty girls as she tore at them to take them from the jaws of the corrector, and ripping them, ripping her naughty girls to punish them just as her naughty girls needed and deserved for their totally wild totally wanton totally wicked ways.
Lucida’s muffled cries of extreme distress and as extreme pain and her soft tears gentle rain were a constant refrain for the rest of the dinner, as she rotated with her naughty girls trapped in the tit-behaviour-corrector’s jaws, with blood from the brutal bites trickling along under the jaws, down her corset, a crimson trail on the cornflower-blue, and then the creamy-white of her thighs and calves, till it dripped onto the raised stand’s floor.
....................
Cigars and cognac were taken next door, and were accompanied by a girl with a whirl of copper red hair returned back into needle pointed toes and heels to maximise her leggy appeal, as she wiggled around the floor, in the eight-inch squeezing cornflower-blue corset that she had worn when her naughty girls were first bitten and torn.
And as Lucida tiptoed up to each guest in turn, they saw the menstrual blood that had curled around the smooth muscles of her thighs and her tautly tensioned calves, and the blood where the tit-behaviour-corrector’s two halves were still biting Lucida’s breasts and stabbing her nipples in savage mockery of a lover’s kisses.
And she now paraded her shame with no tampon or pad to staunch her seep, and offered cigars with her naughty girls still slapped in the tit-behaviour-corrector’s jaws, and her emerald green eyes still tearful with her extreme pain.
“My naughty girls want to say thank you for teaching them how to behave properly, miss”, she curtsied as a cigar was taken, and then she wiggled on, her humiliation humbling her to her now natural station.
“Thank you for punishing my naughty girls ma’am”, she bobbed her thighs, and wiggled her bum as she could not help, she being girl, and slinked on her next cigar to sell.
“My naughty girls needed this lesson. They thank you ma’am”, she flashed her thighs and then wiggled on, becoming aware that she was very turned on. Lucida was from a family among the highest in the nation, but was only a girl, and so she hoped and she prayed that her womanly figure would not give way to the strange sexual trigger of this degradation.
Lucida’s wiggle had grown more wickedly wanton, and her creamy-white legs so lithe and long slinked her toward the next girl along, and she bobbed this beauty a submissive curtsey, and offered a cigar: “My naughty girls are in dreadful pain, but there was no other way to teach them respect again.”
Toward the bar and the champagne quaffers, Lucida now must wiggle her still tortured breasts, to offer cigars, and curtsey before her social superiors:
“God those jaws must hurt like fuck, but how else could you teach such a slut?”
“Ladies, my naughty girls are in terrible pain. But they thank you for correcting their wickedness? On behalf of my naughty girls I thank you for their appropriate treatment, for they wilfully ignored mere admonishment”.
Lucida wiggled on to debase herself once more, with her tits still clamped in the vicious teeth of the tit-behaviour-corrector jaws.
“My naughty girls are paying their penance for wild indulgence in total decadence. Thank you for witnessing their well-deserved punishment, and let us hope when it is over that they are duly truly penitent.”
Faranatina Mandrake-Warner giggled and blushed as Lucida now wiggled trying to make her thighs brush, as toward her she came with her pain turned to gain. And lovely Lucida had cums queendom come when she debased herself before her former best friend with an orgasm’s orgasm making her buckle at the knee and squat on the ground and try to get her huge thighs one the other wrapped around, as she could not in her steepling shoes, though she still screamed and hollered her sexual joy profound: joy found in her debasement and degradation and in her torture before this congregation. And Lucida continued her immensely strong thighs to press and slap together and squeeze hard, both her orgasms to ease and yet to prolong, as her lovely mouth uttered a sexual song: the song of a girl so long frustrated who had just arrived at the highest state of girls’ nature.
Lucida heard Amalia hiss as Faranatina bent over Lucida and gave the helplessly orgasming redhead’s hair a gentle kiss:
“You filthy bitch!!”
“Quickly, quickly someone, find me a whip!!”
...........................
