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Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer
The Maiden of the May
Synopsis: - Milton Biden an isolated village in the county of Barnmouthshire, England, at some future and past time when.....
The Maiden of the May
by Eve Adorer
Four and sixteen was she; but yet not twenty....... the daughter that is.
She was a kitten, dressed entirely in white....... the daughter that is.
This thus in the Milton Biden village school headmistress’ home; a compact ground-level apartment built in a single storey outbuilding that had once served as stables:
“And this is the study, where I do my preparation for each tomorrow’s lessons and set and mark test papers and such....”.
To the fore, the kitten had two that were clearly feral; probably having never been reined-in or therefore trained in behaviour becoming modesty. They were roaming freely in their more than considerable abundance. Within her close-clinging silk blouse her nipples were scribing a billets doux duet.
The kitten had slim shapely legs. She was five four and up on her toes so high in her ten-inch kid leather stiletto platform mules, that, within the silk stockings she wore, her calf muscles were deliciously delineated. The sparkling gold of the grasping metal clasps of her silk suspender belt were fashionably exposed below her skirt’s brief to supply a hem at some stage of a girl’s thighs, no matter how little it might try.
She was up on her tiptoes in her highest of heels, her silk miniskirt flirting with exposure of her full firm derriere domes: demimondes clenched in consequence of the length her stilettos went to lift her heels aloft; her firm buttocks being all that secured her skirt from rising to answer whether she wore panties a thong or whether it was bare.
Drawn by the irresistible attraction of the kitten, school headmistress Sampara Smith’s eyes caught hers and was smitten.
A momentous moment was no more than a glimpse of this woman-girl brushing a twist of glorious gold hue, from dandling delectably over her right eye, using a sweet little hand with exceptionally long sharp-looking fingernails - impractical if clearly not impracticable fingernails - to sweep it back into the otherwise ordered conflagration of coiled curls that crowned her head and then flowed inspiring spiralling cape over and beyond her bewitching rear.
A momentous moment was no more than a glimpse, for the kitten was shy, and blushed at Sampara’s evident admiration of her outstandingly pretty ghost-white face, with its freckle dusted nose above a pouting-coral-pink-lipped ever-moist mouth.
A momentous moment was no more than a glimpse but its sufficiency sufficed for Sampara to see the kitten had eyes of startling sparkling green, with endlessly deep dangerously dark down-drowning whirlpool pupils.
“Let me show you the bedroom.....”, Sampara now stuttered to the mother, only to glimpse the kitten hanging her head to hide the red that suddenly suffused her angelic visage.
Now Sampara momented whether this earth-blessing proof of a heaven, this girl who anointed an unworthy world with her fragrance; this ravishing redheaded kitten, was an ever-wet: a girl so constantly aroused by her own natural beauty, she was wise to wear a panty-liner even when it was not in bleed, or else spend all day in damp panties.
Even if not that, Samapara was certain sure, that if indeed she bore any panties, the kitten’s frequent blushes simultaned with a dampened crotch; the blush being all the more fed by the kitten’s wholly inappropriate shame at her natural youthful all too ready holy arousal.
“Come on sweetheart!” her momma teased the kitten, whose shy demeanour she had momentarily mistaken for teenage boredom.
“I’m so sorry. I was so eager to see the headmistress’..... your house.....I should have introduced you Miss Smith. This is Tigerna, Tigerna Softkiss, my youngest daughter, surnamed after my ex-wife, my ex-husband-wife, of course?”
“Hello Tigerna. What a pretty girl you are...”, Sampara Smith, the headmistress of the Milton Biden school surprised to herself aloud.
“Oh, thank you Miss Smith”, the kitten blushed and curtsied low with a flash of thighs and exposed stocking tops that compelled Sampara’s eyes, and which was accompanied by a mesmerising look from the startling greens that was as seductive as it was innocent. And all the more seductive because it was so innocent.
“As I mentioned in my phone call, Tigerna is a St Innocents girl. All my daughters went there. And she has just been accepted at Camford were she will take oriental languages and ancient and modern Greek... haven’t you sweetheart?” the mother enquired of her clit-tease daughter.
“Oh mummy....please!” the kitten sweetly pleaded, with a further delightful flush blush and a flash of her startling eyes to beg that Sampara still find her pretty and not solely brainy. Then the kitten smiled devastatingly, nodding deservedly proud ascent, so that the same naughty red curl that her dextrous slim fingers had replaced before, descended once more over her right eye.
“But to save the bother and time-wasting at university, we are hoping for a good marriage ....... I plan to find Tigerna a wealthy wife”, the mother added.
With the St Innocents education confirmed, Sampara knew the kitten was unsullied. The long sharp fingernails had made her wonder if the angel was untouched. They were often kept that way as further safeguard against a St Innocents schoolgirl even thinking of touching it.
The announcement that Tigerna had been a St Innocents pupil raised for marriage confirmed she was pure for sure. At this thought, Sampara herself blushed.
“A good marriage” was code for finding a wealthy wife.
A successful modern woman about town might sow her wild oats. But when she decided to settle down, she would expect to marry a virgin. A girl as pretty as the kitten, if she was as untouched and unsullied as her gorgeous face and delightful demeanour conveyed, would find an excellent match; as long as she didn’t dare to wish her wife to be as faithful as she herself would be expected to be as a wife.
“My two elder daughters made a splendid match. They are both wives of Lady Halphfay?”, the mother prided.
Sampara managed what she intended as a smile of congratulations on this, an achievement she, in truth, knew not the worth of, never having heard of Lady Halphfay. But her face must have conveyed puzzlement despite, because the mother added:
“Avanil Halphfay, the lingerie billionairess?”
“Ah....yes, of course!”, Sampara assured in intonation, though, in truth, she was still none the wiser.
Sampara now momented if the kitten had ever been kissed. At St Innocents, that was not even allowed between mother and daughter. Her body showed she was lithe and fit. So perhaps she had worked off her natural urges with energetic sport, and the talons her fingernails were filed to, and the girlacles that would have been used at school to cuff her hands behind her, had been sufficient to maintain her absolute purity.
“The bedroom.....?”, Sampara led the way to a bedroom secondary to and next door neighbour to her own dormitory. In the centre of the room was a single bed on four strong stumpy legs. The bed’s head was, but for a wall between, mirrored, location wise, with that of the head of the nowadays always half-empty double bed Sampara had in her own bedroom.
“Oh that looks much more comfortable than those horrible bare planks the girls sleep strapped to at St Innocents doesn’t it sweetheart.
“Ooh yes mummy!” Tigerna brighted.
“But we’ll have to use the girlacles darling, like we do when you’re at home? Look, we can cuff your wrists to the supports of the bed head, and your ankles can be chained together and then tethered to each bottom end bed leg. At least, unlike the wooden block you girls get at school, you’ll have a soft pillow under the back of your head. But we mustn’t have a duvet or anything that would press on or rub against you darling, must we....? But you’re used to sleeping naked at school aren’t you darling?”
Here the mother was merely thinking aloud, about what Tigerna, her lovely daughter, was allowed. Thinking aloud as if Sampara were out of earshot.
“I can bring a camp bed to sleep alongside Tigerna. Will that be alright Miss Smith? I mean... I’m sure.... I don’t mean.... you know.... trust.... well.... I know you teach girls here too..... but..... a chaperone .....I can’t afford to hire one, and to find one you can trust.....?”
“Of course it will be alright”, Sampara reassured.
“Tigerna is a very bright girl, but ..... well.... as we discussed over the telephone.... extra lessons in the present school vacation for her to be sure of her university entrance examination.....”
“In an isolated village such as this... such as Milton Biden .... a headmistress’ pay doesn’t go a long way.... it’s a poor area, but even then... a supplement will be very welcome.... Goodness only knows how my under-staff manage for money....”
At an invitational wave of Sampara’s hand, her two visitors moved back into the lounge to seat themselves. The mother moved into a leather armchair. Tigerna chose a wooden chair with an erect back; evidently a familiar furnishing at St Innocents; a seat securing of ideal posture for a growing young woman.
