Disconnections

Blaze Days
- Episode 2 -
by Eve Adorer

Synopsis: Of the further misadventures of English socialite, redhead beauty Lucida Grant-Oral, as she pays the price for one moment of forgetfulness.....
If you wish to read Episode 1 of ‘Blaze Days’ first, before reading this second episode, you will find it as Part 27 of ‘Disconnections’......

Blaze Days
- Episode 2 -
by Eve Adorer

Lucida looked at the shoes.

Lucida’s mistress, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh had issued new orders to inform her maids, as to what would henceforth be uniform. Lucida looked at the shoes.

Amalia’s orders were unchanged as regards forbidding the wearing of brassieres.

Even though she had two very ample samples of soft-firm mammalian matter with wilful will and wild ways wondering wonderfully before her, that was no problem for Lucida. Outdoors, she was in need of the heavy restraints against such waywardness as might otherwise see her breaking the girl-laws....twice. But indoors, all the reining-in and training and constraining that had been tried on them, before she had been unmade and made a maid, had been totally worthless.

And since she had subsequently and consequently been ordered to forego a bra, they had gone completely feral. And she just loved the feel their freedom gave her. Their magical mischievousness made her conscious of their conspicuousness.

Once again....twice again...., the glide of her silken nipples on the insides of her maid’s uniforms reminded her constantly that she was a girl. Her breasts’ return to full nature, seemed only to have made her nipples all the more sensitive, and she was only too aware of the way her pink peaks poked out, as they scribed an essay on love within the bib of her dresses, when her breasts juddered jiggled and juggled, which was even when she merely walked.

Under the cool white-rubber summer blouse she had now been issued, Lucida’s bosom was bold, and would do anything other than what it was told. Her shirt was buttoned up to her neck, with sleeves likewise at wrists, though the latter with silver cufflinks rather than buttons per se. But still her double-boldness thrust out her shirt, shouting that they were, unlike the rest of Lucida, under no command from on high, other than that from heaven, to be the two minxes that made Lucida blush divinely at their magical misdemeanours.

The new orders included that maids must dress with their bottoms bared, so that they were readily accessible for chastisement when they had been naughty. This was to be interpreted as banning the wearing of: ‘any style of panty that covers the half-domes of the nethermost region’, as the instructions put it.

Reading that phraseology had brought on the prettiest giggles from the autumnal-gold-haired Lucida; giggles which had only ceased when she realised how naughtily her lovely laughter was making her breasts behave: so that her golden laughter ended with the loveliest blush.

Lucida had always worn her rubber thongs till now, when she had thought of another solution to obedience of the instruction: a solution she dearly hoped was not in breach of any other among the rules.

Lucida was always obedient of the rules. She had no wish to endure the embarrassment of being spanked; especially now Amalia – her mistress - required that the spanking be performed by another maid.

Amalia might choose to look on so as to ensure the smacking of a bared bottom was of the requisite quality as well as the decreed quantity; but had, these days, further delegated the spanking she in turn had been delegated by her absent wife, Susanrale Smythen-Featherstonehaugh.

In Lucida’s view, the black latex dress caressed her lower curves to a state of distinctively outlining conspicuousness, which was far too revealing. But it was not for Lucida to decide on such matters.

Nor did any of the maids have any say in the hemlines of their skirts, which, in the most literal sense to cut it short, were not within their control. The close-cling of Lucida’s black-rubber skirt was decreed a necessity from the very fact that its brevity would otherwise not cover her bottom when she went about being bent about any business.

Around her supremely slender waist, were the strings of Lucida’s pristinely white rubber apron: her apron a tiny frill-edged symbol of her subservience. A perfectly-neatly tied bow in the small of her back held it at the front of her skirt.

The choker around Lucida’s swan-slim neck now bore her position in the household. On the white of its tight rubber, it read in red that she was a ‘Maid of All Works’. The other maids were wearing the same guidance to inform their superiors. They were labelled ‘Maid Below Stairs’, ‘Maid of the Sleeping Chambers’, ‘Maid for Waiting – Bathing’, ‘Maid for Waiting – Dining’ and the like: all forty maids in Amalia’s household now being so distinguished one from the other.

Even though her flame-red hair made Lucida outstanding even among the astoundingly pretty girls that Amalia had in her entourage, the maid’s tiara-hat that crowned her golden glory, still bore a name, so that, as with the choker, she could be fully identified.

Although it had never been her name, Lucida’s tiara bore the surname ‘Jones’. For Lucida was the twentieth successive incumbent in the lowly position of maid of all works. And the first had been a French-Welsh girl, another redhead as it happened, named Francois Jones. And so every successor of Francois Jones had therefore been called ‘Jones’ so as to make it easier for their mistress, who had no desire to, or intention of, ever bothering to learn a new girl’s real name.

To be allowed to wear real nylon stockings instead of the previous latex ones, had been an unexpected honour. And their rolling on over her curvaceous legs had reminded Lucida of her days of freedom: the days before in history she had forgotten to put on her panties, and lost her teen-girls’ school schoolteacher’s employment instantly in consequence. But she had not worn stockings with seams before, and had had to check in a full-length mirror, which was long enough, if only just it seemed, to take in the full length of her legs, to ensure the seams were straight.

And she had teased and pleased herself by flexing her shapely calves by putting her foot on tiptoe on the wooden stool she had used, when she had fixed the clasp of her suspenders, her sin-black rubber suspenders clearly visible in outline through the cling of her skirt, to her bible-black seamed nylon stockings. Then she stood and when she stood, her stockings’ tops were high up her thighs, but not so near her skirt’s hem that they did not leave her suspenders’ clasps exposed at her thighs’ sides, and an erotic intensity of ghost-white-redhead’s thigh-flesh, bare between hem and her stocking tops’ respective respectful loving embraces.

Lucida looked at the shoes. They were in black rubber with a gold metal toecap.

Whether the metal of the toecaps was merely gold in colour or genuinely of that precious material, she endeavoured to assay by weighing one shoe held by its ankle strap in one of her long fingers. From weight alone, it seemed they were indeed gold, till she realised it was their solidity that had drawn her to the wrong conclusion.

On the outside, these gold-coloured toe tips were curved into semi-circles. Lucida used the stool she had deployed and employed to don her stockings, to explore with her toes inside the right shoe, and found that her big toe was guided to slide into a hole offset minimally from the centre of the heavy toecap, and obviously drilled into it for that purposeful containment. Meanwhile, her other toes were curled up within a hollow groove that was clearly meant to keep them thus out of the way.

She had wondered why her stockings seemed to be ‘gloved’ for her feet: why each stocking ended with a separate ‘finger’ for her big toes, a ‘glove finger’ that made her stockings’ toes the equal of mittens for her feet; given her big toes answered for thumbs in such a description.

Lucida’s curiosity grew, and, having pushed her big toe into the rounded hole within the shoe in the metal toe, she found herself working on the laces of the shoe, more a bootie in description: a black rubber bootie with leather laces through innumerable eyelets, over the tongue she had established was not tucked up, when she checked its part to ensure that it worshipfully licked her upper foot when she closed the shoe over it and began to trace place and tie the laces.

And so to the left bootie, and an equally perfect fit, found that stocking-clung big toe too seeking the seeming endless depth of the hole-recess designed for it in the inside of the toecap. And the tongue of that bootie now worshipped the upper of her left foot. And finally, she struggled with the seemingly endless laces of that bootie, finishing the tightening of those with a bow at her left ankle to match the bow adorning her right.

Lucida’s curiosity increased the more when she realised the only way it was possible for her to stand in these shoes.

And now Lucida, as she stood in her ballet-booties on her big toes alone, on the very, very topmost top tips of her big toes in her heelless ballet booties, winced at the pain from her other toes, the toes curved back like a foot fist.

And when she had got used to the pain in her other toes, Lucida turned to the mirror with a glance over her shoulder to check how she looked, and that the seams of her stockings were still as regimentally erect as would have been any connoisseur penis at the superb sight she presented, her legs not least among her accomplishments.

But, until her pretty hand and long fingers took that radiant curtain aside, flames of her bottom-of-her-back-length hair hid her startlingly-sparkling green eyes from seeing that she was devastation incarnate.

And Lucida’s lovely mouth fell open when she saw herself teetering on the curved metal toes, top-tip-tip-topped on her big toes alone, in her heelless ballets. Her ballet booties were shaping her calves and tensioning her thighs and giving her deep dimples in each of her tautly tensioned buttock’s sides.

And so she stood a study for ‘thighchology’: the science of the intense beauty in the passion-provoking proportionate immensity of the female thigh.

And Lucida’s mouth went moist at such a delicious sight. And, between her thighs, her slit instantly moistened. And Lucida’s blush was as instantaneous and as openly betraying of her arousal in that secreted secreting location; the pre-post-pubescently-shaven-and-immaculately smoothed musk-scented-centre of her instant intimate damp receptiveness.

Between her handsome thighs, her slit was simply telling Lucida that she was stunning and to: ‘look on such beauty, ye mighty, and despair’.
.......................

The wolf-whistle took Lucida by total surprise. She blushed again, her soft cream-white complexion made instant pink-petalled rosé.

She turned and realised there was a familiar shadow in the doorway of her bedroom. And she dutifully curtsied, her slight stagger illustrating the dangerousness of her tiptoe shoes, but overcoming that to show the dangerousness too, of her dipping her knees in subservience, and thus flashing the gentle but strong muscles of her thighs and calves.

“You look wonderful Lucida; or should that be ‘Jones’”? - Faranatina Mandrake-Warner’s horny croaky whisper assured her.

“Thank you my lady”, Lucida responded, blushing even more, and even more as, between her legs, it wetted at being whetted once more. And when her wicked clitty within it demonstrated its single-mindedness as it appraised praised prized prayed before and preyed upon the alluring attractiveness of Faranatina with a quiver akin Cupid’s shot arrow’s delivery in a target, Lucida blushed deeper still.

Lucida had once been Faranatina’s bed-mate. But that had been back in school when Faranatina had chosen the two-years younger Lucida to be her slag. School tradition obliged younger girls to be the ‘slags’ i.e. the servants, of the more mature girls. That the younger girls would end up being bedded in consequence was not in the statutes. And Faranatina was recalling that under the statutory issue dormitory duvet, Lucida had been anything but a statue.

“I’m bored Lucida. Bored, bored, bloody bored!” the dark-brown-eyed dark-brown-haired healthily tanned obviously fit and very shapely Faranatina moaned.

“I’m sorry to hear that my lady”, Lucida whispered as she bobbed another suspenders-testing thigh-flexing curtsey.