Lucida awoke soaked. Although on this hot summer’s humid night she had chosen aright to sleep as best she might beneath a single rubber sheet’s sheath; having helloed haloed-angel in the wondrous wetness of feminine perspiration’s luscious lubrication, she was bathed in a sensuously seductive shimmering sheen.
She sighed as she whisked her sheet aside, and a trickle of her rainbow-imprisoning tear-impersonating sweat, trickled in a track contributory to tributaries, that joined in a ribbon, flowing river between her pink-appointed deeply-riven snow-white peaks. It momentarily made naval-enabled her navel, till overspill of this pores pour of rain, reigned across the range of her lower belly, before finally dripping its liberal libation into the smiling canyon of her pristinely post-pre-pubescent-maintained labia of love.
This trickle tickled, and lovely Lucida longed to wipe it with her long fingers, but knew that that could lead to naughtiness, and so bit her liberally bold lower lip and then pouted as she constrained her longing for the physik of physical love.
A year’s nights of deprivation had led to this. How could anyone expect a girl, love to miss so entirely from her life? It was unnatural and cruel, but still the hyper-hot Lucida stayed cool, even as the trickle tickled and moistened her little clitty, as it peeked peaked and pulsated her indisputable girlhood from under its rain-hood.
Despite the humidity of a thunder-rolling night, Lucida, her sleep hitherto as shallow as the pool of perspiration in which her bummy now wallowed as her sweet-sweat gathered pool on her rubber lower bed sheet, had managed at last to make depth and dreams consequent her reward to ward off the endless tiredness she had endured from always being a good girl and not being naughty with the taunting toy between her titan thighs.
And this had been her reward. With real sleep in place of counting sheep at last, she had been slapped and spanked with the night-dreams of which she daydreamed when she longed to finger-fill and thus fulfil her cup of love to overflowing. And yet, and even yet, she was unsated unsatisfied and desperately deprived.
Her long longing had assured the mighty degradation of her incredibly wild wet-dream and she had squirted: she had jerked in her sleep, had cums come incomplete, and copiously conspicuously squirted her love; her squirt making cupid sandwich of her sodden sheets.
Soaked after sin had surfaced from her within, with her glorious golden hair bedraggled, Lucida must drag herself to the shower and then seek some way to hide the shame so evident in her saturated bedding.
Lucida’s reality was far from the savagery of her wet-dream. Poppet’s sacking had not been so literal, and she now worked for neighbours who were as kind to her as Amalia had, in truth, always been. As far as she knew, Faranatina Mandrake-Warner had been abroad for years. And Montgomery was just Montgomery. He was a pet, and what a pet, so lazy, so relaxed and so loving.
So, Amalia liked her maids to be pretty and to dress seductively, and to be unquestioningly obedient. But that was only right and proper. Amalia had never laid a finger on Lucida, who, in consequence, could never do enough for such a wonderful, and such an attractive mistress.
Well, okay, since Poppet had gone, there had been that. Lucida hadn’t wanted to take that on, but had not protested in the manner depicted in her colourful dreams. It had to be done. Poppy was no longer around to do it, so someone had to....
The overnight storms had cleared the air. Either it was decidedly chill in contrast to the week that had just expired as much as it had perspired, or else Lucida’s breasts were just quivering from her shivering in her drying sweat. She would shower, and then enquire discreetly, if she and the other maids were required to make ready, and even light, the coal fuelled fires throughout the house.
...........................
Crackles from the coals in the glowing grate punctuated a lull in the conversation. At a snapped crack from the comforting flames louder than the norm, Montgomery stirred, reluctantly lifted his head toward the source of the disturbance, saw nothing to match eyes’ sight to ears sound in verification of the cause of the momentary disturbance; yawned, stretched all four of his limbs, and once more measured his full length on the hearthrug with his back to the blaze.
“I do so love your hat!” Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh exclaimed.
“Oh, I know! Isn’t it just so peachy?! Walkers in the Strand don’t you know”, the freshly foreign suntanned beauty, Faranatina Mandrake-Warner giggled blushingly.
