Disconnections

Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer

‘They Also Serve....’
Synopsis: - Glasgow Scotland, and Natanobi Saharan Africa; both at some future time when.....

‘They Also Serve....’
by Eve Adorer

Aileen McAveen unrolled the dense denier olive green stocking over her very shapely left leg, and then stretched the elasticated suspender to reach its sparkling gold clasp, into clipping that stocking’s more opaque top in circumference caress of her handsome thigh.

The contrast with other parts of her uniform was immediate. And it illustrated one of the shortcomings of the British Army. Here she was in this godforsaken flyblown desert-dustbowl, with sand in all four directions, five when the four winds blew, and the naffing army couldn’t even come up with a pair of desert-camouflage stockings!

When they’d opened the crate fresh out from the headquarters stores on the northern outskirts of London, she’d giggled. Where did those lazy pen-pushing pay and pension counting cushion-couched morons in the quartermaster’s department back home, think the troopettes out here in Natanobi, actually were in point of fact?

The opened crates spilling over with packs of olive green stockings that had arrived time over time, despite the clearest detail in the repeat requisitions placed, suggested that a stash of surplus stores had been stumbled upon, and some civilian clerk, whose companions had over-ordered, and now over-lorded, had shoved aside her thirteenth cup of coffee of the morning for long enough to have them sent out to the regiment in which Aileen McAveen was, or had been till recently, proud to serve.

Aileen was getting tired of army life. Silly mindless blunders like this with the stockings, didn’t help morale one bit. Now twenty-four, she’d signed on at eighteen, straight out of school.

Up in the highlands of Scotland, her native land, unless you were lucky enough to get into a bank, there were few choices for a girl these days.

At school, her compatriots and companions had, some of them, been headed for college. But, though as bright as she was pretty then, and was even lovelier now, Aileen, though she had a very quick mind, had always been keener on sports and outdoor pursuits than slaving over a hot PC studying gerunds, genetics, Greek, or geography, or such guff.

Besides, there was the family honour, or was the word ‘tradition’ to follow. Her momma and her momma’s momma, and so on, and so on, even back to the mid-twentieth century, had served in the regiment local to the Glen of Glasgeen where Aileen had been born and raised.

Over the many passing years since her grandmother’s youth, there had been reorganisations of reorganisations of the army. With the majority of the population of the UK now being female, the one-time so-called infantry regiments, distantly historically called the regiments of foot, were now termed a little differently, and Aileen walked on two very shapely witnesses as to why.

And so time had seen Aileen leave school, pass her army fitness tests with flying colours, and end up in the regiment of her foremothers, the unit that proudly bore the name of her Scottish birth locale; the 1st Glasgeen Highlanders, also known as the First Scottish Regiment of Legs, or just ‘The 1st Legs’.

This was Aileen’s fourth six-month tour of duty in what had, till oil had been belatedly discovered there, become an all but forgotten outpost of the British Commonwealth of former empire countries.

Natanobi was neither here nor there, but, given a microscope with a sufficient enlargement facility, could just about be spotted on the western edge of the Sahara desert.

Even the majority populace of Natanobi didn’t seem to know that they lived in a country of that name. It was a state created after the squabble between the former colonists, the French, and the new occupiers, the British, when Napoleon Bonaparte had departed, defeated the second and last time.

Even the British Foreign Affairs Ministry had seemed to lose sight of it. The joke went that the British ambassadoress, or High Commissioner as she was known, since Natanobi was now a notionally independent Commonwealth country, after serving forty years out here, had requested she be allowed to retire and have her pension paid, and shocked the ministry who had clean forgotten they had ever sent her out!

Oh, and back to the populace, they were nomadic tribeswomen, known as the Babettes. And they didn’t give a cesspit for which country considered they owned and ruled Natanobi. They wandered across the desert and interstate boundaries, trading wild Arabian ponygirls in the main.

They had lived the way they lived now, forever and a day, and beyond even that long. Arabian ponygirls had become recognised in the west. They were much in demand. They’d fetched high prices at market, ever since one and the same one – Bristols Bobber - had won the Aintree Derby, Le Prix De L’Arc du Triomphe, the Phoenix Stakes, and the Melbourne Cup in the same calendar year. The British didn’t interfere with this trade. And nor had the French before them.