Faranatina now wandered slowly into Lucida’s room. She was barefoot as if she could not even be bothered to complete dressing.

At least Lucida would have concluded as much, were it not that she had earlier glimpsed Faranatina stark naked on one of Chater House’s rear verandas, topping up the tan she had acquired in the same manner in Italy a week or so since.

The dark-blue satin dress she had thrown on, was the first thing Faranatina had found to readily slip over her voluminously voluptuous figure, after re-entering  the house and looking to find if fellow-brown-eyed devastatingly attractive brunette, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, had returned from an interview with Clits and Co, the exclusive London bankers.

Faranatina glided over to Lucida’s bed and perched herself on one corner, folding her bare legs under her so she knelt there, and thus causing Lucida to shy away her lovely green eyes from the sight of Faranatina’s strong tanned thighs.

“Oh to hell with it! It’s a glorious morning! Why don’t I take you for a spin in my auto?!” Faranatina queried, in a tone that conveyed a decision already made rather than one in need of the affirmative agreement Lucida was in no position to grant or deny, let alone defy.

“But, my lady, Mistress Amalia must give permission for me to go outside Chater House’s grounds. And I must be dressed to take due account of the girl-laws when it comes to such things as my....my er..... my.... bosoms....” Lucida objected shyly.

“Oh, stuff and nonsense! You’ve got a beautiful pair of tits! They should be free to play. Anyway, as long as we make it clear that you are a servant under my charge....” Faranatina inconclusively concluded.

And so, thirty minutes later, a lovely brunette led a stunning redhead out of the door of Chater House, and into London’s Mayfair streets. The redhead was Lucida dressed as an indoor servant, sans her labelling choker, naming headband, and maid’s apron now, and on a dog’s collar and leash to show that she was an inferior, and so as to save having to have her wildly wilful breasts under strict control as per legal stricture, if against nature’s scripture.
...........................

Lucida wiggled erect-penis-tall on her long legs on top-tip-to-tiptoe-big-toes in her golden-steel cold-steel toecapped black rubber ballet booties, her thus long-stretched calf muscles flexing as she swung one divinely shapely devilishly-darkly stockinged leg before the other, causing her hips to swing as her firm buttocks did their undulation-thing in the intimately close-cling of her minuscule rubber skirt.

As it flashed off the bare flesh of her thighs above her stockings’ tops and below the hem of a skirt that clung so closely she was almost more naked dressed than if she were truly nude, the pure dream cream whiteness of her redhead’s complexion dazzled even the sun.

When she wiggled, the tits on the redhead, dived and rose to show they too were alive and free, and her glorious hair fluttered in the same breeze that spoke of its coolness, as, between her thighs, its breath whispered undying love to her immaculate lips.

A corner turned by Lucida’s wiggling curves, and they came to Faranatina’s long black open-topped limousine. And a pretty hand rose to raspberry-red strawberry-sweet lips on a giggling freckle-deckled ghost-white face with glowing green eyes filled with lovely laughter, as Lucida whispered....

“Oh, my lady!” as she stared at that now most rare of rare possessions: an automobile that had escaped the mass-scrapping that had followed the last of oil’s long-since lack of lapping. Fuel was available at a queen’s ransom: such a handsome price small change to one as wealthy as Faranatina.

Faranatina led Lucida on Lucida’s leash to the passenger side, and opened the door for the servant girl.

“Oh no my lady! You mustn’t open doors for me my lady!” Lucida protested sweetly.

But as she unclipped the leash from the dog’s collar around Lucida’s neck, where Lucida had hitherto worn her servant’s title-choker, Faranatina merely smiled. Faranatina was not being subservient to Lucida. She just wanted to watch Lucida’s legs when Lucida sat down in the car’s inside.

And as, by the bending at Lucida’s knees, stockings were stretched to bare more creamy thigh above them, and the hem of her rubber skirt fought and lost its battle not to slide over the base of Lucida’s bold bottom, and Lucida sat with her ballet-shoe-shod feet with her toes straight down and calves consequently compellingly conspicuously curved, Faranatina was in no way disappointed at the erotic display.

In the back of her mind, Lucida was by now wondering if she was going to be shagged. If Faranatina wanted to toy with her tits, or if she decided to put her hand up her skirt and feel it, or even finger it, Lucida had, of course, no say in the matter.

And she blushed when the thought of having Faranatina play with her nipples, made it moisten-up between her thighs. And since her hem had risen so high as to bare it, and it was thus kissing the leather seat as she sat, she blushed again at the certainty, that she would be anointing the seat with her love-juice if she didn’t stop her natural girlness making it feel so excitingly naughty.

Lucida knew her place. She would do nothing to bring about any intimacy with the gorgeous Faranatina. But then, with her physical and facial attributes, Lucida had no need to worry. She was too provocative for trying not to turn Faranatina on, not also to be a way in which she would turn Faranatina on. And Lucida tried not to blush as she wondered if her bottom would, as she hoped it would, be given a preliminary spanking.

Closing the passenger door, Faranatina wiggled around the front of the vehicle and slid in behind the steering wheel, her eyes being compelled to ogle Lucida’s thighs, and take in the distance Lucida’s skirt was up above her stocking tops as she sat, and to be subliminally aware, that, if Lucida wore no panties, as Faranatina suspected was the case, it would be being very intimate with the leather of Lucida’s vehicle’s front seat.
.......................

As the coveted convertible sped along the main Mayfair thoroughfare, squeals of delight uttered from the pert pouting pink lips of the lovely Lucida. Being only twenty-two, Lucida was too young to recall ever seeing a motor car other than in photographs, movies, or rusting in a scrap yard, and she had certainly never ever ridden in one before.

Now the breeze of brisk progress brought tears from the stinging fresh air for her pretty eyes. And her bare titties were very alert under her white-rubber shirt, and were vibrating with the motor’s forceful throbbing: dancing a duet down to her nipples’ tips, to the orchestrated jazz of twelve thrusting cylinders. And she was all too aware, that, in a lower location, another sensitive part of her was all too aware of the vibration the powerful motor was impressing upon it, as it pressed on the seat between her gorgeous thighs.

When lovely Faranatina turned her way and shouted “What do you think of motoring then Lucida?!”

Lucida could honestly respond: “It is wonderful my lady”, only for her to blush at the answering look in Faranatina’s dark-brown eyes, which seemed to say: ‘Yes indeed you are!’
...........................

The two Girl-Control copettes, in their pink two-piece jacket and miniskirt uniforms with uniform black stockings, at the crossroads five miles out on the journey, were astonished to see an automobile on the road, and seemed to see it as their bounden duty to hold a forbidding hand aloft, in order to order Faranatina to stop.

“Good morning ladies”, the corporal of copettes remarked as she drew near, till she spotted Lucida and corrected her polite greeting to “Good morning lady”, thus addressing Faranatina alone, and ignoring the inconsequential Lucida, whom she could now see was obviously only a servant.

“Lady, it must take a whole lot more than a standard ponygirl-and-cart licence to drive this incredible machine!” the corporal copette joked.

“It does indeed”, Faranatina responded, politely but with an intonation of impatience....“Now, if you would be so good as to let us go on our way officer......”

“Not so fast lady. Not so fast. We’re on the lookout after a bank rob down town last night...well, early this morning? It was a two girl team? I’m afraid we’re gonna have to ask you to step out this splendid contraption, and open anywhere where anything might be hid, and then I’m afraid we gotta search you both, to check you ain’t hidden no diamonds on you....It’s just routine....”

“Oh for god’s sake officer! Would your two robbers be in a mode of transport like this?! Jeese, where do they get your types from?!  Are you so stupid as to think your robbers would be so foolish as to make themselves so blatantly obvious?!!”

The corporal copette blushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger, but knew from experience that the best revenge for this rudeness was to stay cool. Besides, if she answered back a civilian of the ‘valued class’, such as this beautiful brunette appeared to be if she could afford to buy let alone run this auto, her job was on the line.

“Would you step out of the vehicle please ma’am and you too”, she added with a nod to indicate that she meant Lucida as well.

As she rose on her tiptoes in her ballet shoes after exiting the car and her pretty hands successfully fought to lower her miscreant micro-miniskirt’s hem, the corporal’s attractive assistant ogled the full length of Lucida’s dark-stockinged creamy-white legs, and let out an inadvertent low whistle conveying the word ‘wow!!’

For her part, Faranatina stayed in the vehicle, whilst holding outstretched her slim arm and sarcastically waving her identity card.

The corporal took the card, and opened its single fold, read it, closed it, and blushed deep scarlet as she handed it back, before snapping to attention and saluting briskly as she stared straight at the horizon.

“I do beg your pardon Lady Halmoures”, she whispered as she addressed Faranatina by her formal title: a title she recognised as that of the oldest daughter and heir of her ultimate boss, Lady Dunholme, the Minister for Home Affairs in England’s government.

As the corporal walked around the front of the car, to assist her assistant in insisting that Lucida at least stand with her pretty hands on the vehicles rear-folded folding roof, Faranatina got out of the driver’s seat.

“We’ve still got to search this one though”, the corporal confirmed, seeing doing so as some revenge for Faranatina having got away frisk free as it were.

“Why isn’t this’n wearing a bra ma’am?” the corporal enquired of Faranatina, “It’s against the law for a serving girl as well endowed as she clearly is to go out in public with her breasts free to excite and entice other girls ma’am.”

“I’m perfectly au fait with the girl-laws officer”, Faranatina responded forcefully, “She is a servant and I have her on a leash as required. So there is no breach of the law, officer. Now: if you would be so kind as to let us go about our peaceful and lawful progress....”, Faranatina sarcasmed.

“I can see a collar, but I can’t see no leash ma’am”, the corporal responded in a monotone, that conveyed the sarcasm it hid sufficiently to avoid giving Faranatina a chance to charge the officer with insolence.

“It’s in the car you stupid woman!” Faranatina snapped.

“So it’s not on the girl, and she’s therefore not under full right proper and lawful control is she ma’am?” the copette countered.

“No bra is already one additional...well....two additional breaches of the girl-laws ma’am. Now then, does she got it covered I wonder..... Or do we got yet another breach, and a worse one at that?” the corporal enquired coolly, realising she had spotted a way to get her own back on the titled lady who was being so rude to her.

“How on earth would I know if the little tart is wearing panties?!” Faranatina almost shouted.

“Well, there’s one way to find out”, the corporal concluded. And, in that instant, Lucida felt an insistent enquiring hand pushed between to part her superb thighs.