At this Montgomery stirred and stared vacantly.
“Woo silly wickle doggy. Miss Fawamatwima said ‘Walkers’ not ‘walkies’!” Amalia teased, her wild-strawberry lips kissing the air with pretty pouts for her pampered pet, as she leaned forward to stroke Montgomery’s chest, coincidentally venting her considerable cleavage.
Amalia’s spoilt Alsatian gave a look that might have been interpreted as expressing gratitude that his long longed-for late afternoon before the glowing flames was not going to be disturbed by exercise after all, and lowered his head before rolling over, with a simpered whimper-yawn, so that his front would now be warmed in its turn.
“They’ve moved along the Strand....Walkers I mean. To the banking quarter, right next door to Clits and Co? And I was just coming out of Clits after cashing one of dear momma’s cheques there, and I saw it, and it just had to be mine: the hat I mean! You know how it is...!” Faranatina enthused, with eyes the size of saucers: sources to sear the soul.
Were it not that they were only in their mid-twenties, Amalia and Faranatina could have been called ‘old friends’. If the ‘old friends’ categorisation is defined by two girls who have known each other since childhood, then perhaps its implication that greater age must play a part can be set aside, and these two stunning brunettes qualify for its etymological embrace after all.
The Smythen-Featherstonehaugh family owned half of Somersetshire, but never troubled to visit that bucolic location. Three-quarters of neighbouring Gloucestershire had been owned by generations of the Mandrake-Warners seemingly since before time began.
Faranatina Mandrake-Warner bore the junior title. She was the Honourable Faranatina Lady Halmoures. Her momma was the present Lady Dunholme, a high flying minister in the House of Ladies in the London parliament.
Public duty had always weighed heavily on the Mandrake-Warners. The previous Lady Dunholme, the twenty-first - Faranatina Mandrake-Warner’s grandmamma - had condescended to be the prime minister of England for a time. In turn, her mother, the twenty-second Lady Dunholme, had been Foreign Minister during the Australia / Austria crisis, and had negotiated the Treaty of Harare: the agreement that had prevented those two nations going to war over what had been satirised at the time, as a mere misunderstanding over spelling.
In their earlier youth, apart from a spell when Amalia had been abroad with her momma, Amalia and Faranatina had been at boarding school and Camford University together.
Faranatina was now something on high at the English Broadcasting Company, but found attending the office behind the brass-plate with her name on it, “Too too tedious my dear”, and had thus given up on what could have been called ‘the habit’, but that it had never formed one.
Amalia, who had been born Amalia Clark-Clarke-Clerk (from the Sussex wing of that well connected family), had made a good marriage. However, her wife, Susanrale Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, was presently an ambassador in Beijing, and Amalia had wanted to stay here in Chater House, the main Smythen-Featherstonehaugh London residence.
As Amalia uncrossed her strong thighs, the smooth slide of nylon stocking on nylon stocking made the silence sensually significant. When she traipsed to trace her way to the bell-rope that sided the hearth before which Montgomery slept, grace had no compare.
A single soundless tug on the pristine white cord, was accompanied by her explanation, as if thinking aloud: “I thought we’d have tea...”
Amalia returned to her seat in a rustle of expensive expansive silks, and then displayed the bountiful benevolence of her uplift brassiere when leaning forward to stroke Montgomery’s head between his ears, unaware of the erotic whisper from the friction of her stocking tops when she crossed handsome thigh over handsome thigh once more.
She did not trouble herself to glance at the door when it opened at her maid’s entry.
Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh’s maid, having tapped on the door, as lightly as politely and as prettily, entered the blue lounge, bearing silverware, which, as she passed the windows behind the chaise-longue her mistress and mistress’ guest graced, answered the setting sun’s sparkle with myriad mirrored flashes.