However, now oil was bubbling, for revenge and to get Natanobi back - they hoped - the French had stirred up the younger tribesgirls into recognising they had to fight the ‘colonialists’ - Britain in a word - to get the benefit of the money the oil was piling higher by the year. And it was against the Babette Revolutionary Army – the BRA – which was highly skilled at guerrilla warfare, that the 1st Legs, and other units of the British Army, had been sent out. Their arrival had supposedly been at the request of the Natanobi government; though in truth they were there solely to protect an element of Britain’s dwindling sources of cheaper fuel supply.

The mission had been glossed-up with some nonsense about supporting the people of Natanobi against the threat of a religious extremist government, if the BRA won power. But Aileen and her companions were no fools. They knew what they were really out in the middle of nowhere for, was fluid and brown-black in its crude form, and was pumped to the coast along a pipeline that they patrolled daily on leg.

As for the wrong colour of camouflage stockings, what had been sent was as if Aileen’s regiment of leg soldierettes had been on home manoeuvres instead of out here fighting the BRA uprising.

Aileen glanced over her shoulder to check her seams were straight. Thus she did not look in the direction of heaven, though heaven was housed in such a face, and its windows were such eyes.

She could say a lot more about the shortcomings of a British Army troopette’s uniform.

Because it made access ease for the passing breeze, the mini-kilt was cool, but, since her stocking tops were no great distance above the knee, it showed all of a girl’s legs up to and including most of her thighs, and thus deliberately left exposed an extent of the extra-long suspenders a soldierette wore at the outside of each thigh.

Even out here the kilt worn was, proudly, in the Glasgeen tartan familiarly displayed in Aileen’s homeland. At least out here the weather, save at night, was warm. But along with the rest of her uniform, what Aileen wore was traditional and ceremonial, not practical. It was meant to catch the eye of the London tourists when the regiment was guarding Buckingham Palace. But with all the financial cuts, the troopettes of leg only had the one design of uniform now, and midst all the mists and rain and snow at home, and the biting starlit nights out here in the desert, only a cloak was added to the kilt and top.

For a further example, the crop-top. It was a sort of sleeveless tee-shirt-vest that was ‘torn off’ just below breast level, leaving the belly bare. Bras were barred. It was not comfortable wearing one in this heat anyway. But, for a generously appointed girl, like Aileen, nor was it much fun that she perspired heavily under where her naturally pendulous breasts kissed her chest.

The crop tops were not worn at home in Britain; there, except on ceremonial duty, the troopettes wore full-length tee-shirts. But someone high up in command back in England had realised the troopettes in the desert day needed to keep cool or, more likely, had recognised that it was cheaper, material wise, to leave them semi-naked as these tops did.

They were just torn-off tee-shirts – tee-shirts that had otherwise been destined for disposal, or else had been ordered under contract to be produced with a reduced amount of material. Mere penny-pinching had nothing to compare with such meanness.

At least with these skimpy clothes Aileen could enjoy the mutual sunscreen smoothing the girls indulged after their pre-parade shower. The stockings hid the deep tan her legs had acquired off duty, and she’d boasted of to her girlfriend back home.

There Aileen went again. So as not to risk making it aroused before she went on parade just now, she’d been trying not to think of pretty little Beatrice abed alone and lonely, living at home with her parents in Barnmouth on the southern coast of England while Aileen was away overseas.

Aileen had put in the papers to request an accompanied tour of duty out here. But she was not married to Beatrice, and it had therefore been refused outright.

The suspender belt around Aileen’s waist showed above where her kilt embraced her very shapely body at her hips. It was also green camouflage, not desert coloured, as it should have been. It doubled as ammunition and personal needs belt.

At each of its sides were four replacement clips for the self-loading rifle a troopette of a legs regiment carried as standard weaponry. These were joined by a pair of grenades behind her back just above where her shapely buttocks were under her kilt.

Her lipstick had to be standard issue rose-red. It was in a pouch at centre-front on the suspender belt along with a small bottle of sunscreen in place of the blusher and application brush she would have been issued at home in Britain, along with some foundation.

Out here, a suntan must do for foundation and to put some colour in the cheeks. This gorgeous Italianate brunette tanned readily and, after but a fortnight in Natanobi looked just as dusky as the natives of the land; insofar as you could tell with them being so wrapped in robes.

With her dark brunette hair and her Italianate complexion, amid the sun on the sands, Aileen could and had been mistaken for a native of the lands she now inhabited. Several times in the souk – the market place – in her soldierette’s uniform, she had been spat at from behind, by girls assuming she was a traitor to Natanobi – by girls who sympathised with the BRA.

Out where she was serving, the eye-shadow was desert brown. A combination of combined mascara brush and eyeliner pencil completed the contents of the left-front pouch.