“Oh wait darling....Patience sweetheart!”, the mother reminded, before rising from her own chair to stop Tigerna sitting.
“Here we are my precious!” she added, after rummaging in a large handbag to produce a rubber ring with a valve through which it could be and had been inflated.
“There.. you can sit safely now darling....We mustn’t risk any pressure on...you know....” the mother concluded after placing the ring valve down-most, where her pretty daughter now lowered herself.
Sampara watched Tigerna lower herself to sit, her long slim but shapely legs tight together at the knees, even as her lovely thighs were enlarged wonderfully by the fact of the act of her being sat... the knees being close-closed to secure against any risk of a glimpse of whether she wore panties, let alone, if Tigerna were in the state Sampara speculated, a flash of it.
As double surety, Tigerna placed her dainty hands clasped in her lap, and once more blushed beautifully with a shy inclination of her radiant red crowned head.
As she now dutifully straightened her back, her heavy breasts drew apart and then slowly rose and fell with her sweet breathing.
“My daughter lacks in geometry”, the mother announced.
“I’m sorry?!”, Sampara astonished, blushing guiltily, thinking her passing thoughts concerning curves had been read.
“Geometry... Tigerna needs improved geometry”
“She doesn’t! .....I... I mean she does?”
“Mummy......?”
The mother rose and walked over to the rose adorning the wooden chair, and Tigerna whispered into her mother’s ear, blushing the while.
“Tigerna needs the bathroom, for both a number one and a number two, if you know what I mean.... She lives on fruit alone you know...It’s so good for the complexion...
....The bathroom....Miss Smith?”
“Of course. Over here....”, Sampara rose, walked over and opened the door of the lavatory, whilst listening to the series of clicks attendant upon the mother using girlacles to fasten Tigerna’s wrists securely behind her back.
“There we are darling, Now just cough when you’ve finished, and I will come in and wipe you....”
Sampara’s head went into a whirl, and her clit proved that, even at forty, she was still a girl, since she realised there had been no mention of the lowering of Tigerna’s panties to enable her to urinate and defecate; so it must be...!
.......................
As soon as Tigerna was sprinkling her golden wine behind the closed lavatory door, Miss Smith beckoned Tigerna’s mother over to the desk near the window of the headmistress’ apartment, and opened a briefcase full to the brim with high-end-value used US dollar notes.
“It must begin the day after tomorrow. That will be 21 June, which, as you obviously know, is the longest day here in England.”
“You’re an ex from this village, so no doubt you also know, that the ritual has that day central to its thesis. The whole notion is ridiculous of course, but, even in the mid-twenty-first century, here in Milton Biden, you won’t convince the peasants of that.”
“The summer has been particularly long dry and arid, and crops are at high risk of failing. They collected all this for you. And the association of the date of your daughter’s birthday, means she is what is needed.... in their mythology. I am right on the age matter aren’t I?”
“Yes. Yes. Of course.”
“You do realise that what they will do to her?”
“Tigerna has to learn what the real world is like at some time. She has been all too sheltered. This last week is the first she has ever been out of her school uniform burka; the first time she has ever even been allowed to uncover her eyes when out in public.....”
[‘She’s certainly made up for lost time, the lovely little minx!’, Sampara mused to herself.]
“And besides, I still have heavy debts from the wedding of my twin daughters. The wedding of Tigerna’s older sisters to Lady Halphfay?”
“The upper classes know how to keep a tight grip on their own money. Lady Halphfay could have paid for the wedding out of loose change. But she played tradition to full advantage, and expected the brides’ parents to pay for everything, including the honeymoons! And I’m divorced, though my ex-wife keeps me on as her secretary....”
“You do know what they’ll be after don’t you?” Sampara enquired, even though she was sure Tigerna’s mother knew only too well.
“Of course...”
Then a light polite cough was heard, and Tigerna’s mother asked if there were soft wet-wipes to hand, to deal with Tigerna’s immediate hygienic needs....”
“Yes certainly. But there is also a super-chilled-water bidet in there to clean her without need of contact....to ensure.....to remove any need of wiping her...wiping her at the front....wiping it....” Sampara informed.
.............................
“Be brave my darling!”
With the mother ever-present, Sampara must simply enjoy the joy of the pretty redhead’s bright beauty. The mother, a contemporary with Sampara in age, and an ex-pupil at the village school, though, obviously, before Sampara’s arrival as its headmistress, kept an eagle eye on her completely sexy daughter.
So, even though, next day, Tigerna sat beside Sampara wearing only a long white woollen sweater that made shift as a micro-mini-dress, and green and white hoop-ringed candy-striped long socks, not folded below, but unfolded over the knee, like self-support stockings, leaving Tigerna’s thighs bare from a mere inch above the knee to where the hem of her makeshift dress cast a shading shadow over what Sampara knew would be immaculately smooth; the shadow casting no shade on its innocence, Sampara must keep her hands as well as her thoughts to herself.
But was the rough rub of Tigerna’s sweater exciting the angel’s nipples? Or did the warmth of the day make them so apparently proud? Was she exciting herself surreptitiously with her constant fidgeting,? Was she deliberately making her nipples rub on the wool for its rough caress? Or was she simply making Sampara aware that her virgin-firm tits were bare under there?........ Or was it perchance both?
There had been the sight of the site at breakfast: the peach with the pair and the pears. Their exciting enticing motion as Tigerna had sliced the pears and her pretty lips become even more supremely moist and succulent when she ate: her fingers wet with sticky dew from the fruit as if they had just been elsewhere.
Although a complete innocent, Tigerna had seemed to show knowingness there. Or was it just that Sampara read naughtiness into the teenager’s long slow lick of the pear’s wetness from her lips with a singularly invitational tongue?
The girl was bright and eager to learn and thus easy to teach.... geometry that is. But the scent of the golden hair that cascaded to the floor as she adorned a wooden chair, sitting on the air-inflated cushion ring protecting it from inadvertent pressure; sitting before the central table, where teacher taught from a laptop computer, both she and Tigerna’s fingers shared, when question turned to answer and gorgeous green eyes made the world aware that here was a maid whose lips Sampara longed to be; but knew she would not and never could be or could ever have been, the first to kiss, let alone Tigerna’s mouth.....
And was there an extra giggle from Tigerna, when Sampara’s eyes strayed yet again to the angel’s bare creamy white smooth thighs, when both knew Sampara was trying to catch a glimpse of it?
And when one of the pencils Tigerna must use as paddles on the keys of the laptop, her fingernails so enforcing, they being so impractical, fell between her bare thighs, why had Sampara not obeyed her desire to take the permission of Tigerna’s lovely eyes to rescue it from there, but lost countenance at countenancing a fleeting fumble of fingers so close to it?
“Be brave my darling!”
.............................
Later that sleepless night, in the early morn, Sampara, and Tigerna’s mother, were all too aware of the murmurings outside. The girls from the town were supposed to be keeping noise down, but some had clearly overindulged in the alcohol that had been on sale all day the previous day, and would flow freely, if at a higher price than the norm, for commerce must take advantage, on this day of celebration also.
Before someone was foolish enough to ring the doorbell, as she feared they might, and waken the sleeping innocent, Sampara opened the outside entrance to her apartment.
It was seven on the dawn of the longest day in the tiny village of Milton Biden, as therefore of course in England, in the mid-summer of the year. The sun had risen over four hours before. When Sampara opened the outer door that led straight into her lounge from the street, the day that breathed into her apartment already glowed warm.
Three young girls, none over twenty; girls Sampara had schooled in their time, and who now worked the ponygirls pulling the plough and the harvester at each end of the season of growing, after the spring sowing in this bucolic zone, entered.
Such was their faith the commonplace of the commonweal in this isolated location, all three, as believers in the satanic lore, wore discrete inverted gold crucifixes on slim chains around their necks.
They slouched in, in high-heeled booties blue jeans and gingham shirts, which, although the latter were of different mixes, were acquainted with the meaning of the word ‘uniformity’ if not ‘uniform’.