On the hallmarked tray of assayed silver, she essayed to convey the fruit of topmost-top-leaf-China, which was weaving a wavering humid stream from the swan-necked spout of a tall solid-silver teapot, accompanied by a similarly stolid hot water jug, an ordered scattering of clattering spoons, and two cups and saucers of such transparent delicacy that ‘crockery’ was too harsh a word to define them.
The maid, a stunning vision, had an incredibility of natural red hair tumbling around an innocent face before falling to her curved back’s base. The kitten-green eyes, the delight of light freckles dancing on her delicate cheeks and skipping playfully over the bridge of her nose, the pouty but never petulant lips reading red in ready contrast with the pallid confection of this redhead’s complexion: recognition was instantaneous, but Faranatina too astounded to speak, and Lucida Grant-Oral, Amalia’s maid, too polite and too wise to acknowledge her one-time school-friend’s stares.
In her nine-inch stiletto heeled black ballet-toed booties, Lucida Grant-Oral’s legs were of a curvature that only nature can sculpture, and only then from the finest of god’s material: girl. Her white latex stockings clung condom-close, as no-one could condemn them for doing, and were therefore not negligent in caressing the emphatic curvature of her tensioned calf muscles.
The maid’s dress Lucida was wearing, was a ‘little black number’ in shimmering latex, with ‘little’ decidedly out-emphasising black in its description, unless and until ‘Satan’ were to be prefixed to ‘black’; although even then its brevity was more explained than its colouration by that additional description.
Lucida’s slim arms were bare to the top of her biceps and triceps. Her hands were in white latex gloves fastened at her wrists with delightfully delicate bows. Short puffed sleeves decorated each shoulder of her neck-high-fronted dress. But no-one looking that way, unless they were doubly blind, would not stare instead at two far more prominent features outlined in outthrust. For Lucida, although adorably slim, was also indisputably big.
Her fulsome fully firm breasts were in need of considerable constraint and control. They ballooned-out her dress now, with massively majestic curves, begging only of the question how big they would be were they not nestling recumbent, encumbered by her clothing, and thus restrained from full free range.
Even so, they were frolicsome. Denied the reins of a brassiere, they roamed from home within the bib of her dress, making for, or rather two, or rather too, an impressively double-blest forefront or rather two front, in the front in which they romped, with Lucida’s nipples as pronounced punctuation prompts.
Her maid’s dress was so short, that her black latex thong was clearly seen. It was leaving her bottom blatantly bare, except where the sides of her bum cheeks were caressed by the tensioned black latex suspenders clasping her stockings’ tops into local stretches. And the hem of her dress’ skirt applied no alternate modicum of becoming modesty there.
The white of the stockings was echoed in the minuscule frill-edged latex apron Lucida wore on the front of the dress’ skirt. A tiny white latex tiara did not belong in the radiance of such bewitching red hair, but was the final decking out display of the subservience of this supreme among girls: that and the white filigree frill where her dress caressed her slim neck that is.
On the very tips of her toes in her shoes, Lucida still managed to walk with a graceful gait. She was blushing at knowing she had been recognised by her friend of not so long ago schooldays, in the shame of the lowly position fate had ordained, but her sparkling emerald eyes were obediently unseeing.
As she reached the occasional table toward which Amalia had waved a casual hand, to convey that that was where she was her tray to down lay, Lucida bent straight-curvy-legged at her waist, giving gravity the dangle angle of her heavy breasts in the biblical black of the bib of her dress, and fading moonrise to inconsequence where romance makes eyes, as four eyes caressed the baring of her bottom when her hem raised the only curtain stopping staring at its starring role, until, that is, the filled sling of her tight thong joined the cabaret by singing its erotic song between her bedazzling moonlight-white thighs.
As Lucida rose again, blushing scarlet at her enforced immodesty: “Thank you Jones. That will be all for now”, Amalia gently instructed.
At this Lucida turned toward Amalia, and bobbed a curtsy of supreme subservience, as she quietly politely but audibly whispered: “Thank you my lady”.