The other pouch at the front of a troopette’s suspender belt, contained a hooked belt and the strict ration of sanitary towels for her monthly that the belt when worn would hold snugly between her thighs, over it. In hers, Aileen had sneaked a handful of chewing gum packs she had bought at the local army store. She hated her teeth feeling unclean, and would chew gum as soon as she was out of sight of any senior who might discipline her for so doing.

The quartermaster’s stores had neglected to order a sufficiency of camouflage-coloured sanitary pads. The shortage was such that girls not in the front line had had to buy and use civilian ones out of their own pay. Those in the front line had to be sparing and could not change their soaked liners as often as they might wish. And nor were the army issue ones as absorbent as ideally desired by fecund young women such as the regiments of leg recruited, when they had a particularly heavy bleed.

Aileen had declined the standard-issue self-delivery vibrator many of the girls carried. She had tried one once. It had been a dreadful experience. It had settings, but even the lowest was worse than a crazed bulldozer on torrid tick-over, and Aileen was too sensitive for that. And besides, she knew the army, in reality, frowned on self-relief as it was considered to take a girl off-guard. It was better she be love-starved and thus tense and on edge, rather than lack that vital ingredient when push might come to bayonet shove.

At least the army-issue ballet booties were comfortable. Stiff black thick black leather they might be, but once bedded-in with wearing them and marching in them, they supported a girl’s ankles when she marched en-pointe as regiments of leg in the British Army had done by tradition dating back to the later 21st century.

The British army was full of tradition. You might have thought, when out here at risk of a fire-fight, a girl would be allowed to wear boots that’d let her put the soles of her feet on the ground. But no; the regiments of leg maintained that it showed the superiority of the British soldierette to any foreign opponent, that the soldierettes could march for mile upon mile upon mile up on tiptoe. It appeared to have been overlooked that the tribesgirl’s wives walked around on the tops of their big toes too; not that you could see that under their dreadful all-enveloping sand-draping burkas.

To top, or rather bottom out her uniform, Aileen arranged a white garter around her very shapely left leg just above her knee. On its outer side, that garter sparkled with a badge bearing the twin down-pointing chevrons that distinguished her as being a corporal of troopettes; a promotion of which she was justly proud.

The constant smile had to be hidden. Aileen could not prevent the glow of love in her dark-brown eyes, but must keep her pouting lips away from her giggles.

Nonetheless, as she arranged her green camouflage beret over the shimmering brunette hair she had drawn up into the regulation ponytail, before she wiggled out to morning parade inspection; their erotic music filled the air.
.......................

Corporal, Aileen McAveen headed a squad of ten troopettes who respected and loved her gentle command. Was it an accident that they just happened to be the prettiest and leggiest in the regiment?!

Even out here in Natanobi, what Aileen’s forebears would have called ‘spit and polish’ had not been forgotten by the army, and could therefore not be neglected.

The sergeant major would make sure of that. Her eagle eye found Aileen and her Section standing to very leggy attention. She would miss no detail.

The beret had to be worn to the left of the head, and, thus that way tilted, its woollen material gathered to droop over its leather rim ring in that same direction.

The kilt had to be fixed closed with a standard size and design of safety pin that must be inserted such that its fastening end was upright, its pin proper was driven through no more than one inch of material, and it was inserted exactly two-thirds of the way up from the kilt’s hem. The sergeant’s eager eagle eyes examined closely, but no troopette could breath freely yet.

Once clasped in her suspenders, where held by her suspenders’ suspenders, a soldierette’s stocking tops must be no more or less than eight inches below the hem of her kilt. And those tops must slope at no more, nor less, than 30 degrees across the front of her thigh from outside to her inner thigh.

Tucked in her own suspender belt at her waist, the sergeant major carried a 30 / 60 / 90 degree triangular standard army issue wooden set-square, cool to the touch on bare thigh flesh even in equatorial African climes. With this, each squad member was examined, both legs, and began to be cheered by the words ‘good’ and ‘very good’ spoken from the strict sergeant to her accompanying corporal-clerkette.

A troopette’s suspenders actual suspenders must be absolutely vertically at attention at the outside of her thighs, and her golden suspender clasps must outshine the sun itself. Hours were spent on polishing these ready for inspection on parade. And those endless hours rewarded with a ‘good’ and ‘very good’ as the sergeant continued her rounds.

A soldierette’s stocking seams must be impeccably straight, and her ballet-booties polished till she could, theoretically at least, have put her makeup on her face using her booties’ toecaps as mirrors.