The fingers fumbled to find it, and she closed her eyes at the very thought of having it felt right here and now while she stood on the sidewalk of a busy main outer-city highway.

Lucida lowered and lidded her sparkling green love lanterns, but could not cool the flush that suffused her soft complexion. It had gone moist. She was wanton girl because she had been for so very long wanting girl. It had mistressy over her majesty. It reigned and it could not be reined. She wanted to cross her legs so as to make access to it the more challenging. Perhaps if she did that, the copette would slap her around to make her yield it up.

So was it perhaps to give a roughing-up in rough justice a ‘yes’, that Lucida moved to rub her thighs together?

But then she noticed the look in Faranatina’s eyes: a look that said that Faranatina thought ....because she had seen Lucida’s blush and knew why her lovely face was thus....that Lucida was already being too much the whore, and Lucida felt shamed before her mistress’ friend.

Lucida relaxed her attempt to close her powerful legs, and fought her anticipation.

She also fought to prevent letting go un petit pét to vocalise in the locale of her excitement. But then the thought that Faranatina would enjoy watching her being felt and fingered by a complete stranger, turned moisture to drizzle and the two copettes and Faranatina, all ignored Lucida’s demeaning little fart.

At least Lucida assumed they had, till the weary worldly-wise copette looked Faranatina straight in the eyes and enquiring insultingly of Lucida: “You trying to tell us something darlin’?”

Lucida’s blush deepened as she died of shame until her flushed face gave the beetroot a challenge to its colourful claim to fame. Now, instead of it being secretly exciting to have it felt by a stranger, all knew the secret Lucida had been seeking to keep. And, what her little fart had announced to the world was her state of mind. Her petit pét had demeaningly demonstrated that she had been turned whole whore by the thought of having it explored.

But still Lucida sighed when the corporal’s fingers were caressing its sensitive totally nude and shaved –to-innocence lips. If Lucida had been asked she would have confessed to the state of undress it was in. But to her girly subconscious, to have the state of pure nature it was in, explored and discovered in this demeaning manner was so so exciting! And her blushes betrayed what they portrayed, which was that she was fighting not to let it wet itself up even more.

But when the corporal suddenly pushed her middle finger up into it, and began to finger-fuck it, Lucida’s succulent mouth stifled a scream of astonishment.

In an instant’s instant it was immensely wet, and it was no longer a scream she sought and fought to stifle, but a moan of longing and pleasure.

And when the finger was pulled out of it, as brusquely as it had been pushed up it, Lucida could not help the squeak of disappointment and frustration she emitted from her pertly pouting mouth.

And yet the brevity of the depravity and the deprivation of its non-prolongation kept it lubriciously deliciously lubricated. And in consequence she felt the cusp of a cum.

Momentarily, this sufficed to satisfy her intense femininity. But frustration so quickly took its place, when the cum did not come but faded from the memory of her most intimate place, that her pretty face displayed her displaced disgrace, because, even as she tried to look as if the fingering had been something she totally despised, tiny tears of keening cornered her pretty eyes.

These tears Lucida tried to prolong so they would look like she was ashamed at and hurt by being ravished and intimately fingered, and her moans and squeaks had been of subsequent consequent pain. But that did not work, so she lowered her head and hoped her sweet mouth and gorgeous eyes would not show her confused state of elation deprivation and frustration.

“Is this horny little bitch yours ma’am!” the corporal asked Faranatina with a tone suggesting confidence increasingly restored.

“Well no, she belongs to a close friend....” Faranatina began to explain, before realising, too late, the approach the corporal was taking.

“Just as I thought possible ma’am. Intimacy between the valued class and the serving classes is of course, an offence against the girl-laws. A serving girl in public without her breasts under strict control and, more especially, without it at least covered by panties, is a misdemeanour. But, me and my constable here, are also convinced that you were taking this serving girl, a serving girl you do not own, somewhere where you could, not to put too fine a point on it ma’am, shag it ma’am. And I don’t blame you at all for that neither ma’am...”, the corporal smirked.

“Your insolence has been duly and fully noted corporal; as has the fact that your police number is ‘6969’. Your superiors will be hearing from my solicitors”, Faranatina furied.

“Ma’am!” the corporal responded briskly and smartly, and clicked her heels as she saluted Faranatina.

At that Faranatina got back into her automobile, started it, and drove away, leaving Lucida in the hands of the two shapely Girl-Control officers.
...............................

“You’re under arrest darlin’. Being naked of the chest and without nether cover in public is one count...well...two counts.....well even three counts, if I thinks about it. But you is mainly being taken in for being ‘a female of the underclass attempting, either successfully or unsuccessfully, to seduce a female of the valued classes into an act or acts of an indecent nature’. That’s a premium charge under the girl-laws that is darlin’.....”.

The corporal then turned toward and grinned and winked at the constable. Then she nodded at Lucida: “Take a note constable, that it’s true what they say about redheads. Redheads are hot, and I mean hot!! It was on fire in there! It nearly burnt my effing finger off!!”

“Get her in the girlackles. And use them to cuff her wrists at the front of her. It’s a long walk to the station house, and I reckon we’ve earned the right to have her walk in front so we can enjoy the legs on her, and watch that wonderfully wicked bum she’s got.”
...............................

Whoever had decreed that Lucida’s golden glistering hair be cropped to a one-inch stubble of wonderful wavering waving old-gold, should have been told that it deprived her crowning glory of not one scintilla of its searing seductiveness.

Lucida appeared in the dock: the stand in the court for the accused. She was not in court: not in the dock in the court proper: she merely appeared in the dock, projected onto a whole-wall size screen from the cell she occupied in a neighbouring room.

After her walk, her seductive silken gliding wiggle, to the precinct station house, Lucida had been subjected to all the ritual preliminaries. Her name and servants’ registration number had been tapped into one of the station’s rather aging laptops by the pretty copette constable who had been in the arrest team duo.

For a girl of eighteen or so, raised, since she had been born right into it, only in the modern age, this sweet-faced curly-haired blonde was pretty backward with something as old-fashioned as a laptop.

Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was that it was too old for her. She was, after all, having to type out the entry with her fingers, instead of employing the voice-recognition procedures she had used at school.

Lucida admired the younger girl’s complexion, which was almost as soft as her own. The younger girl could take a tan though. As a pure redhead, Lucida was always as perfectly pale as ghostly white, but for the pink health of her cheeks as aided, of course, by her frequent shy blushes.

“Would yer undo yer blouse please luv?” the blonde copette instructed sweetly, before adding: “Sorry luv: like it’s just routine and dat?”

Dexterity with long slim fingers despite impractically long perfectly girlicured fingernails, Lucida’s dainty hands, swiftly undid the belly to neck buttons that secreted her bountiful breasts.

Lucida’s lobster-pink nipples caught the younger girl’s light-blue eyes, and found her shy to look upon them. And she blushed. Lucida struggled to pull the tail of her rubber shirt out of the waistband of her rubber micro-mini-skirt, and the young copette watched, whilst trying not to watch, Lucida’s breasts dance decidedly distracting.

This done: “Face der camera luv?” the copette constable instructed.

Lucida was correctness itself in her behaviour. She had no wish to cause trouble. She knew she was in enough already, without adding to her problems.

The flash caught a seriously lovely face with green eyes glowing with health but sad with fear; a face speckled with spectacular full summer freckles.

“Would yer... I means like dis...” Lucida watched the pretty copette as the copette made her hands make two gestures of supplication under the region of her own chest... “So-as to stop ‘em moving like....”, the copette added, with a further blush.

Obedience her best convenience, Lucida cupped her breasts, one per considerably overspilled overfilled gentle hand, and held them a little aloft and as steady as their wild wilfulness would ever let them allow themselves to be.

The copette remembered to adjust the focus of the camera for a super-close-up. And, with a pause for its flash to recharge between shots, she quickly photographed each of Lucida’s nipples, very close to.

Now the camera was plugged into a port on the laptop and the photos downloaded.

Two seconds later, a ‘beep’ sounding took the curly haired cute blonde’s attention to a message on the laptop’s screen.

“Well, I’m glad to see yer telling us der troof luv. Yer’d be surprised ‘ow many ud try it on wiv dare lies. Day ought ter know dat dare nipple-prints was taken when day was reduced to der serving class, and dat dare nip photos, like dose what I’ve just taken of yourn, would find dem out in an instant. So yer really is Lucida Grant-Oral. Yer taught my kid sister for half-an-hour. She told me about it....it were dat day yer forgot yer panties....?”

The copette stopped. She could see that the terrified Lucida had tears starting in her lovely eyes.

“Sorry sweetheart. I didn’t mean ter be cruel nor nuffink.....”

“Yer trial is underway tomorrer”, she added.

“We gotta get yer in dare for der sentence. Afraid we gotta trim dat gorgeous ‘air of yourn. We gotta get yer lookin’ like a guilty prisoner, since dat is what der court will find yer, eh....” she concluded in a tone as meant to be cheering as the words she used were searing.
...............................

Lucida had then had her glorious red hair cropped to golden stubble before being put in one of the station’s portable cells.

A survey of girls in prison and police holding cells, such as that Lucida would have been confined to in days now passed into the past: a survey of the ‘footage’ taken by the cameras in their cells, had shown that all too many sought to relieve the boredom and fear of their long days in prison by masturbating.

The authorities’ response had been a rigorous regime of exercise and cold showers, but that had not worked. Accordingly, they welcomed the introduction of the anti-masturbation cage.

Lucida sat in an anti-masturbation cage. She was in her white-rubber shirt. The ‘hem’ of that shirt now hung out. Her black-rubber skirt was ridden up.

Lucida had had her hair cropped and then been imprisoned in a standard anti-masturbation cage. Square shaped, iron bars on all six sides, with a steel plate slid in to form the unyielding cold hard floor on which she sat with her thunderously-strong thighs up against her chest. Lucida’s pretty hands were outside the bars and her slender wrists chained and padlocked to the cage’s bars so that she could not use her hands to play with it.

Lucida’s blouse was not buttoned up to the entirety of its collar around her neck, and the size of the anti-masturbation cage was such that her head must bow and her lovely eyes forcibly assess the visible rise and fall of her beautiful snow-white breasts as she breathed: breasts mountainous each side the distinctly distantly deep valley of her cleavage.

Her cell had been lifted in the midmorning of the next day. It had been hosed out first. She had pissed, but her sauternes had been wickedly ignored and hosed out of the cage in sacrilege and wanton waste.

Trapped in her anti-masturbation cage Lucida had been carried into the camera room next door to the court in which she was being tried in semi-absentia.