Their blonde leader, a particularly shapely girl, brought in the iron boots. One of her two brunette companions and juniors carried the long dress, and the crown. Another the multiple girlacles and such steel “irons” that would be deployed as tradition had it ordered.
Colleana O’Nara, the village’s blacksmith and veterinarian, a tiny girl no more than five-one if that, had kept these in fettle. And, even though they had been Colleana’s great-great-grandmother’s handiwork, fashioned to replace the medieval ones now in the village museum, these substitutes were for public use by the villagers come the need.
All three girls bore the long bullwhips they would use on their ponygirls at plough and harvest, and at any time between, coiled and clipped at the belts around their hips.
“Is the maiden within?” enquired their leader in a soft whisper.
“My sweet Tigerna awaits you, in her innocent sleep”.
“Is it pure?”
“It is in a state of heaven”.
“Is she of the birth?”
“Tigerna is four and sixteen; but not twenty, if that is the answer you seek”.
“It is. The hobbyhorse awaits her. We must awake her”.
How long Tigerna’s mother had been rehearsing these lines, Sampara knew not, though, having written a history with a chapter on Milton Biden, including therefore the mysterious myths that had been indulged by the village since long ago ages to support the women who had always farmed the lands, Sampara herself was familiar with the plot.
The blonde leader with her two brunette assistants said nothing, but still made it clear, that only Tigerna’s mother could enter the bedroom where Tigerna still slept, and where she was to be prepared.
It was only with the intervention of Tigerna’s momma, that minds were changed, and Sampara was allowed to bear witness.
As they followed with lights, microphones, and cameras, the all-female crew recording the event in exchange for having paid the majority of the fiscal contribution to Tigerna’s mother – the bulk of the briefcase’s contents – the crew filming what would be sold to the highest bidder on the O-bey website, were skilful discretion itself.
.............................
“Mummy! Mummy! They are so tight mummy!”
“Be brave my darling!”
As Sampara entered the room where sweet Tigerna was still fast asleep, she saw the angel naked for the first time.
Tigerna lay on her back on an all but bare mattress. Her slender wrists were girlacled to the supports of the bed head, her ankles wrapped around with unyielding chain, with its respective loose ends padlocked in grip of the legs of the bed at the bottom of the bed. And the angel slept on a supremely soft dreamily scented golden fleece; the mattress being where her beautiful red curls spread their autumnal wonder beneath her ghost white body.
Her sleeping arrangement echoed that for the all-girls school Tigerna had attended from her first school day. There, in the dormitories, the older girls were entirely used to sleeping naked, tethered by wrists and ankles to solid wooden boards, with only their buttocks and a wooden block under their heads to support them as they slept. All this to keep them as pure as Tigerna had been securely secured since even before the dawn of her first teen.
Tigerna was thus kept untouched, unsullied, innocent, and sweet.
And between her thighs this early dawn, its allure enigmatically smiled with a soft sheen. Its lips were pre-pubescently smooth, as if they had never borne the mirror-match of the golden glory that anointed Tigerna’s head. The in-turning edges of its lips just kissed closed. And, as Sampara’s compelled eyes followed the line of its seraphic smile, she saw that, at their top, the closed lips ended akin a circle, as if as a whole, it was a lock, and this circle the entry for the shaft of the key.
“Mummy?”
Tigerna stirred, but, as her momma undid her padlocks, and nodded to the trinity of farm girls that she, Tigerna, was theirs; Tigerna was still half asleep, stupefied.
Although she had been covered not by blanket nor duvet nor even sheet in her sleep, Tigerna’s body bore the scent of a night in bed. She was unwashed and the aroma of a warm summer’s night fragranced her flawless flesh.
The two brunettes sat Tigerna on the edge of her bed, and Sampara could now witness Tigerna’s young breasts in all their stupendous glory. Tigerna was twice blessed with proportional but very considerable abundance. For such a young girl, she was decidedly a very big girl. And that summation found match in the size of her nipples too. Tigerna’s firm-soft twins were kissed with two-inch diameter coral pink areolae with firm central peaks. Her nipples were naturally engorged as if she were with milk
As she was sat up and then made to stand Tigerna’s considerable breasts swung till they settled ready to be constrained by the first set of irons.
Under her golden hair, a cold heavy-gauge steel chain was rested around the sweet angel’s neck. At the ends of this chain were the opened steel jaws, some six-inches deep, to compare with the amount of arm they would have embraced had they been wrist cuffs, but only of an opening of three inches.
This device was, by colloquial title, a “tit-controller”. For the first time in their sweet young life, Tigerna’s completely wild breasts were to be subjected to some effort at constraining them to conformity with discretion and becoming behaviour.
By means of its two halves being hinged where they joined the chain, one maw of the tit-controller presently dangling freely over Tigerna’s right tit, was opened out to its maximum; this a gap evidently inadequate for its commissioned mission and bounden duty.
Against any risk the angel might fight, the blonde held Tigerna by her wrists behind, and one of the brunettes inserted a slim white silk rope into holes in the flanges at each end of the opened tit-controller jaw, and began to draw the rope tighter; and tighter; and tighter; to pull the jaw over and onto, and then to encompass and compress Tigerna’s wonderful breast, and slowly to securely fasten the tit-controller’s maw around, so that it strangled Tigerna’s tit. This done she held closed the jaw biting the tit, till the other brunette could shut the jaw for sure, and if need be for evermore, with a padlock. The rope could now be, and therefore was removed.
Tigerna’s evident pain shot her fully awake and aware that this was, but yet was not, a nightmare.
“Mummy!”
But yet the sweet girl, her mother’s presence being taken as sanction for what was proceeding, made no resistance to her left tit being strangled and clamped in the other jaw of the tit-controller, and there padlocked in turn.
But tears filled her startling green eyes when she finally stood with her young breasts grasped brutally in the steel rings formed by the closed jaws, so that the ends of her breasts were suffused with a hue that was becoming unbecoming hue akin to blue, and her nipples were swollen painfully, having become taut pinnacles with her still exposed breasts obscenely alike in shape to the swollen ends of cartoon weight-lifter’s barbells.
“Mummy! They...they are so tight mummy!”
“Be brave my darling!”
“But it hurts mummy! It hurts my titties! My titties are going to burst mummy!!”
“Hush now my angel”
“But my nippies hurt so much mummy!!!”
Tigerna’s mother took the sweet girl’s hands as much to reassure as, perhaps to hide that Tigerna’s iron boots were being readied.
Tigerna was gently sat on the edge of the soft bed, and Sampara watched the young girl’s eyes open in fascinated horror as she realised what was to be fastened to her feet.
It began with her right ankle being shackled in a tight steel ring, in the form of an iron “collar” four inches deep. Taking account of where her heel was to end up willingly or not, from the back of this ankle shackle, and welded as an integral rigid part of it, ran a tapering steel “heel” that became stiletto near its furthest end, before becoming slimmer still, till it was no more in breadth than is the point of a knitting needle.
From one side of this ankle shackle ran a long strong steel rod, which ended in an as yet opened steel ring. The rod was positioned to run parallel with the outer side of Tigerna’s lovely leg. The ring was then closed around that part of her leg, just below her knee, and the closed ring padlocked shut.
Sampara speculated on when the blacksmith had taken measure to adjust these irons to Tigerna’s measurements, and realised that, for such preciseness to have been attained, Tigerna’s mother must have been long in the planning loop.
Hinged to the front side of the steel shackle grasping Tigerna’s shapely ankle, was the presently opened upper for this iron boot. This upper matched in width the section of the boots’ sole, which Tigerna was about to discover was one and the same as its heel.
The upper was curved to dome the foot. The sole-cum-heel arched to take the foot, and if need be break the foot, till its toes pointed downward in parallel with the rigid steel sole-cum-heel.