Then she wiggled out of the blue room, the deep dimples in the sides of her delicious derriere from her stilettos holding her on such height, devastating the two waited-on women’s line of sight. Then she turned before quietly closing the door as she finally left the room.
“Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, you secretive little bitch!! I’ve a damned good mind never to talk to you ever again!” Faranatina Mandrake-Warner screamed as she giggled, before she grasped Amalia’s hands just to be sure her friend didn’t think she really meant what she had just said.
“I remember her in school. She’d left before you came to Chiltern College, but not before she’d had a turn as my slag. And, oh my dear, let me tell you, when she was fifteen! God she was so pretty! And, jeese, the tits on her!!. And she shagged like a rattlesnake! I made her shave it of course. Is it still shaven?” Faranatina enthused, “And what’s this ‘Jones’ thing all about, she was Lucida Grant-Oral last I knew. Has some lucky girl made her her wife?”
Though she was pleased at upstaging her friend, Amalia did not show it. A calm front was needed, or else the fruits of victory could fall from her grasp. A smile might become a grin. And a grin would give away that what the two friends had just witnessed was the outcome, the nearing successful outcome, of Amalia’s overhead lob.
There was no unkindness in this. It was one-upgirlship tennis, and Amalia had just won the latest match, in three straight sets; or rather, with one very curvy set in clinging latex. The next round might be Faranatina’s: so still might this one yet, unless Amalia kept her cool.....
“Oh, I didn’t think you’d know her”, Amalia calmly white-lied.
“What did you say her name was? No No No. Don’t tell me. I’m damned if I’m going to be bothered to learn the real names of servants. My first maid of all works, goodness knows how long ago now, was called ‘Jones’, so I’ve called them all ‘Jones’ ever since. It makes life so much simpler. And they don’t mind in the least you know. After all, they’re glad of the job. And so they should be, the little money grubbing slugs....” Amalia expounded, as, in the rear of her mind, she grinned ever more widely.
“Shall I pour you tea?” she then enquired, as she rose to deal with the contents of the silver tray.
Lubricated by the fragrant tea, the conversation that had been in lull between the two highborn women in the warmth of the fire, now flowed freely.
Gossip was always at the heart of it. Neither girl spoke of a mutual friend save with a flavour of cattiness. It was a never spoken fact that the cat would meow about the girl presently in front of her, behind her back too. But to each other’s fronts, faces showed only sincerity, and delight only at the shortcomings and mishaps of third parties.
As the sun sank a little more still, and the shadow pattern of the window frame on the carpet turned further from rectangle to parallelogram, dregs of tea were drying in the bone-china cups listing at angles on the saucers on the tray to which Amalia had returned them.
Both girls now half-noticed that, in his warmth and sleep, Montgomery legs were taking him chasing after deer or some other prey. But when his cock began to throb and show erection pink, Amalia realised a more passionate objective of his imaginative chase was gaining on his attention, or rather he on it, and rose to pull the bell cord, before returning to her conflab.
As Lucida walked back in and curtseyed to Amalia, the two women were still in full flow, and left her standing on her stunning legs, patiently awaiting being noticed.
“Ah, Jones, good”, Amalia responded at last.
“Will you be so good as to take Montgomery out for some exercise please”, Amalia instructed with a question that was, of course, a direct order.
“Yes my lady. Of course my lady” Lucida whispered.
Then she curtseyed, once more demonstrating the excellence of her legs as she did so, before she squatted and displayed her goddess’ thighs in their thus emboldened state, when she took a hold of the just awakening Montgomery’s collar.
Moments later, as the bent-forward Lucida walked the still sleepy Montgomery out of the room by the collar grasped in one of her gloved pretty hands, from over the back of the chaise, breaking off in mid-conversation to do so, and resuming the same discussion with Faranatina immediately afterwards, Amalia called:
“Oh and Jones: I’m afraid Montgomery was getting tiresomely frisky yet once more”.
“Do please take him into the gardens, and....well..... you know... take your panties off for him again?”
“But of course my lady”, Lucida responded as she took Montgomery out of the blue room’s door.
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