Her anti-masturbation cage rotated on the dock on the screen in the courtroom, and the judge and court and the women and girls present to watch justice take its proper course, could see that Lucida sat with her legs folded up to her chest and her tiptoed feet in her ballet shoes pointing firmly to the ground. So her thighs were made massive, and her calves were acutely cutely curved.

And since Lucida’s charges included the confirmation she was sans panties in a public place. And since Lucida was still in the servant’s clothing she had worn at arrest. And since, in order to avoid cramps, Lucida was innocently waving her tucked-up folded legs slowly side to side in the micro-minimum of movement her anti-masturbation cage allowed her, even the judge found herself looking between Lucida’s handsome thighs to try and catch a glimpse of it.

“.....extraordinary behaviour....wanton seduction preamble to rape of her superior....should be ashamed of using such an admittedly alarmingly attractive face....goddess-made body..... wonderfully full firm breasts......stunningly lovely hair....such shapely legs.....above all, those very ample thighs.....seduction....no punishment too little....too much displaying of legs in the modern world.....too much exposure of thigh.....lesson for all young women in the undeserving serving classes setting out to deliberately seduce those above their station in life by disporting themselves in a state of semi-undress so as to expose their youthful bodies and not least their thighs.... guilty statutory rape of an innocent of the valued class.... rendition.... punishment filmed for the purposes of sale to offset the cost of the proceedings. Take her down.....”

Lucida heard none of this, and merely found her anti-masturbation cage being lifted and removed from the camera room, so that the next caged girl could be found guilty as charged in her turn

Lucida’s mistress, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, had been her judge. Amalia of course knew that the truth was that Lucida’s drive out with her close friend, Amalia’s close friend that is..... the drive in Faranatina Mandrake-Warner’s auto, had been entirely innocent.

But Amalia’s job was to uphold the girl-laws, and to be merely arrested under those was a plea of ‘guilty’ - the trial only being to enable the prisoner to be subjected to filming in her cage, and the proceedings in the court, as would her punishment be filmed also, so that the expense of imposing the law could be defrayed though sale of the rights in the movie to the highest bidder on O-bey.
..........................

After her trial in semi-absentia, Lucida was free, briefly. She had not been informed of the outcome of her trial, or the sentence. She had no right to know, and nobody thought to bother to tell her. After all, she was only a serving girl. When she dared to ask, she was dismissed with:

“I have no idea. And, even if I knew, I can see no good reason why I should inform you!” this from the copette sergeant who was removing the padlocks and chains that held Lucida’s slender wrists to the side-bars of her anti-masturbation cage.

But at least Lucida could deduce from that dismissive response that a trial, her trial, had taken place, and was over: or, rather, it seemed reasonable to draw those two inferences.

Let out of her anti-masturbation cage, the chance to shower had been like a visitation of heaven to earth. Even more so, had been the opportunity for Lucida to urinate and defecate without soiling herself and her cage.

Lucida had been fighting against defecating in her cage for seeming hours. And now she was released from that cramped confinement, she almost lost out on holding back. She dashed to sit her shapely bottom on the seat over a lavatory bowl, getting there only within a split second before achievement of an embarrassment that had not been visited upon her since her childhood.

Afterwards, while she showered, to ensure that her snow-white body did not tempt her to any naughtiness, a close eye was kept on her by two bored-looking occasionally yawning Girl-Control copettes.

When washing between her thighs, Lucida’s dainty fingers were only allowed to touch it so as to be able to wash it. In so doing she realised that she had sweet golden stubble: a five o’ clock shadow at six o’ clock on her timeless egg-timer-figure.

Lucida was naked for prison breakfast. That is not saying that she was being served up as the meal. She was, of course, more delicious than anything on the menu. But her state of undress was total after her shower, as she sat on the prickly splinters of a wooden bench, and eagerly spooned salted-water-based porridge into her pretty mouth. Downing drinking-water eagerly between porridge spoonfuls, such was her thirst after over twenty-four hours chained in her anti-masturbation cage.

She had not realised that she was or could be so hungry, as she voraciously consumed two windfall apples and a pear from a bowl in the middle of the table she sat before, before spotting the notice restricting prisoners to ‘one item of fruit only’.

At home, working for Amalia, that could have earned her a hand-spanking. Here in prison, she prayed it would not be noticed, for fear that if it was, she would be whipped.

Insofar as prison provided for luxury, Lucida’s post-breakfast procedures were para-pampering. Apart from cleansing her teeth, she was thoroughly waxed so that it was returned to its pristine pre-post-pubescence.
.........................

Compared with the tiny thongs she had always worn before; when she wore panties at all, the black-rubber knickers Lucida was instructed to don immediately after her shower breakfast and pampering, were positively industrial in size and strength.

They were like the knickers she had worn at school for her physical training lessons. Back then, the exercises to shape the legs, keep the breasts firm, keep the tummy flat, and aerobics and running, but nothing that would risk her girl’s hymen: these had all been performed in the horrible green rubber knickers the girls had had to swap for their panties and thongs before such lessons.

The ‘pogols’ for her feet were the clue. Anabian wives came to Lucida’s sharp mind. Lucida had seen them in pictures, and she began to realise what they wore under their submissive outside appearance: for she realised - a dawning step-by-step - that she was being put into their mourning-style raiment.

The ‘pogols’ for her feet were the clue. She had latterly worn ballets to shape her legs. Lucida had always wondered what Anabian wives wore. She had discovered pogols on a website all about British Senabre in Africa, and thought them decidedly sexy. That had been not long before they had briefly caught on as fashion must-haves here in England and over in the states.

The pogol for her right foot was readied first. It was a flat-soled rubber-soled sandal. The natives had originally carved the soles from wood, but were rumoured now to make them from the discarded worn rubber tyres off ponygirl carts.

The Anabians were a make-do-and-mend people, who hated waste. The recycling of the rubber tyres was typical of their women’s sharp eye for an improvement at no measureable cost.

Hand-crafted pogols had been imported to Europe and America, from British Senabre, where the Anabian Tribe mainly lived, when the fashion rage was on. But the Anabians were a simple tribe, and had no interest in upping production much beyond what would satisfy their own demands. And that was partly why the rage for them died out as quickly as it had arisen.

Lucida tried not to show the erotic impact the binding of her right foot in its pogol was having on it: that is, on the essence of girl between her thighs.

Her big toe was inserted in a long round pogol, a cup-like container, circular in shape, hollowed to contain the big toe, and longer still than the big toe itself by the length of the big toe.

A comparison with a pogol, would be with the ferrule of a walking stick, or a large finger thimble. The big toe was inserted in the pogol ‘ferrule’, which was, like a walking stick ferrule, flat at the tip and slightly broader than its contents. The pogol for the big toe was what gave this form of sandal its name.

Now, Lucida watched fascinated, as a series of laces, slim leather, coming up from the lower end of the pogol’s hard-rubber sole: the lower end of the sole to which the pogol’s cup / ‘ferrule’ was also attached, were arranged between each of her toes, taken through a conjoining rubber ring, spread once more, and buckled in an array to a tight leather strap around her slender ankle. At her sandals’ rear, a broad single leather strap led from her ankle strap, over her heel to the end of the pogol’s sole covering her heels.

Prior to them going into the gathering ring and thereafter fanning-out once more to be buckled individually to the strap around her ankle, a tongue was effectively formed by these between-toe-straps. And two horizontal leather straps were now buckled across this ‘tongue’ array of between-toes straps: one cross-strap just above her toes, and one just below the gathering ring. A third cross-strap just above the gathering-ring completed the strapping of the pogol sandal to her foot. These cross-straps not only tied the sole of the pogol to her foot, but made its sole bend inward to take on the shape of her instep.

When both pogol sandals had been strapped on, Lucida stood on tiptoes on her big toes alone: on her big toes in the pogol-cups: the pogol “ferrules”. These held her feet up so that her other wide-spread toes wiggled helplessly above the floor. Lucida was thus even more perhaps, but at least as much en-pointe top-tiptoe as in her ballets, and the effect on shaping her legs and dimpling her derriere was just as divine.

The black-rubber arm-length gloves came next; then the black-rubber underskirt.

The former were rolled up like stockings in preparation, before, after her fingers and thumbs were in them, being unrolled up her slender arms till they ended under her armpits.

The latter, the black-rubber underskirt, clung as tightly as the micro-miniskirt Lucida had worn in the freedom of London on the day before her trial. But this underskirt was no miniskirt. Its waistband was just above her hips: just above where her black-rubber knickers clung to the outline of her buttocks, and bulged between her thighs, outlining the lips of it, where it nestled there.

The underskirt followed her knickers in the closeness of its intimate cling, and enveloped her strong thighs, covered over her knees, her curvaceous calves, and right down to her very ankles, tapering as it went and getting tighter and tighter still by degrees, till it effectively bound her ankles with their inner ankle bones – the outthrust of her navicular bones - almost touching.

Lucida found it difficult to stand now without turning her heels in, and thus her tiptop-tiptoe-topped feet out: the latter at 45 degrees as she stood at strict soldierly attention in the clinging imprisoning tapering underskirt.

Now came the strangulation bra. Its message was that Lucida’s breasts would behave.

Each of Lucida’s lovely breasts was strapped tightly in five-inch-long thick black-rubber semi-circular formations that closing straps wrapped around so that the semi-circles that cupped became tubes that gripped.

The straps of these tubes were pulled tight until they were gripping each breast as if a life depended upon their grasp. The tit tubes, linked by a strap like a bra in her cleavage, also had straps that went around her back and were tightly buckled after being joined together there.

The tubes of the strangulation bra made Lucida’s breasts bulge out like balloons at the ends of the tubes, and her soft lobster-pink-sunrise nipples had become as puffed out and pointed as if they were permanently excited. So the individual nipple-bras came next.

It was to address the latter unfortunate by-product of the strangulation bra, that found each of Lucida’s now very pointed nipples, being cupped over with tiny rubber cups, from each of north, south, east and west of which, short straps led to the outer edge of the tubes of the strangulation bra, and could be strapped into answering buckles at the same compass locations on the tubes. Thus Lucida’s lewd-made nipples were discretely cupped and capped.

Now the black-rubber waspie-corset was passed around Lucida’s already very shapely waist, and no effort wasted in taking her natural twenty-two inches down to a breathtaking – breathtaken – twelve. Multiple tight straps were used to ensure this: strong leather straps pulling the hard rubber waspie to a brutally narrow acute curviness.

Next came the black-rubber gag. Lucida’s mouth was filled with a vile tasting round rubber penis-tongue that filled her lovely mouth, all the way back to her epiglottis and beyond.