The two, the upper and the sole, must be mated and married. But first, Tigerna’s toes were fed through a rigidly linked series of individual steel rings, which were the foot equivalent of a knuckle duster, mounted in the upper. This device spread her toes and made Tigerna discover that between each ring, and therefore now between each of her bare toes, this “foot duster” included one inch long needle sharp spikes.
The duster being in place through the rings being around Tigerna’s pretty toes, one of the brunettes screwed a long tapering steel bar to a threaded recess located in the duster between Tigerna’s biggest and next toe. This tapering bar was, in its form, clearly a mirror match for the heel-cum-sole that ran from the rear of the ankle shackle curved over Tigerna’s heel and then rapidly tapered to a needle-sharp point at the rear of her foot.
And how now did Tigerna squeal in pain as she was held fast, while one of the brunettes used two leather straps to close the upper of Tigerna’s steel boots so that her foot was bent brutally over the arch in the heel which was also to be, by the boots closing, the sole of this cruel torture.
Scream with pain though she may, the straps inexorably bent Tigerna’s foot till the steel upper and lower met and mated, and six small padlocks could be clipped through meeting holes in the upper and lower, three at each side of the boot, to hold the device closed, and the straps used in its initial closing, unfastened ready for use on Tigerna’s left foot.
Tears welled, tiptoeing on the precipice of Tigerna’s pretty green eyes, till they formed diamond bright pearls too huge not to fall and caress her sweet freckles when they finally toppled to wet her peach soft cheeks.
The agony over; through the unfocused distortion of the view through her tears, Tigerna could see that her tortured feet were padlocked into the boots such that they were broken back to become, in all essentials, a straight continuation of her legs.
In combination with the bar that ran up the outside of her leg to the ring that was padlocked under her knee around her leg just above her calf, her feet were held forced straight-down. It was as if she wore a splint.
And her boots had no soles. They had two “heels” but no soles, or rather, no soles that would ever touch the floor.
“Stand up!”
“Mummy!!” the poor angel cried when her imprisoners made her stand.
“Mummy!! Mummy!! Mummy!! Oh Mummy they hurt, they hurt!! They hurt me Mummy!!”
And hurt they indeed must, for Tigerna now stood as if on the highest of highest tiptop tiptoe, on two “heels”. Two heels at the rear and front of each foot. Two tapering heels that were not even one inch apart between them on each steel boot.
Two heels on each boot less than one inch apart front to back, with the front heels secured to Tigerna’s pretty feet by the needles that had once merely rested between her divided toes, her toes individually ringed by her toe dusters, and which were now by her 110 pounds of pure girl, driven hard upwards between her toes deep into her feet, causing her to screech with the terrible pain. As blood spiralled slowly around and down her front heels, such was the hellish cruelty she endured so girlfully.
Tigerna stood teetering on two heels for each foot, four heels tapering to needle points, each pair of heels less than one inch apart front to rear, and some twelve inches from the ground at the rear of each boot, with the length of the steel heels at the front of the boots sufficiently less to match the final ground touch of the rear ones, after the length of her tortured feet had been taken into account.
When Tigerna caught Sampara’s eyes compelled to adore the astonishing shapeliness of the young girl’s legs, now Tigerna was stood so mercilessly high heeled with her soft muscularity tensioned so tautly and her bottom clenched closed so tightly that her buttock hemispheres were scooped into sculptured concave hollows, Tigerna blushed. And thus Sampara knew that it must have dampened, and that that would be why Tigerna no longer cried aloud with the pain, though her pretty face still conveyed the strain and the shame.
The dress the blonde had borne into Sampara’s home, was rolled up in readiness by that same girl, and Tigerna was bid to raise her long slim arms, so that her dainty hands could be fed through its short puff sleeves, and the dress thus slid over her sparkling gold down blessed forearms and then her upper arms to her shoulders. The neck of the dress was then arranged around Tigerna’s own neck, and the body of the dress unfurled till it covered the flawless girl to the floor, even beyond her double-heeled shoes.
This done, Tigerna’s flame red curls were rescued from the rear of the dress’ neckline till they tumbled in all their radiant glory down below her bottom once more. And then the far more mundane chain of her tit-controller was drawn out of the dress’ neckline too, and left to dangle to her shoulder blades under her wonderful hair.
The voluminous dress, with its round neck high, made no shift at outlining Tigerna’s very feminine figure, but, nonetheless, her imprisoned breasts made it doubly proud to be on her, and her bottom, sculpted to the firmness of a marble statue marvel, by her tip of tiptoe stance in her steel boots, nearly matched them at the rear. Thus, though the dress was opaque so as to reveal no sin, there was no mistaking that a girl was within.
Samapara, of course, knew this to be the very gown that, with its near twin, which would be held back till needed, if needed, had been long a main feature in the village’s museum. And she remained amazed at the herculean labours of sharp eyes and dextrous fingers that must have been needed for all but endless hours to make and shape and sew its pure lace; its pure white lace; its pure virgin white lace.
The chain between the steel girlacles now being padlocked to each of Tigerna’s wrists, which, once padlocked, left her hands rested on the sides of her behind, was about one foot long.
Now the blonde took up an interwoven multiple-twined ring of rings of rings of freshly gathered wild daisies, and placed this as a crown on the golden glory of the maiden’s red hair, which was thus also now diamond dappled with droplets of dawn dew gifted by the daisies in praise of Tigerna’s beauty.
“You look so wonderful my precious angel!” Tigerna’s mother cried out.
“Walk” came the quiet quite confident command from the blonde clearly in charge of proceedings.
The brunettes opened wide the bedroom door, and Tigerna could see through, beyond Sampara’s lounge, that, after its short bounds, the outside door of the apartment was also ajar. And she could also see the sun, which was so bright to eyes still adjusted to the comparative cool darkness of the apartment’s insides. And she could hear the soprano and contralto murmurings of the village’s girlfolk, for some reason gathered in the street outside. And she knew where she was expected to go.
“Walk” came the repeated confident calm command.
...................
Had walking ever been such agony?
As she made step to make steps, and found that in her heavy steel torture boots she needed to learn to walk anew, Tigerna’s eyes welled with soft tears once more.
She staggered. She was so high on the steel heels; heels she teetered atop even when she merely stood, that to walk was terrifying.
She staggered. She squeaked with fear. She was sure she was going to fall. She was more unstable and unsteady and uncertain than a girl in her first high heels, but with double the heels with which to deal.
Tigerna had had her legs trained at St Innocents, where the girls did ballet for two hours twice daily. So her ankles were strong, and her feet and calves used to en-pointe and the pirouette.
But even this did not release her from fear of a fall, and neither did the recall of the time she had torn an ankle in dance lessons, and been told, that if she didn’t wish to be expelled for disobedience, she must continue.
Tigerna took tentative steps to step, her feet wobbling from side to side under her long white virgin white lace dress. Each step tortured her feet. Each step reminded her that she was stabbed inch deep between her divided toes. Each step was perfect agony.
“Lift your head up, and walk properly!” the blonde whispered in command.
Tigerna turned her pretty eyes to convey her soft sweet maiden’s charm on this source of control over her.
“Don’t you dare to look at me like that! Walk!” came the quietly assured response.
At this Tigerna’s teen rebelliousness, usually hidden below her natural sweet nature, found her with an attempt at a haughty look she did not really have command over, because her face was so very pretty, and she held back her tears, and stepped forward determinedly, and staggered and cried out in pain again.
“Walk, and walk properly, unless you want a taste of the whip!”
Tigerna’s struggles had yet to even take her out of the bedroom. She winced and cried out and her tears flowed, but she lightly bit her coral pink shiny-moist lower lip, and made steps to make steps again, and moaned with the pain, as at last she walked, in fear of a fall, but she walked in her tiptoe-top-topping steel torture boots.
Even so, she progressed snail slowly, and was stepping tentatively and unevenly, with a standing stance between each step, where she held momentarily still.
The group had travelled, behind Tigerna’s travails, at least as far as Sampara’s lounge by now.
But the blonde’s patience had expired. She nodded at the two brunettes, who grasped Tigerna’s bare arms above the steel girlacles around her wrists, and then reached down to roll Tigerna’s dress and red-gold hair enfolded within it above her thus bared buttocks.
“THWICK!!”
The bullwhip’s stroke cut her soft skin and blinding pain caused a red mist before her eyes. A livid scarlet welt was raised on the beauty of her buttocks, its agony echoing and even increasing after the vicious impact on her nude body. Tigerna screamed.
Then she slowly turned her tear-filled glowing greens on the blonde, before recalling she had been ordered not to look at her tormentor, and so lowered her lovely head in prayer that her glance would not earn her another lash.
Her dress and hair were lowered. Tigerna licked her lovely lips. She began once more to try and walk in her torture boots, only for the pain to make her cry again.
“Be brave my angel. We mustn’t let them see tears when you go outside, must we sweetheart?” Tigerna’s mother soothed, as she took a wet-wipe to her daughters pretty face, dabbed tears from Tigerna’s eyes, and then dried the residue of her previous weeping from her sweet freckles.
“Walk” came the order from the blonde immediately after, and Tigerna, having learned from her pain filled tuition, obeyed: she walked.
...................
As Tigerna bravely stepped outside onto the cobbled street, the girls gathered there, muttered among themselves audibly.
“Here she is, the Maiden of the May; our May Maiden!”
“Oh isn’t she lovely?!”
“She looks just like a bride!”
“What beautiful hair!”
Even before this, Tigerna had dried her tears and walked now with pain still, but also with pride, and with a blush evident on her youthfully fresh complexion. The reason was hidden. But Sampara knew. She knew that it was wet.
The naughty curl that was constantly falling over Tigerna’s right eye had tumbled again. But this fall from the grace of complete tidiness only made the stunning Tigerna all the more attractive.
Tigerna’s shy demeanour was an integral of her loveliness. So her blush was readily taken as pleasured shyness at the compliments.
That she was blushing because it was wet, did not even occur to Tigerna. For, for it to wet when she was pleasured by a compliment, or even a glance, let alone an admiring look, was natural for such a girl.
But was there a difference this time? Was Tigerna innocent that she was not innocent of a prospective effect for some girls, of her predicament? Unbeknown and thus unrecognised to her mind, which would have been overwhelming shocked and ashamed had it been consciously aware, did it enjoy her being controlled like this? Was that why it was so wet?
Then next.....
There is a saying in England, that “every village has one”. It is reference to the phrase, “the village idiot”. It conveys, succinctly, if indirectly, that such are considered still to exist in the person of the person being addressed with that phrase.... “Every village has one.....”.
It is an insult. But even in the mid-twenty-first century, the village of Milton Biden had one, in the somewhat distended outline of the obtuse Marna Moroney, whose strident voice now called from the back of a crowd otherwise stunned to silence by the sight of Tigerna’s pure beauty.
“Takin’ it for a mornin’ walk are yer darlin’?”
“Does it smell as nice as dem flowers on yer ‘ead, or ‘ave yer not washed it lately sweet’art?”
“’Ere look. She’s gone all red. She musta bin playin’ wiv it! Ave yer bin playin’ wiv it darlin’? Is your fingers all wet and sticky!?”
A corrective came from one of Marna’s regular companions, a girl almost as stupid:
“She’s one of dem St Innocent boarding school slags. She ain’t even ever bin allowed to fink abart touchin’ it!”
“Oh bloody ‘ell! Burra bet she’s playin’ wiv it now school’s out .....Ain’t yer darlin’?”, Marna now shouted loudly at the near tearful Tigerna.
A final corrective came from the village’s police constable, who had walked quietly over to the source of this loud interjection, the foul mouthed Marna.
The village constable now held Marna up to ridicule as she enquired aloud, so all could hear:
“You just caught up with the village news have you Marna? It’s been planned for weeks. You must be the only girl in the village who doesn’t, or rather didn’t till now, know! Our prayers have been answered. This lovely is of the birth. She is four and sixteen. We have us a May Maiden. Our crops won’t fail after all, not after today!”
“Oh fuckin’ ‘ell! Are day gonna mek ‘er ride der ‘obby’orse an’ all dat?!”, Marna puzzled.
And Tigerna heard, and knew from the words that something probably horrible was in store for her: something even worse than the painful pain-filling bondage she already wore and walked in.
.......................
The crowd now fell in behind Tigerna, who remained walking forward, in great pain, on the uneven cobbles that paved the main street of Milton Biden, with the three farmers controlling her, in closest attendance, and the blonde one, with her long cruel leather whip unclipped from her belt in readiness, in case Tigerna resisted, or fell to the ground and had to be assisted to stand back up on her steeple heeled shoes once more, with the lash.
With her forward motion and the drape and drag of its hem on the roadway around her heels, Tigerna’s white dress clung to the front of her young body and demonstrated that she was a very forward girl, and would have been, even without her breasts being gripped in her tit-controller.
But even though her white dress had thus become more voluminous to the rear than to the fore, her followers were all eyes for Tigerna’s clearly discernable natural wiggle.
The May Maiden with the crown of fresh daisies on her radiant red hair in the pure white silk dress signifying to the world that it was intact, obediently, painfully slowly, for it was slow pain for her so to do, stepped forward along the street, past the girl market where her poorer fellows were traded as servants, past the steepled church, with its cross inverted to depict its conversion to satanism, and it’s clock chiming the quarters, the halves, and the hours; to the main market square.
Tigerna’s wiggling progress left droplets of blood in her wake, for her feet were being tortured for obedience enforcement’s sake.
Tigerna now walked her wiggling way properly in her torture boots; boots in which, with their duel heels tapering to needle sharp tungsten tips giving her but minimally microscopic grip on the paving with her dainty steps, at all times she teetered on the top of a tumble.
As she approached the square, Tigerna became all too aware of the hum of conversation, and then from the clear sight of them, that there were yet more girls gathered to witness whatever it was that was going to happen to her.
And she also now caught her first sight of some wooden contraption that was parked in the centre of the main square.
On she walked. Despite her wiggle militating against such a thing being possible one would have assumed, two patches of the material at the back of her dress had adhered to the now dried blood of the whip lash that still stung her lovely bum.
Now she noticed the device that the girls in the main square were gathered around.
This wooden device, had all the appearance of being an overlarge, child’s wooden horse. It even had a long neck topped by a head with wild red eyes and black flared nostrils painted upon it.
The head was of flat board of perhaps two inches profile, as, insofar as she could see, was the body. Indeed the head and neck were of the same board as the body. Tigerna’s lovely greens read it as said that the depiction on the side of the head she could see, was matched on its other side; although perhaps the strands of leather that made mock of a mane on the neck of the “horse” were only on the side she could immediately glimpse.
To the rear of this playtime horse, were steps that led to a platform that was arranged at the toy animal’s nearest and thus more visible flank.
Stood by the play horse was a little blonde darling with her hair cropped boyishly short, an adornment which only emphasised that she was very much a girl.
This girl stood five one at the most. Her face looked a little smeared with, perhaps, charcoal or dust or soot. Her hands though dainty were dirty in the same way. And she wore a brown leather full apron, with its strap-collar around her neck, and its strings tied at her slim waist, after they must have gone around her fit midriff at least a second time.
Having never of course met her, Tigerna had no knowledge that this tiny dynamo was Colleana O’Nara, the village’s blacksmith and veterinarian.
Tigerna noticed that something was standing on edge at Colleana’s side... the side of the girl Tigerna was yet to learn was Colleana ... and that this blacksmith also had seemingly ready, a steel hoop, a hoop with flanged opened ends preventing it forming a complete circle, and with a pulley device exactly opposite to the opened ends. The girl also held a length of chain.
Tigerna’s half hour struggle to walk to the square ended with loud wolf-whistles and cries of appreciation of her loveliness.
“You are simply gorgeous darling!” came one cry.
“You have pure beauty!” came another.
“Now I know there are angels!” came a third.