The tongue had within it, an integral ball-bulge that ensured her mouth was fully filled by pressing hard down on her own tongue. So her mouth and teeth were around this gag, as if her lovely lips and tongue were performing a particularly enthusiastic fellatio, with the added spice of her teeth biting gently into this invader of her upper love-orifice.

Akin to a scarf being wrapped over the mouth on a bitterly cold day, the broad scarf-gag that had its integral penis deep in her mouth, was wrapped over her lips - it did not cover her nose - with, as it was strapped at the back of her neck, its penis-tongue almost causing Lucida to choke it was thrust so far to the back of her mouth. Its only mercy was a central pin-width hole in the penis gag through to her throat in recognition that this wholly holy creation – this girl – must somehow breath.

As the black-rubber hood was placed over her head, Lucida’s sparkling green eyes showed her fear.

The hood was initially turned inside-out, placed at the crown of this redhead’s gorgeous golden hair, and then turned so that its outside was no longer inside, and so that the whole of Lucida’s lovely freckled features were completely covered: made completely anonymous by its cruelty, as, by designed shape, it enveloped the whole of her head including covering her already gagged mouth before going under her chin.

Lucida’s struggles in panic were totally understandable. But she soon realised that, when she opened her pretty eyes, she could see through two individual eye-shaped slits provided for that purpose; and she could breathe through the three pinhole-holes provided for her nostrils and her gagged mouth.

The black-rubber hood came next: another black-rubber mask. It covered her head more completely than the already all-face close-cling mask that had been put on her over her scarf-gag.

The hood, covered Lucida’s head, and its rubber shoulders covered her soft complexioned lightly freckled own.

Now Lucida must breathe through a tiny single circular hole in the region of her nostrils and mouth. And though she could not bear witness to the fact herself, her green eyes softly shone through a narrow horizontal slit in the cowl: a slit sewn top-to-bottom in its centre where the bridge of her nose would be, so as to keep it shaped: to stop it falling wider in the middle than it was at its outer edges: so as to minimise the slot for her eyes.

Lucida’s slim arms, already encased in arm-pit long black-rubber gloves, were now introduced into the sleeves of the black-rubber outer dress she must wear.

These sleeves clung as closely as her gloves. The open back of the dress enabled it to be put around her neck next, with the hood’s lower extremities thus contained within it. And the dress, its thick strong black-rubber, now pressed down on Lucida’s normally naughty breasts strangled and with their nipples in individual bra-cups on her chest. The dress’ close cling ensured her tits would still emboldenly show that they were definitely defiantly there.

In a concession to modernity, the outer dress included a strong zip the length of its back. And thus, all the way from Lucida’s neck, where the cowl-mask was fixed under the dress’ circular collar, down the arch of her back, over her buttocks within her black-rubber knickers and the already close-clinging underskirt, to Lucida’s ankles, and to where the hem of the outer dress then flared out to cover the tiptop-tiptoed feet of the redhead angel and trailed on the ground so that the outer dress completely covered her feet. Over the long road the zip trailed over delectable dale and desirable hills: over arches and curves, the zipper was eased till Lucida was finally sealed concealed.

Over her gloved fingers the rings of her silver finger-cuffs were eased next. From each finger ring-cuff ran a chain to a bracelet padlocked around her wrist. These silver chains ran over the backs of her hands to keep the finger-cuff-rings at the top of her individual gloved fingers. More, slim but strong, silver chains, no more than half-an-inch long each, then linked her left and right hands together, finger by finger.

And her thumbs were not forgotten. They too wore silver rings chained to the bracelet on their respective wrists. But they did not have a chain between them. Instead the two rings around her thumbs melded. They were soldered solidly to form two rings as one, like a figure 8, with her thumbs thus kept in obedient close proximity and harmless harmony.

Two silver cuffs then embraced her arms above the crooks of her elbows, and her arms were linked by a chain behind her back, so that her gloved and finger and thumb-cuffed hands, were held as if praying in supplication, at the height of her wasped waist in front of her belly.

The final all-enveloping rubber cape: a cape covering her from head to toes: a cape of no shape, that left a sister-slit for her eyes to match the slit in the cowl, but paid no other due to Lucida being a girl or to her needing to breath: this huge heavy rubber cape was thrown over her, its eye slit arranged aligned, care taken the cape covered her entirely and that it draped the floor all around her: that all 360 of the degrees circling her beauty trailed cape that covered her.....

The latter and last cape was fixed on its inside to a circular rubber crown, and this was pressed on Lucida’s already scarf-gagged, masked, and then cowl-hooded head. The crown was carefully located over her forehead so that it ran around her head, holding the outer-cape from escape, and the eye-slit in the outer-cape in place.

.....And in this dreadful garb, Lucida was ready. Her sparkling eyes now saw the world through a three-ply-gauze strip covering inside the outer cape: a multiple gauze strip that was there to stop the world seeing even Lucida’s gorgeous green eyes.

And so the world could not see that the lovely redhead was crying.

This was the dress and under-jewellery: this, but for its being in rubber rather than traditional wool and leather; this as a whole was the garb and under-jewellery, of a wife-ette or fiancée of an Anabian tribeswoman. This much Lucida knew. And from that knowledge she concluded that the court must have decided that she be banished to an Anabian harem to spend the rest of her life either occasionally loved, or wholly neglected, by an Anabian warrior-girl chieftain.

“Hey darlin’! You’d better hope you don’t want the bathroom in a hurry don’t you?!” a mocking girl’s voice shouted so that Lucida could hear her, even in her Anabian robes.
................................

Lucida must now learn some of the secrets of her Anabian outfit. Her first problem was to learn how to walk, on her big toes alone, in her tiptoe-enforcing pogol sandals, and within the purposely tight cling of her underskirt as reinforced by her overdress.

“Come on you bitch: we haven’t got all day for fuck’s sake!”

Lucida began to paddle her pretty feet and work her strong legs against the counter-will of her underskirt and dress. Her tiptoed feet were the only part of her lower limbs she could move with any freedom at all. Her legs were so tightly bound together she could almost have progressed more readily by jumping forward than by trying to walk. She flexed her feet, and she managed a single step forward.

“Come on you fucking bitch! Get a fucking move on!!”

Like all girls, lovely Lucida was always in at least two minds, and the second of them on this occasion, as ever, was in the precise location where it nestled in her heavy-duty rubber knickers under her tight-clinging underskirt, her body-shape-outlining overdress, and her body-shape disguising and denying final black-rubber over-cape.

And the cruelty of her situation; and the voice of the new girl, the new copette in charge of her, ordering her to: “Come on you fucking slag! Get fucking moving!!” suddenly lubricated it, and Lucida wanted to obey despite the pain in her big toes as she merely stood, and she began to paddle her feet, tippy-toe by tippy-toe, to flick her feet, which were all she could really move, and thus to discover the only way in which an Anabian wife-ette could walk.

A girl’s concentration being at all times and totally on her body, was an intention behind the Anabian wife-ette’s garb. And such concentration had now to be Lucida’s only purpose in her sweet life, as she paddled her pretty feet and progressed slow-snail along: despite, to all outward appearances, moving like a graceful black swan.

Already perspiring under all the rubber that clung to her and covered her, Lucida flexed her pretty feet and tippy-toed slowly along the corridor that led out of the police station, her heart leaping at the beams of morning sun that were warming London in the doorway she was slowly approaching in her mourning-coloured garb.

Such was the strain on her of the strange way in which she had to make motion, Lucida’s feet hurt and her calves ached already, but she girlfully flexed her feet hidden as they were below the floor-draping hem of her outer-dress and the all-covering final cape, and slowly and obediently made her way outside.

The sun Lucida thought she would welcome, now beat down on her black clad figure, and made her only too glad that it was not yet so far after dawn.

A gaggle of giggling girls went by. They were schoolgirls on vacation. As always, they had taken the opportunity of the freedom of their holiday, to be free about their dress; or, more accurately, lax about the extensive state of their undress.

“Charley is a milkmaid! Charley is a milkmaid! Charley is a milkmaid!” they chanted behind the miniskirted figure of the most profoundly well-endowed among them. And then the two tormentors of poor Charlotte burst into giggles at their cruelty to their friend, after, no doubt, she had again turned to implore them to keep it a secret as they had originally promised.

Lucida took in that the pretty blonde “Charley” was maybe seventeen and her friends perhaps two years younger. And she realised that Charlotte must have been told that, with advantage being taken of her foremost two-most evident advantages, she was to be brought to milk, and become a dairy-ponygirl to graze her days away at one of the wealthy country-houses when she left school.

There was nothing shameful in that. But her two companions were perhaps covering up for the fact that their futures were yet to be decided, and that they were accordingly apprehensive underneath, despite their outward bravado.

But, when the three miniskirted lovelies spotted Lucida in her Anabian dress, they paused in astonishment. Why that should be so in such a cosmopolitan city as London was curious. Perhaps these angels were from out of town.

And was it because their slits went instantly wet at the thought of being dressed in confinement like that Lucida was in, that they all pointed and gasped and collapsed in giggles at the sight of Lucida in her Anabian clothing?

Lucida had no answer to that question. Their skirts were exceptionally short and their pure-white snow-white panties might have shown evidence had it been true. But she could not be sure that what they did indeed show, was from excitement of love’s lust, or from the pretty girls peeing themselves with their laughter at her misfortune.

All Lucida knew was that the golden laughter of these girls in their youthful freedom, hurt her cruelly, and the fact that the taunting of Charlotte had been forgotten, and Charlotte included-in with her friends once more, and joining in with the golden giggles, was no compensation.

Meanwhile, Lucida flexed her tiptop-tiptoed big toes to tippy-toe in her pogol-sandals walking to where she knew not, till she spotted the waiting ponygirl cab, and a ramp, and a curse: “Get fucking moving you filthy slag” from the copette who ensured Lucida wiggled up the prepared ramp and went aboard.
.......................

“There you go luv! Your fare’s already paid....” the cab-girl smiled kindly as she lowered the ramp for Lucida to wiggle down it and into the airport terminal.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine out their sweetheart. I’ve heard that some of those Anabian warrior-girls can be very nice to their women..... that I have”, the cabess relayed, in a tone that said she didn’t really know anything about the subject, and what little she did know was very much of the opposite to her sugar-coated assurance.

Lucida wondered if she could now escape: although running was hardly an option and she would clearly stand out among the populace, and she could not use her hands and arms to disrobe herself, and she could not speak to beg for help, and she had no money or other means to pay.....and so her mind went over and over her situation as she tiptoed top-tip of her big toes in her cruel Anabian out-fittings and in-fittings toward and into the airport terminal, because it was the only place she could think of to go.

She needed a plan. She kept telling herself that she needed a plan. But still she obediently wiggled in her Anabian obscurity toward the flight-booking desks.

“Ms Grant-Oral?” a simply stunningly pretty brown-eyed black-haired sub-continental ethnic Indian English girl smiled in front of her.

“I easily recognised you!” this lovely creature joked, completely innocently.

“It is Ms Lucida Grant-Oral and not some other Anabian wife-ette....?”

“Oh: of course. You Anabian girls are forbidden to speak aren’t you? Just nod if you are Lucida”

Lucida duly nodded.

“Oh thank cripes for that eh? Otherwise, knowing me, I would be the first one to eff it all up on my first day in the Office of Girl Affairs wouldn’t I?” the charming dusky lovely smiled.

“They’ve already called the gate for the 11.00 o’clock Senabre flight. But you’re okay. Just come to gate 15 with me, and it’s all arranged. They’re used to you Anabian girls on that route of course. Your ticket and all the passport and visa stuff are okay on my verification. I’ve got the only document you need to be got aboard, and it’s been faxed ahead for when you land. All we need now is to get you on the luggage lift. I don’t know! You Anabian girls....the way we have to look after you!”, this princess of nature giggled sweetly, as she gently teased Lucida.

While she strolled along in her miniskirt, her six-inch stiletto platform mules tapping out love’s Morse on the hard-tile-clad flooring as she wiggled, with Lucida tippy-tip-top-tiptoe in her restraining gowns and pogol-sandals struggling beside her, her eyes ogling the young girl’s shapely legs, the Indian-English angel suddenly realised she was walking way too fast for the purposely encumberanced Lucida, and turned and smiled to ensure she assured Lucida she would be patient.

Lucida flexed her pretty feet in her tiptoe pogols rubbing the silken-smoothness of her perspiration-lubricated thighs together as she fought with her pretty powerful, very pretty legs against the unyielding constraints of her confining underskirt and equally close-clinging dress’ skirt.

“Sorry love. I should have realised.....”

To Lucida as she struggled to wiggle in the garb her naturally wanton woman’s body had been confined within, a metre was a million miles. But at last she caught up with the smiling beauty.

“Before you married in England and your divorce, were you born Anabian?” the Indian-English angel enquired completely innocently, and completely without understanding who Lucida was, where born, or why Lucida was being expelled.

“It must be nice to be going back there”, the angel added.

“But I think the Anabians are very cruel to their girls, the way they make them dress all the time.....”

There was a pause. Then, a pretty hand went to a lovely mouth all too late to stop this gorgeous girl having already blurted out what she had really been thinking....

Oh god! I’m so sorry!...... I mean, it’s not the same if you’re used to it...... I mean like you are, with you being born an Anabian and all that......”

Lucida’s inexpert escort was by now standing imploringly before her, and almost crying with shame at her blunder. Lucida longed to comfort her.

“I’m so sorry! Please forgive me! I didn’t mean to be so rude.....” the Indian-English angel begged.

Lucida had no way to convey that of course she forgave this lovely creature: a girl anyone could forgive anything at any time, so she just nodded.

“Oh no! You’re angry with me! And I don’t blame you!” the angel concluded.
....................

After she had been raised on the luggage elevator and entered the tail of the airliner, Lucida tiptoed strangle-ankled in her pogols into the passenger area.

And as a shapely stewardess guided her to her allotted seat on Air Cunilingus’ flight 69 to Senabre, the sweet parting smile of the ethnic-Indian English honey, was still burning into Lucida’s memory.
..............................

The douche woke Lucida with a start. The heat and humidity and long hours crouched, had felled her to sleep, and the chance taken for this dream girl to dream it seemed, for, as a bucket hitherto filled with ice-cold water soon told her with the total recall it caused in recoil, she was still in her anti-masturbation cell.

Her wrists were being ungirlacled and her pretty eyes were lowered when they met and realised that she was being surveyed, for all that her body conveyed, by a girl who portrayed power.

Lucida looked up with her lovely greens, only to shy away again at this girl’s piercing blues, her cute acutely curled blonde hair, her long legs, and her evidently heavy bosom.

Out of her cage Lucida was ordered by the pink-uniformed copette with the laser eyes:

“Showver!”

Lucida did not understand. The heavily accented English was foreign to her pretty ears. She had not come across the sound. Her sweet greens pleaded replication of the instruction from the curvaceously vivacious blonde of the sky-blues, and was ordered:

“Showver....vou vesh in ver showver!”

Lucida understood now sufficiently well, and all too well for it was only now she noticed that the Girl-Control copette seemingly newly in charge of her, guided her path to the showers with an indicative flick of a veritably verifiable vicious thigh-whip.

The thigh-whip, or thigh-tamer, was made of a sparkling spring-steel wire wound through a wooden handle: a single strand of wicked wire: of three-ply-wire plaited into a single strand of two foot length knotted at each end. There were two close knots either side of its one-foot-long wooden handle, to hold it from sliding through the hole it passed through in that handle. The other knot was to stop its furthest end from fraying and splaying when it was played on the prey it was flaying.

It now whisked through the air, stage-whisper-whistling its unmerciful menace, and the girl, Lucida, just exit the cage, all the more urgently desired to obey.

Camera girls had already moved in. The copette with the thigh-whip seemed to double as film director. Accordingly, a motion of her slim forefinger saw two pretty girls in tight tee-shirts, and blue-jeans wonderfully fulfilled by the mature youthful product of their parents’ genes, dive to their knees to record Lucida peeling off her rubber shirt and skirt, and unfastening her tiptop-of-tiptoe-stance-enforcing ballet-booties.

Post-shower, dressed only in a modesty-ensuring white towel knotted and tucked in at her cleavage, bare foot on the cold concrete of the station-house floor, Lucida made her way, to breakfast on water and golden-girl-pee-porridge, plus windfall fruit. With the latter she was obedient to the notice she had noticed when notified in her dream: the notice she had therein defied by error of way, that prisoners were restricted to one item of breakfast fruit per day.

She chose a pear, so apt for her raspberry-tipped pair cleaved and bare under where they were thrusting out her towel-cape-drape with thrilling thrall: all this, all the while, under the eye of the cameras failing to capture how a girl can so beguile.

After breakfast, in camera and not in the purview of the cameras this once, Lucida had her teeth cleaned. She was then thoroughly waxed all-body, including having it, her musk-scented siren’s centre, returned to its pristine pre-post-pubescence, before she was ordered to take another shower.

Lucida knew she was going to be punished, but not how. She was not sure if she had dreamt that nobody would tell her the court’s decision on her punishment for being caught being courted by Faranatina Mandrake-Warner and found at sport disporting both braless and sans panties in a public place.

To be punished for just being a girl being a girl was the way of the day. The Girl-Control police had been set up to enforce the new moral code. Even to go braless was now only allowed among consenting adults in private.

The exception was, of course, if you had class. Lucida Grant-Oral had once had class, but was now reclassified as declassified. So she shared the fate of the lower orders that society intended should be kept in good order and obey orders.

An hour-long wait followed.

That expired, upon order, on the cold concrete floor of one of the old cells in the station house – one of the lock-ups employed before the introduction of the anti-masturbation cells – Lucida sat on her haunches with her knees and her toes blessing the ground with the touch of her touching beauty.

Her redhead’s body with its tantalisingly translucent flesh, through which the magical mystery of beauty’s inner workings; the way god had constructed her earth-bound ambassadors from and of heaven, showed now and again, as in mysterious blue veins in Lucida’s marvel of statuesque marble white, in a thigh or a breast, if you could take your eyes from the place where it nestled at rest, her lower but not lowly lovely love-nest.

Lucida shivered. Her pronouncedly pronounced breasts quivered. Her nipples contracted closing the portals that could yield the milk of girl’s kindness to mere mortals. Was this from cold or fear or both?

Two pretty copettes brought the leather straps to bind her ankles to her thighs. Slipping them under her individual ankles, they introduced the straps around the ankle, over the enormity of the thigh at squat, and fastened the buckles, located neatly at the outside of her lovely legs; neatly in evenly-matching positions in which they were posited and posed at each of her legs outsides.

The excess of pulled-through strap was then tidied away, by doubling it back over the buckles and through fixed hoop-loops that the straps had ready for just that occasion. These hoops were at the crown of Lucida’s thighs as she squatted.

And to prevent those hitherto loose ends coming loose again, a metal split-pin was inserted through readymade receptive holes in the tips of the would-be wondering ends, and the split-pins legs splayed, before the excess of pin-leg was snipped off. The split-pins heads, too large for the holes they had penetrated, now stood proud, and the needle-like eyes of those heads, espied and then spied upon the glory that is girl.

The same gentle pink-uniformed copettes took Lucida’s slender arms behind her, and cuffed her wrists with girlacles, leaving her sweet hands resting on her bold bare bottom.

Lucida licked her dry lips, making them thus unmistakable invitations to the kiss.

From where Lucida knelt, her glorious green eyes shone up at the crutch of the girl with the mysterious accent. Then they shot down in shyness at the sight of the site of this mysterious girl’s snow-white panties filled with a bold pod, and then glanced blushing, down at her own thighs.

So as not to miss a momentous moment of her movement, the cameras moved in when Lucida’s cell door was opened wide.

“Kernees!” the gorgeous blonde copette with the devastating blue eyes ordered.

Lucida’s sweet face registered her concern to obey, if only she understood the command. Her pretty eyes pleaded a begging of pardon for her not knowing what she was being told to do.

“Kernees!!” came the command as a menacing whispered shout.

“Kernees!! Kernees!! vou valk on vour Kernees!!” came the repeated command and explanation.

Lucida longed to do as ordered. Diamonds of nervous perspiration prettied her sincerity-creased brow. She looked imploring green eyes at her bound-doubled thighs and then at the pretty hands she tried to display in order to convey that she was bound such that she was bound not to obey.

“Kernees!! Kernees!! Kernees!!!! vou vet up on vour Kernees!!”

Realising what she was being ordered to do, just as readily as its shear impossibility, Lucida endeavoured to show it could not be done, and struggled to rise to the tip tops of the knees of her wonderful legs tied doubled. Then she crashed down on her tensioned bare toes, and squeaked with the pain, surely having shown her tormentor that it was a no go.

But she knew she must show willing. The thigh-whip the curly-haired blonde copette wielded was no toy.  Perhaps Lucida had misunderstood. Perhaps that was what was meant. To demonstrate she had this new understanding, Lucida shuffled, still squatting on her toes and the knees of her bound legs, in the hope that that would be sufficient.