As it became instantly wetter, Tigerna hung her head in a confirmatory blush. And then raised her pretty face and looked around shyly in deserved pride, and blushed deeper still as it became wetter still.
Then she squeaked with surprise when, while she, Tigerna, stood at attention as commanded, her mother pulled the dress off the dried blood of the raised whip’s weal across her bum.
“Thank you mummy” Tigerna whispered.
“Be brave my angel” came her momma’s reply.
The village crier waved a clanging bell and all fell silent, as she introduced the village’s mayoress, who unrolled a scroll from which she made a speech few could hear in the soft breeze, and fewer among the few among the many gathered, soon found too long and began to talk over.
“Ladies and ladies we are in the presence of the Maiden of the May, who has been summoned on this, the longest of our summer days, to save our harvest with surety with her purity.....
.....Our May Maiden, this gorgeous young woman, stands before us, assuredly verified as being as innocent as a newborn. Well may she blush. She is but a schoolgirl; untouched; unsoiled; unspoiled; unschooled in the wicked ways we all learn as we reach beyond her complete innocence.....
......This angel is of the age. She is four and sixteen but not twenty. She is, as required by the lore, born on 29 February; a leap-year child, knowing of sixteen full four seasons, but only four birthdays; the purest of pure Maiden of the May....
....By her pain will we gain the long longed for rain that our stubble-strewn yield-lacking corn is parched for want of, and has been since the harvest of last year.....
We must bear painful witness to her being removed of her innocence. Before the strike of midday from the clock of our anti-church, her maiden’s blood must anoint the fields of our farms, to save our harvest from the dread of harm.....
.....But she must fight or else the spell will not be right. and the fight must come in the ride, for she must trot the bounds the fields around so the dark gods will know what her sacrifice is for, and tell the rains she will bring for sure, where to pour....
Take her to the hobbyhorse!”
Even as a chill ran along Tigerna’s femininely arched spine, a cheer went up from the gathered crowd.
“Mummy! What are they going to do to me mummy?! Don’t let them mummy! Please don’t let them mummy!!”
“Fight them my angel. Fight them. I cannot stop this my precious one. It must go on.”
.......................
For poor Tigerna, the rush to get her to what she now knew to be “the hobbyhorse”, knew greater speed than she, on her pinpointed pin-sharp pinnacle heels, was capable. The blonde readying her whip terrified the angel. Was she not entirely obeying her order to walk to the wooden steps?
Among the baying of the crowd, she pleaded a whisper inaudible in the rising cacophony: “Please don’t whip me!”.
She was approaching the hobbyhorse now, and correcting her understanding of its construction.
Her mind was speeded. She was under terrible stress and equal distress. In such circumstances, a mind sees as if in the opposite of time-lapse filming, with the world slowed down so that the inevitable seems all the more escapable, only for the discovery that such is incapable to be all the more horrible to a gentle girl’s mind.
Closer Tigerna inevitably inexorably drew, and with closer inspection she knew, that, because she had hitherto only had a one-side view, she had been mistaken about the horse’s body being of a single two-ply plank; it was of two.
Its wooden neck and head were hewn from single planks, as was its wooden tail. But the body was of two such planks. To keep the parallel planks making for its body, apart, the neck was sandwiched between the body planks at its front end, and the tail at its rear.
Tigerna’s mind did not need to concern itself with whether there were corresponding spacers at the base of the body. But, of course there were – they were supplied by the wooden legs.
Through steel-lined holes smeared with grease to lubricate them drilled toward the bottom of the legs, front and back, ran steel axles. These had presumably replaced the ancient iron axles which had historically supplanted the even older wooden ones.
And fixed to each end of these axles, were six inch profile two foot “diameter” solid wood wheels, of a decidedly odd-looking shape, protected from wear by iron-band-tyres, heated and allowed to cool around the wood of the wheels proper, with nails driven through the bands at regularly spaced intervals, to double-ensure they stayed on the wheels.
The axles, both axles, were half as wide as the hobbyhorse was long. Thus it had stability; or at least it had while still standing as it was now, on comparatively level cobblestone paving.
As Tigerna was to discover, the wheels were fastened rigidly to the axles, so that as the wheels rotated, so did the axles. So the wheels were not free to turn individually alone in their own right. They would rotate in pairs, the wheels at the ends of each and both axles matching the motion one of the other.
Between the boards making the hobbyhorse’s body, Tigerna could spy a series of links the purpose of which she was unable to assess, because they went up somewhere into the hobbyhorse’s body. Nor could she see where these steel links were linked from or to. Each was of industrial strength, with little afforded to finesse about their construction or the crude greased bolts and split-pins where one link linked to another.
But her immediate concerns were narrowing to those caused by the approaching steps; the steps she was approaching that is. These rose one foot at a time before the redhead rose, starting with the first, and their stainless-steel-plated treads were one foot wide. Tigerna’s pretty legs, though as strong as they were lovely, would be challenged by the torture boots she wore, and that she was on pinpoint duel heels.
Walking had already stabbed the gaps between her toes, such that both her feet were bleeding, and each step was agony to her. But the threat of the whip kept her walking, as did the thought that she would seemingly be able, ere long, to sit on this mock horse and take the pressure of her perfect package of poundage off her tortured toes.
On the platform already was the blacksmith. Colleana was busied placing, just to the rear of centre of the hobbyhorse, what must be its saddle: Tigerna’s saddle soon to be. This Tigerna recognised as being the object that had been standing on one of its ends till now, at Colleana’s side.
Though they were hidden by her virgin white dress, the crowd somehowed that this delightful young redhead had a very shapely pair of legs and, to Tigerna’s horror, began to taunt her.
To the fore among them was the strident voice of Marna Moroney, whom the crowd would normally have mocked and told to shut up be quiet and make herself scarce. But now it seemed the women and girls saw her comments as something they too were thinking, but could not express so well allowed aloud.
“Oi: show us a bit of leg den darlin’!”
“Is you gonna give us a flash of it or ain’t yer?!”
“Hope it’s wet sweet’art! You’re gonna need a soppin’ wetun where you is goin’!”
At this latter comment, Tigerna distinctly heard cheers amounting to jeers among the crowd’s now cruel laughter.
Colleana had passed bolts through the back end of the saddle, and tightened the recessed nut, that mirrored the also recessed bolt head: the bolt having been inserted through the hobbyhorse’s flanks to hold the saddle upright and firm.
Two front bolts also supported the circular steel arch Tigerna had noted. The recess in the saddle at that end was large enough to include the flanges of this over-bar with pulley, and the second bolt through each of its flanges secured this over-bar from moving fore or aft.
The chain the blacksmith had held was now over the pulley, with its two ends left dangling loose.
Tigerna’s command was also her wish. She had tasted the whip the once and had no desire to wear another stripe from it. One of her brunette escorts had passed on her whip to the petit power-pack Colleana, and Colleana and the blonde chief of escorts had their whips very evidently at the ready.
To sweet Tigerna in here duple-steeple-needle heels, the short distance to the steps up to the hobbyhorse could have been a million miles. Her feet were causing her great pain. Being required to stand after having tortured them in her walk from the headmistress’ apartment to the village’s centre, had added to her pain. Her feet were being stabbed between the toes once more. For her moments without momentum, her mind had been allowed memory minimisation. Now her wiggle was ordered once more, her feet knew new ministrations from her torture boots.
What were these people after? Why was she, an innocent schoolgirl, being singled out like this? Why did her mummy not save her?
Think these thoughts though she may and did, Tigerna had always been a good girl, and therefore did as she was bid.
As she eased up the skirt of her virgin white dress, as best she could with her wrists being girlacled behind her, it was if the crowd were incensed by the bloodlust Tigerna had read was once accredited to hunters when they had been allowed to use hounds to hunt foxes and such. The thought, irrelevant to her circumstances, that since birth control measures had seen them become nearly one hundred percent of the population, horseback hunting had finally ceased when girls had taken the place of horses, because girls were abundantly plentiful, cheaper to feed, and readily disposable, crossed Tigerna’s mind.