“Vou vet up on vour Kernees!! Vou vill valk on vour Kernees, or vou vill ve vhip-ped!!”

Lucida had, of course now fully understood, she had also not misunderstood about the prevalence of mercy.

She once more, with her legs bound double and no rescue from her dainty hands should she fail and fall, struggled to raise herself on the tips of her knees and fell painfully back on her toes.

Then she fought again and found herself aloft as commanded, with her knees agonisingly painfully standing her waveringly unbalanced, till she went back on her toes once more, and began to cry in the hope that tears would relieve her from this punishment.

“Vou vill valk on vour Kernees, or vou vill ve vhip-ped!!”

Praying that practice would have perfected her ability at stability, the perfect angel rose on the tips of her knees once more and tried to balance her beautiful body, and began to walk on her knees as if they were the stubs left of her lovely legs after a cruel amputation.

The pain was unbearable and she sank down to a squat on her toes once again.

But, knowing she must obey, the English rose rose to her knees once more, and lightly bit her lower lip, as if the mild pain thereby intimated, would ease the unendurable pain where her bare knees walked her on the unyielding rough cold concrete.

Lucida wiggled. It is in the nature of a girl to wiggle. It is in the nature of a girl to giggle. It is in the nature of a girl to giggle as she wiggles. But wiggling along atop the knees of her bound thighs under threat of a fall and the whip if she fell, teetering on the verge of testing the cushioning her tits would provide if she crashed to the fore, on the two on the floor, and with her hands tied behind on her lovely behind so they could not rescue her: Lucida struggled in agony.

A few paces and she must stop, she must stop, the pain was so great and she must stop and relieve herself by lowering herself down to a squat on her toes. But her mind was read and instead came the order:

“Kip valking on vour kernees or I vill vhip-ped vou!”

In her pain, Lucida wavered and nearly fell back to her haunches. She tried to look only at the doorway toward which she was being headed, and to imagine that her pain would be at and end were she to enter where she could hear the voices of women and girls come to witness her punishment.

She staggered and fought not to lose her balance. The natural formation of her body attempted to fold her at the hips. Stood on the knees of her tied-doubled legs, her centre of gravity was gravely displaced, so that if she did not fold at the hips into a squat, she would assuredly tumble forward on her pretty face.

Her progress was slow and tentative. She must swivel her body. She must advance a thunderous thigh and try and hold out against folding or falling as she then swivelled her trunk to advance her other wonderful thigh. The pain in her knees was unendurable.

“Kip valking!!” came the command followed by Lucida’s squeal of pain after the thigh-whip had whistled and kissed her folded right leg, caressing the beauty of her bold thigh as if anyone could resist, and striping her with blood from the cut of its furiously fiery blitz.

At this, Lucida fell forward squashing her abundant soft-firm breasts on the unyielding floor of the police station-house, her nipples caressed by the rough corrugations of the concrete floor, as they kissed its brutal coldness when her tits slid beneath her to cushion her fall and save her lovely face from hitting the ground at all.

“Vet up on vour Kernees!! Vet up on vour Kernees!! Kip valking on vour kernees. Vou vill valk on vour Kernees! Vet up on vour Kernees!!!”

Lucida struggled to get herself lying on one side and from there back up on her haunches to launch herself back up teetering on her knees once more, so that she could be tortured by making her walk on the knees of her folded legs.

The wicked whip whistled and wound itself snake around her bound right thigh once more by-and bye. And Lucida screamed with its bite as it kissed a second red stripe with lightning strike.

“Vet up on vour Kernees! Vet up on vour Kernees!! Kip valking on vour kernees!!”

Lucida wiggled and wobbled uncertainly balanced again, taking a step with one thigh and having the other thigh catch up before she ventured forth her next thigh.

“Valk on vour kernees proper vay or I vhip-ped vou!”

Lucida paused and implored with her glorious green eyes that she be shown mercy.

“Valk on vour kernees ver proper vay, or vou vill ve vhip-ped!!”

Lucida took a struggling stride wide and again endured the agony of balancing on one knee while she swung the other beautiful thigh past the standing one, and took that stride too in turn, fearing the progress of her trip was too slow to save her from the kiss of the thigh-whip and that at any time she would slip slap once more onto her tits.

The catcalls and whistles and screams of laughter when, at long last, she entered the neighbouring room walking like this, shamed lovely Lucida. She was not to know that the laughter and giggles were from embarrassment, much of it meant to hide the lubrication of knickers’ crotches’ insides.

“Vou stay on vour kernees! “Vou stand on vour kernees till ve are veady vor vou!”

Swaying on the top tips of her beautifully bold thighs, Lucida’s lovely eyes surveyed the room.

It was the courtroom in which her trial had taken place. But she could not recognise it of course, because, except in projected effigy, she had not been in it before. She was at a raised level. The crowd was in the well of the court. Lucida teetered dazed on the dais where the judge and her staff normally spent their business days.

Her punishment was in fact ready, but the camera crew wished to film her holding steady in the uncertain state she was in, risen on her knees, her stupendously bold thighs stunningly erotically formed: a stance in which Lucida obediently stayed even as her whip-striped thigh-stood body swayed.

“Vou verk on ver vigh-vill!”

Lucida did not recognise what she was being told. At least she didn’t till her emerald distractions, beamed in on the contraption bolted to the floor some distance from where she teetered on the tip-tops of her knees.

It looked like a small shelter. It was curved like a huge pipe that had been halved, or rather two-thirded.

But the descriptions “shelter” and “pipe” only define its basic formation. In fact it comprised a series of horizontal thick strong round wooden bars. These bars were mounted through stainless-steel bracing supports, bolted firmly to the deck of the dais platform at their bases. Two outmost and two inner support braces held the bars rigid.

The horizontal wooden bars were akin to wall-bars in a gymnasium, but the upright supports through which they were mounted, curved up from near floor level, continued up the back of the “shelter”, continued over what would be the roof of the “shelter”, and then left a gap, a gaping mouth between the edge of the roof and the floor.

So the “horizontal bars” formed a curve from near the floor, continued the curve as if a wall, and then continued the curve over as if a roof, before a gap was left. Hence the parallel with two-thirds of a pipe: the one third missing being the open gap from curved-over roof to floor.

In the centre of this curve of slats sat a spring-steel seat. The seat was floor mounted, slid into floor-bolted slots. It too took a curve, but up forward, in opposite curvature to the wall and roof of slats, till it levelled off at a crutch-height: crutch-height for a girl with her legs bound double that is. Throughout its length this seat was no more than three inches wide.

“Vou verk on ver vigh-vill!” Lucida was reminded, before she was ordered: “Valk to ver zaddle now or I vill vhip-ped vou”

Lucida knew better than not to obey. So she struggled to recall how she had managed to walk on her knees into this room at all, and wiggle-sidled her pain-filled way to the strange wood and steel contraption on display.

Her glorious green eyes asked, nay begged to know if she was doing it right, as her struggling bound body found itself right in front of the sprung-steel seat.

“Zit on ver zaddle!”

Lucida eased herself forward as seemed to be indicated, and slid herself over the cold steel of the spring saddle, so that she sat with her heavenly heavy thighs minimally astride. The cold of the steel on the sensitive lips of her slit caused her pretty mouth to yield forth a decidedly sexy little appealing squeal of sudden surprise: “Ooooh!”

For Lucida to be so sat was a relief and yet discomfort. The saddle had a central ridge and it divided and ruled over her, because the ridge divided her divine lips and pressed into her most sensitive pink.

Her wrists were now released. Her slim shapely arms were then stretched out to their utmost, and she was bade to grip two distant handles.

Fine tuning: the loosening, adjustment of the stretch, and re-tightening of securing bolts, ensured this part of the device was tailored to this prettiest of girls, by spacing the handles at the fullest extent of her arms. And while she gripped the far distant handles, her slender wrists were girlackled to each handle, so that she could not help but grip or be gripped to them.

These handles were in the centre of wheels mounted to the distant-most floor-bolted brackets that supported the curve of horizontal slats. The wheels were free to rotate at dictate.

The nooses had been tied in the traditional manner, with the silk rope that would slide to crush that contained on the nooses’ insides, wrapped around in close-coil, like the seducing serpent around Eve’s even more seductive thigh in the story of the Garden of Eden.

The two nooses were fastened together at their bottom-most ends by a very short tether of leather.

Lucida’s sweet pleading: “No. Oh please no!” whispered gently though it was, earned her the thigh-whip’s kiss on her right thigh once more, swiftly-followed by the holler of her scream of pain extreme.

A rigid steel bar was held at her back, to form a strap. To hold the bar in general place, a rope through the hollow centre of it, went around her at armpit height, and it was also tied around her arms at both armpits.

The bar at her back ended – both ends - with steel rings for the loose ends of the nooses to be passed through. This done, the nooses’ circles were passed over Lucida’s luxuriously luscious milk-white breasts, and tightened by the minimum to ensure success with no excess of noose to slip loose, and a gentle grip at the base of each tit.

And then the long loose ends were taken further through the rings at the ends of the bra-bar, out horizontally, their slack removed all bar, and then tied off at the same distance as Lucida’s pretty hands. But the silk ropes were not tethered to the wheel; they were tied off tightly to the distant-most slat-holding uprights: they were tied to immovably rigid rings mounted above the height of her dainty hands.

The audience chatted. Pretty giggles punctuated the air as eyes stared and then shied away from the sight and site of what was to be done by Lucida to herself this very day.

“Ven I gift vou ver order, vou vill climber ver vall viv vour vighs, end vou vill valk over ver zeiling viv vour vighs, end vurn vourself uver arnd uver. Do vou standunder?!” the strange beautiful blonde hornily huskily both instructed and enquired.

“But it’s not possible!” Lucida audibly whispered, more in thought than in a daring protest.

“Vou vill climber ver vall viv vour vighs, end vou vill valk over ver zeiling viv vour vighs and vlip vourselve uver.....End vou vill vever stopper, or I vill vhip-ped vou! Do vou standunder?!”

Lucida slid forward off the saddle, and, as the ridge on the saddle licked her inner pink, uttered another sensually sexy “Ooooh!”.

Her tied-doubled legs, that is her thighs, that is her knees, were now between the first set of horizontal slats. Before her curved the wall of slats; above her curved the walls continuation into a roof of slats.

“Valk up ver vall!” the gorgeous curly-haired blonde shouted at her.