The world-widespread unemployment was being cured by deploying surplus girls usefully. The women’s liberationists could have no complaints.
This scheme of distracting her mind from her pain did not work for Tigerna. Nor did her recollection of thanks for she herself being of comparative good fortune, since she was a daughter with at least one parent wealthy enough to save her from the fate of some of her poorer contemporaries.
Only recently, Tigerna had witnessed her best friend in childhood working in the village for the local taxi firm. Her two mothers had got divorced after their market gardening business had collapsed in the drought, only last year. They had been forced to take their daughter out of school and sell her. Zupeena now worked a cab. She had been broken to the reins used to steer ponygirls by their tits, when still only fourteen.
A moment of moment was fast arriving. Tigerna had to take the first step to take the steps’ first step. It was obviously not in question that her lovely ballet-trained legs, her two transporting transports, were strong and fit enough for so short a height; but in her torture boots.....?
Wolf-whistles sounded enthusiastically even at the exposure of her calves; calves supremely tensioned by her torture boots, but only a pair of very shapely calves with the calf muscles under the highest of high stress, that’s all.
The whip fell only lightly on her buttocks this time. It was but a shot over her firm dimple-hollow-sided wiggling stern, but not a stern one. It was a reminder that she was under charge of the village’s representatives. It was to urge her onwards as time was passing. It was a ranging shot by her additional tormenter, the petit blacksmith.
Tigerna the rose, rose up the steps as if in a dance, she was so fit and lithe and so alive. Colleana O’Nara followed her, and she, the blacksmith, seemed now to be taking the lead instead of the shapely blonde who had hitherto been so obviously in charge over the sweet redhead.
The saddle awaited Tigerna. This she knew just as she realised that, in order to mount it, she must somehow raise the skirt of her dress anew, and began to grasp its material materially in her pretty hands. No offer of help was forthcoming. She struggled alone. But Colleana’s whip coiled snake trail on the platform as if Tigerna had only to bare some of her soft complexion for it to take it as an invitation to kiss her.
Tigerna had never been allowed to own a ponygirl. Nor had she ever been allowed ponygirl riding lessons. It had not been permitted at her school. And a lengthy list of advice notes for parents, passed on through Tigerna when she had first started at St Innocents, had included a stricture against sporting activities in which:-
“....a girls legs may be unadvisedly too widely separated one from the other, to the risk of the preservation of the physical evidence of her purity, the loss of the wholesome status of which, is assurance of instant expulsion with no concomitant right of appeal”.
Yet now she must part her lovely legs giving air to the pinkness of its super-sensitive inner, and straddle a saddle, a wooden inverted ‘V’ saddle with the top of the vee lined with nailed-on strips of cold steel.
Tigerna flashed a wealth of shapely calf as she swung her right pretty leg over the saddle, the muscles of her left calf tensioning erotically as she feared a fall from her temporary tentative purchase on the platform from standing in and on her left torture boot alone. Her sweet face showed the concentration she must apply to the simple action of mounting the hobbyhorse. And her sweetly creased brow was matched by her pretty squeak of alarm as the platform was already being taken away, in the sense that she was sliding astride her ride, and thus losing her purchase on the mounting platforms boards.
And, now Tigerna straddled the saddle, Colleana O’Nara took Tigerna’s double-heeled left boot and the blonde with the whip her right. And they inserted the needle-heels of Tigerna’s iron boots through readied holes in a leather strap that straddled the hobbyhorse behind Tigerna, and fitted rubber ‘corks’ over the spikes and slid these down so the strap held the spikes irremovably. Tigerna’s lovely legs were thus bent at their dimpled knees and she was leant forward so that it sat, literally liberally openly astride the saddle and the weight of her body was on the insides of its parted lips.
And Tigerna was astraddle the saddle and it was open and its opened lips were kissing the pointed top of the upside down vee of the saddle’s peak with all the passionate might of her delicious one hundred and ten pounds of pure girl.
“Mummy!! It hurts mummy!! It hurts!!!”
This was not mere pain, it was the nearest yet to agony that lovely Tigerna had yet experienced in her tender young life.
The blonde fixed the chain over the pulley in the over-bar in front of Tigerna, to both Tigerna’s shackled wrists behind the gorgeous redhead’s back, and to Tigerna’s tit-controller chain, bringing the latter to Tigerna’s front, and padlocking the over-pulley-chain to the centre of the linkages with the cuffs that so tightly grasped Tigerna’s firm young breasts.
“Mummy!! It hurts mummy!!
“Pull yourself up by your titties sweetheart!”
As the blacksmith and the blonde rearranged Tigerna’s virgin-white dress’ skirt to ensure the angel’s modesty by covering her shapely legs, Tigerna pulled her arms down behind her. Tigerna cried out with the pain as she hauled down with slim arms now held strappado behind her, to haul the chain over the pulley in the centre of the bar over the front of the saddle and thus ease its lips off the vicious vee of the saddle by pulling herself up by her tits.
But her successful momentum was merely momentary; before she could hold herself aloft by her soft frontage no longer and felt it being divided and decidedly kissing the top of the V yet once more, and the dreadful pain caused tears to start in her glorious glowing greens.
The mounting platform had been removed, and Tigerna now experienced the mounting pain of riding the wooden horse with her most secret and most sensitive part parted by its saddles peak and crushed, by her mite of feminine poundage pressing it into a passionate kiss of the unyielding lover that was splitting her where she was already slit by that which divides a girl and defines a girl and rules over her.
There was a scrabble and scramble among the girls of the village eager to gain early purchase with their girlual-labour-roughened hands on the ropes with which the hobbyhorse was hauled.
Meanwhile, the blonde and the blacksmith padlocked three sets of two-pound lead weights to both of the rings just below the knees: the rings atop Tigerna’s steel boots, to haul the angel harder down and make its opened lips kiss the saddle more passionately still, till with a shrill whine from her sweet lips and her struggle to haul herself up by her tits, they knew that the huge weights attached to each of her pretty legs to hold her down on the vee had her in balance unable to stop its kissing. And a whip was cracked and the girls began to haul the hobbyhorse and Tigerna screamed with the pain from it.
As she discovered the wheels of the hobbyhorse were cam-shaped, with a larger diameter at one end than the other, conjoined by long curved “flat-spots” such that she now rode what rose and fell alternately front and rear, with the pink lips of the rose sliding. As it felt the bucking bronco motion of the hobbyhorse inside that which dictates a girl’s emotions, the redheaded sweetheart knew new agony.
“Mummy!! Mummy!! It hurts mummy!! It hurts!!!”
“Stop them mummy! Please stop them mummy!! Please stop them!!!”
As if the cobbles with which the village’s streets were paved was not enough, the hobbyhorse hauled knew wilful will to throw its young rider, with life injected into its wooden inertness by the cam-shaped-wheels, asserting wildness to the ride that Tigerna experienced with her supremely sensitive insides, her clitoris only saved from sliding back and forth on the bucking saddle by the crack between the planks making up the saddles inverted vee.
Among her long golden curls, Tigerna hauled her pretty arms down, but her girly strength was not enough now with the weights on her boots, to haul herself off the saddle by her tits for long, before it was decidedly divided by the vee once more and the wooden horse was rising and falling and she was sliding fore and aft on its opened lips back and forth and up and down the saddle and her most sensitive softness was being rubbed raw and bleeding as she screamed in pleading that this be stopped.
Tears ran from the angel’s eyes as her tormentors now ran with the ropes that hauled her hobbyhorse, and her strong legs fought to find release from the strap-stirrups that were not designed to change the fact she rode wracked on a horse she straddled bareback on her little virgins southern mouth, howling with the agony of having it ripped by the trip as she fought to pull herself of the pain by gain with her lovely white arms fighting to hang herself in the air by her titties, only to lose the fight and find herself right back with it kissing the cruel saddle that she and it both straddled.
But, all of a sudden a mile from the village, what was this about her cry?! Had she found salvation in lubrication?