And Lucida knew she had to make the impossible possible. She advanced her thighs step by step, slat by slat, slot by slot, and walked herself up the curve of the thighmill’s wall, taking the enormous strain of the weight of her lovely body on her outstretched arms, and screaming with the pain in her arms and shoulders as she walked her wonderful thighs in a running back-flip traipse trip over the ceiling of the thighmill, her mouth almost able to lick the saddle below her, before she had finally flipped her body over and landed cruelly on her already bloodied knees. Then she crawled straddle over the saddle and had its rigidity lick her pink, before she must walk the walls and the roof again.

“Kip voing vou veetch or vou vill be vhip-ped!!”

Lucida’s lovely green eyes begged for mercy, but she still found herself carefully putting her knees in the slots between the slats and advancing one handsome thigh and then its equally handsome twin, as she crawled up the painful slats walking her body up the wall of slats to the roof of slats where she must run herself hard along in the gaps between the slats in order to defy gravity’s grave call if she was not to fall at all, and she would finally leap to flick herself acrobatically in a flurry of air-walking thighs, as she flipped herself over and braced herself for the hard landing on her already brutalised knees.

“Kip voing vou zlut!”

Lucida slid over the saddle. Why did the saddle’s lick not seem so coarse now? Was her straddled passage lubricated this time? Did the saddle shine the more after her slit had been licked by it?

Lucida’s beautiful thighs walked her once more up the “shelter’s” insides, with their sexy strides, her pretty mouth licked by her bright pink tongue in her concentration, so that her mouth was a moist invitation to the contemplation of consummation, and thought of where her tongue might lick lips longer and longing for such a lavish kiss.

Beads of perspiration formed decorative diamonds on Lucida’s delightful flesh. This was not from any lacking litheness, but from muscles in stretch and stress. This was the jewellery of nature on a jewel of nature. These were the sparkling diadems marking the pearl that is girl.

And again Lucida found herself carefully putting her knees in the slots between the slats and advancing one handsome thigh and then her other handsome thigh and crawling clawing clinging with her bound thighs up the slats bruising her knees walking her beautiful body up the curve of slats to the ceiling of slats where she must walk her thighs in the gaps between the slats her arms and shoulders wrenched by her weight as she defied gravity’s fate, and walked her thighs over the thighmill’s curved insides to the point of no return, where she could flip herself over and take the leap of faith that landed her once again on her bloodied knees.

“Vou vill kip going vou vilthy zlag, or I vill vhip-ped vour vighs!”

Over the saddle Lucida now slid her slit, but now her slit sailed over its tongue, betraying that she was slick as a snail, so that it shone afresh with her fragrant flagrant oozings.

And she placed her bloodied knees in the slots between the slats of the dread-filled thighmill and walked her beautiful thighs crawling clawing clinging with her bound legs up the slats bruising her knees walking her beautiful body up the curve of slats to the roof of slats where she must walk her thighs in the gaps between the slats her arms and shoulders pulled out cruelly by her weight as she gripped the distant handles with pretty hands so she could defy  fate’s call to fall, and walked her thighs over the thighmill’s semicircular insides to turn herself over, till the slats ran out and she took the drop that landed her once again .... but no.... this time Lucida landed astride and astraddle the saddle, and she cried out with the pain and then the gain from her pain, her sexiest  yet “Ooooooh!” needing no-one to explain.

The audience in the court watched mesmerised by the cruelty of this punishment, with just their occasional giggles to hide what watching Lucida being tortured was doing to the crotches of their prettiest panties insides.

The film cameras continued to whir at what this redhead was being made to do in order to give O-bey a sale of material for the enjoyment of girls, with live lithe fingers visitors to vestibules and adjacent triggers, to perform a solo act in which Lucida’s suffering would greatly figure.

Lucida’s leggy walk up the wall of the thighmill till the point at which gravity obliged her to flip herself over in a flurry of heavenly heavy thighs, had the ropes of the nooses as its axis and axle. She took these ropes with her as she deployed her thighs in the slats of the thighmill’s walls, swung over the noose-ropes when she ran her thighs over the thighmill’s roof till her final circus back-flip, and tightened them the more every time her thigh-walk and sky-walk took here the full circuit.

After ten thigh-walks, the nooses were already tightening. Lucida’s hitherto perfect pendulous all-natural tits, were now perked up and poked out as much as if she had made the blunder of having silicone inserted so unnecessarily under such wonders of woman and the world, the abundant soft firm free-swinging prominences pronouncing that she was pronouncedly a girl.

“Kip valking!”

Lucida walked her thighs yet once more up the thighmill’s curved insides up its back wall, over its slatted ceiling, her body and mind reeling with the pain in her arms and shoulders as she walked her thighs up over her head and turned herself over again to land on the spring saddle as had always been intended. She winced and then sighed with the pain as she dropped herself straddle and smacked her slit down on the saddle, and the saddle pressed her inner pink and her long-since surrendered innocence evident became in her seeping, for the wonder between her thighs was positively weeping.

An hour later, and Lucida’s tits were in tourniquets. They had become bulbous. Her nipples had become enormous. They looked as engorged as if they were engaged in the wrestle of love: as if other girls had sucked on them for that same hour. And her tits were turning pink, for they were being strangled: Lucida’s constant walk up and over in the thighmill had twisted the ropes’ free ends leading from her nooses, such that there was no longer any free play in their ply, and the nooses must close over their lovely prey.

“Kip valking vou vilthy veech!”

Lucida continued to walk her thighs up the thighmill’s curved insides up its wall, over its roof, torturing her arms and shoulders as she walked her thighs over her head and flipped herself over to land bang on the spring-steel saddle and try not to show to what this torture was leading, tried not to cry out with her sexual needing, and the impact of the saddles between-thighs kneading.

Now the nooses squeezing her tits were so tight that her knees no longer touched the floor of the thighmill. Whereas Lucida would have hitherto alighted after she had walked the ceiling with her thighs, she would now hang suspended for the moment if she missed the saddle. And so she must ensure she would it straddle, or else be left with her thighs paddling air and be whipped for not engaging the slats to walk her circuit once again; the lash to punish her with pain for seeming daring. She was horizontally hung by her tits. By obediently walking the thighmill, Lucida had hung herself by her tits, and her tits were so strangled that their beauty was dark red from her performing her duty and the nooses’ lack of slack had strangled her tits so, that her nipples had turned black.

And she placed her bloodied knees in the slots between the slats of the thighmill and walked her beautiful thighs crawling clawing clinging with her bound legs up the slats walking her beautiful body up the curve of slats to the roof of slats where she must walk her thighs in the gaps between the slats, and walked her thighs over the thighmill’s insides till the slats ran out and she took the drop of fate.

Lucida’s ghost-white redhead’s complexion shone in the TV spotlights. Her thighs were aglow with her perfumed perspiration, lubricated lubriciously deliciously with the sweet sweat of her hour of femininely physical effort. Droplets of her pretty perspiration stung her lovely eyes, and from the wolf-whistles and vile cries from the audience, she knew that the smooth shining sweat-bathed mirror-wetness of her huge thighs was more than a mere minor magical miracle of the erotic.

“Kip valking vou virty veech, or I vill vhip-ped vou!”

Lucida obediently struggled into completing her second hour on the thighmill, walking its slats with her bound legs, her knees so bruised that they were now numb. Her tits so strangled that she was by them hung. And her slit so wet that she longed for a cum.

“Kip valking vou vilthy vhore!”

Lucida obediently continued to walk her thighs up yet once more the thighmill’s insides, up its wall, over its ceiling, her body and mind reeling with the excruciating pain in her breasts as they now took her inverted weight to leave her arms and shoulders at least at last at rest, as she walked her thighs up head-over-heels and rotated herself as if on a wheel, landing on the spring saddle lathered with her love-seepings and adding the more as over it she slid her slit’s now bubbling wheepings licked out by the saddle’s tongue making her for a cum so long to long.

“Ziz vhore enzoy ver zaddle var voo vutch. Vek ver Zaddle avay!”

Lucida was climbing her thighs up the slatted slots on the wall of her thighmill, turning herself over yet once again, when two assisting copettes obeyed her chief torturer’s order, and efficient clicks said that the saddle had been released from where such saddles fit, and lovely Lucida knew now that there would be no more comforting slides over it for the joy of her slit.

She walked the ceiling slats with her thighs yet once more, inverting her body before she leaped to the floor. But with no more saddle her slit’s pink to explore, she dangled now her knees high off the floor, hung by her tits her sweat-mirrored thighs waving, as she struggled to find grip in the slats to walk in behaving.

It was then that Lucida came and came again and again: it was when her right knee found the slot between the lowest wall slats that Lucida came. And she came and she came as she walked her thighs up the wall again. And she came and she came as over the inside roof of the thighmill she laid claim to the ultimate in obedience walking her thighmill while by constant cums inconvenienced, cums that longed her to close her thighs and ring every last bell of their echoing joy out from her slit’s insides, as her mind’s inner voice whispered in pleading that she be whipped as she obediently continued to walk on around her thighmill trip the more to strangle her tits.

But though Lucida was such an intelligent girl her cums had her mind in such a whirl that she failed to realise that they would not whip her sweaty thighs as she longed they would, as long as she used them on her thighmill as she should.

But perhaps we underestimate the mind of a girl. Perhaps Lucida had already calculated that if she stopped her walk and dangled by her tits to be whipped on her thighs for being a disobedient miss, her cums might cease, though she rather thought not.

Perhaps she could not decide between the hanging drop, or to keep her cums coming by obedient trot. For that is the fate of a girl, to be in two minds and unable to choose whether to risk her cums to lose by dangling by her tits so they would flog her thighs into bleeding red and white candy stripes, or keeping walking the thighmill and have obedience deliver the cums of her sweet young life.

For ten more circuits Lucida walked the thighmill with her thighs, trying not to reveal her constant cums with her cries or sighs or even her beautiful green eyes. But when her cums had gone she longed them to revive and, exhausted, stopped walking and dangled hung by the tits: by her tits strangled by the nooses she had made ever tighter by her walking the thighmill into the night for the audience in the court in her punishment to delight.

.....No sooner had Lucida stopped her walk than the curly-haired acutely cute blue-eyed blonde used the thigh-whip on her bare thighs, cursing her the while and ordering her to walk around the thighmill in the statutory style.

But Lucida hung by her strangled tits, her white thighs being wrapped around repeatedly with the vicious whip, and the flesh of her thighs being cut to ribbons, enduring the terrible pain without the comfort of a cum, and without reserve, knowing that this was the final punishment she richly deserved, because for cumming on the thighmill against what she had to do been bidden, a girl should never be forgiven.....