The girls who hauled Tigerna’s hobbyhorse to the fields from the town did not notice the change in the sounds from the virgin enduring the ride. Was she now enjoying it being ripped inside? No longer did Tigerna’s slim arms fight among the long coiling curling tresses of her radiant red hair to haul herself off her torture by her tits. Was this a sign that she, sundered as it was, was wet and whetted? Always a girl as succulent as such beauty as she held made her; a girl preponderantly moistened with the juice of a girl’s nature, was Tigerna, was it, wet from the all but unendurable pain?
The edge of the fields had been gained, this where the local farmer for that locale sowed her rapeseed, and thunder rumbled as the wheels of the hobbyhorse over the arid ridges of the desert-parched soil of the first farm on Tigerna’s ride tumbled tumbrel adding to the vicious slide of the viscously lubricated insides of it riding the pony, divided and sliding on it as she was, as it was, and her sweet mind dedicated to the pain and again the gain as she, Tigerna, knew new wetness such that she had only experienced before when she day-dreamt of the head-girl of her school, and her teachers had noticed her distraction to the head-girls attraction even though both girls were shrouded in the mystery of their all-enveloping school uniform burkas, and realised Tigerna was arrived at full puberty, and had made sure it was shaved and Tigerna saved by joining the girls who must henceforth sleep tied face up on their wooden plank beds.
“The lever someone operate the lever!”
The shout was what Tigerna heard between the rolls that are the role of thunder, and the sky darkening and then the flashlight sudden daylight momentarily momentous on the moment of lightning’s loud crackle and then the thunder’s rumbles tumbling aloft anew.
Tigerna rode so bravely in her pain. Fight as she may to haul herself aloft by her titties again Colleana O’Nara and the blonde now used their whips and messaged Tigerna with unmerciful lashes shredding the skirt of her dress to benude her magnificent thighs and whip those majestic wonders leaving cruel bloody welts as Tigerna screamed with the pain but knew she was being naughty and would have her nude thighs whipped if she failed in her duty to ride on it with it being ripped now and not to save its pain and hers by pulling herself up by her titties again.
The lightning flashed: the whips lashed their target to further tear Tigerna’s dress and further nude a munificence of thigh. Thunder almost as powerful as Tigerna’s thighs rolled and lightning tore the air as the whips lashed her thighs and Tigerna was hauled on her ride astride the hobbyhorse as the whips ripped her nude thighs and it slid the saddle with its lips opened wide as the wind blew the clouds and her cornucopia of curl coiled flame red hair streamed behind the golden girl.
“The lever!! Will someone operate the fucking lever!!!”
The whips kissed her nude thighs beating into them bloody bleeding wicked welts as they cut her supremely soft complexion with stripes of furious fire and Tigerna’s cries were now of a joy she had never in her sweet life endured, a joy that she was a girl and that this was her fate and that the lightning tore the air and the thunder clashed and crashed and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and she rode astride the bucking hobbyhorse with her feminine juices lubricating it and sliding onto the insides of her thighs to mix with the blood from the stripes as her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped on their thunderous beauty as she was hauled in the duty of being the Maiden of the May. And a whip purposely caught the tail of the hobbyhorse and smashed it down. And it was lever to deliver what came next as the villagers hauled the redhead over the arid fields astride the rocking-horse hobbyhorse and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped on the bucking hobbyhorse with the whips kissing her nude thighs as the wicked wonky wheels made its ride on the saddle excruciatingly painful inside even though its pinkness was moistened by her copious outpourings of girlness. And the tail lever raised the top quarters of two circular blades up firmly high in the crack between the boards that made up the hobbyhorse’s saddle. And these blades in their risen and rigid state were razor in their mission, and Tigerna knew of them when she slid forward and her clitoris and hood were cleaved instantaneously twain and twin, as the thunder rolled and the lightening stabbed the now new known stillness, and her scream of agonising pain rendered the air and the wheels of the hobbyhorse slid her over the front blade and then back over the rear slowing cutting her to half her, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped. And the whips kissed her nude thighs to bloody stripes upon bloodied stripes on their supremely shapely strength. And her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped. And the thunder was louder but not as loud as Tigerna’s howls as it slid on the blades as she was sliding back and forth on the bucking bronco she rode. And she hauled on her titties to stop the blades sundering her, cutting her into halves neither less beautiful than the whole. But her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, the whips driving her to lower herself down on the blades once more. And so she fought to make a brake with the insides of her thighs on the hobbyhorse saddle’s sides. But her honey was lubricating the blades all too well, so she still slid, betrayed by her natural girl’s love-oozings to be preyed upon by the blades that were working down into it to get at her girl’s ring, her precious thing, the symbol of the girl that is not yet a woman. And her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped.
And her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped. Then the wheels of the front hobbyhorse hit a rock, and the hobbyhorse was stopped as were the girls hauling it, and its rear end leapt, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, and after this sudden stop, the girls made tug-of-war to get the hobbyhorse rolling once more, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, and Tigerna slid over the front blade again and it slid over the front blade again and her clit was slit deeper asunder and the blade cut her further under. And the lightening slashed the air once more and the thunder crashed and drowned Tigerna’s scream of pain extreme once more, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, as the front blade made her woman, cutting her god’s wedding ring in perfect twain so it snapped and the still tethered severed ends slapped her inside it and added derision as the whips lashed her nude thighs and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and the blood that flowed down the saddle’s outsides was from her sudden sundering by the blades and from something that was no longer replete on its insides and her lovely green eyes closed on tears of joy as the rain downed and drowned her redhead’s curls into deeper darker gold as it soaked her virgin white dress so it clung to her virgin white body, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, and Tigerna realised that she was no longer a girl and was orgasm and was orgasm the more now she had been sliced into woman by the blades that had made her a maid unmade and delivered the rains for which the villagers had for so long prayed, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped as her deflowered-virgin’s blood, bound for the arid soils of Milton Biden village, mingled with the long overdue down-pouring rains running river over her body making her bared thighs and legs mirrors reflective of their own beauty, and sparkling her angel’s face and glorious hair with diamond droplets starlit in sparkles inspirational, as her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, and her maiden-unmade blood on the wetted soils of the village farm impregnatingly dripped.
.......................
As a girl she knew all too well entered the apartment in early late afternoon, Sampara half stood, hidden behind her desk, to pull up her panties and straighten her skirt. She then switched screens on her laptop from what she had been reading and imagining, to a picture of a perfect rosebud.
“Hi!” came the bright giggle-bejewelled voice from under the all-enveloping white burka that covered this creature, and made her look more akin a bulbous babushka than a sixteen-year-old, when Sampara knew all too well that she, this girl, had a very womanly figure.
Even the girl’s laughing loving smiling green eyes were not visible. The pristine white burka, or more specifically its head component, included a narrow “letter-box” slit covered by triple-ply muslin through which the girl could see, but her eyes could not be seen.
From the school dormitory to which this girl would later return, it was only a short walk to this, the headmistress’ private apartment, but, nonetheless, to protect her from even the sin of temptation, her class teacher had girlackled her wrists behind her back as per the regulation for when girls were not in class learning.
Sampara thought she had noticed the girl seemed to have grown even taller of late, and could now see confirmatory evidence.
Even when she, this girl, was not up on her tiptoes in the front-heeled squared-off-toed ballet booties the students at St Innocents Academy for Girls wore all day to beautify their legs, she had for some time since been taller than Sampara herself was. But the toes and front heels of the girls ballet shoes were suddenly showing below the hem of her burka yet once more.
Sampara quietly quickly closed a briefcase next to her computer, before standing to casually slide some papers over a book she had been reading and taking notes from: ‘Medieval Barnmouthshire – Myths and Truths’, which lay open at a chapter headed: ‘The Harvest Hobbyhorse of Milton Biden’.
“You’re already getting too tall for that size of burka sweetheart!” Sampara voiced as an audible thought.
“I know mummy. What’s for tea? Have you got the fresh pears you promised?! I’m so totally starving I could eat a horse!”
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