Nervously eyes-front, those lovely eyes gazing unseeing-obediently at the distant horizon, or they would have been had the parade not been being held inside a fort, Fort Slim, Aileen’s squad had their admirable legs admired, to a muttered ‘good’ and ‘very good’, and Aileen fought her natural smile while the sergeant was behind her inspecting her stocking seams, risking what she knew could not, for the moment, be shown.

For any shortcoming in her dress at parade inspection, a troopette of Legs could find herself on a disciplinary charge. And that could result in her being spanked on her bared bottom by her fellow troopettes at the end of the week; a fate all the girls dreaded.

Another tour around by the sergeant major found her nodding approval of the turnout’s crop tops, the alignment of their berets, and the correct arrangement of the personal makeup, ammunition, grenades and sanitary pad bags attached to their suspender belts.

So, the inspection was over and Aileen’s platoon had passed with flying colours; but not quite yet.

As a Scottish regiment, the 1st Legs were subject to another tradition as well; one unique to regiments with recruiting bases north of the border with England; a tradition descending from the pride of wearing the kilt.

The sergeant major instructed the arrangements be made.

‘Order the girls to stand at ease corporal’, she instructed Aileen quietly.

‘Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am. D Squad, STAAAND AAAAAAT.... IZ!’ Aileen ordered, or so it sounded, and, as if one girl, she and her troopettes slanted their rifles at a forty-five degree diagonal across their left breasts, barrels uppermost, and parted their tiptop-of-tiptoes stood feet at the regulation one foot distance between big toes.

This arranged, the sergeant took from her corporal assistant, a device, the collapsed telescopic handle of which, she pulled to post-compressed full length, with it sounding a series of efficient and effective clicks as each sub-part met its stop.

She then took a cover off the device at its end; a device which caught the morning sun and answered it back with a sudden stabbing dazzle that would have momentarily blinded an eye even merely glancing it.

The sergeant then went along the lines, using the device at the end of the telescopic handle to make a final inspection of the girls between their thighs.

‘Good’

‘Good’

‘Good’

‘Shave it again troopette!’

‘Good’

‘Good’

‘Good’

‘Straighten your sanitary belt’s hooks!’

‘Good’

‘Good’

‘Good, Corporal’

‘Corporal McAveen, an excellent turnout once more. But, instead of lingering in her bed, Trooperette Blacksmithy needs to get it shaved in the morning. That’s one blot. Talking of which, make sure Trooperette Brown is not wearing a pad for more than the regulation four days, I’m sure it’s been three already. Do I make myself clear?!’

‘Yes ma’am! Clear ma’am! Thank you ma’am’, Aileen clipped-out in her horny husky mezzo.

‘I’ll record no spanking points for you or your girls this morning. But don’t let Blacksmithy or Brown let you down again. Clear?!’

‘Yes ma’am! Clear ma’am! Thank you ma’am’.

‘It’s the regular mission for you and your girls this morning McAveen. So get them out along the pipeline to Bablarka and back, covering the full twelve miles there and back, starting at no later than oh-nine-hundred hours. After the girls have breakfasted of course, and after Blacksmithy has found and used her razor at last!’

‘Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am’.

The sergeant major, who could not help but smile at the lovely Aileen, then moved off to inspect the next squad of soldierettes, whilst listening unavoidably to Aileen’s horny honey voice:-

‘SQUAAAAD AAAATTEEAARNSHUN!!’

‘SQUAAAAD SHOUUUULDER AMZ!’

‘SQUAAAAD LEEEEFT TUN.’

‘SQUAAAAD DEEEEISSMISS!’ Aileen barked by turn.
......................

Giggles of relief from the tension of parade were expected and allowed. Aileen’s squad, uniform in a uniform wiggle, giggled and chatted as they made for the combined corporals’ and trooperettes’ mess to have their breakfast......

Then afterwards:-

‘Listen up!’ Aileen instructed

‘What we’re about to do is routine. Routine brings its own dangers. We got two warnings for this patrol. The Special Girl Service, the SGS, says they saw BRA along the pipeline only yesterday, around the Bablarka oasis? And the meteorology girls say there’s a sandstorm due anytime....

.....If’n the storm comes, the BRA ain’t beyond using it as cover. Remember, they blasted the pipeline over the Moroccan border in dust-cloud conditions just a month back. So it’s goggles and face masks at the ready. And keep your eyes open for Abfana Lachmoored, the BRA’s commander-in-chief. The SGS are sure she’s somewhere around and reconnoitring for an attack on Fort Slim’

One of the troopettes wolf whistled, and the others giggled.

‘No more of that Trooperette Harnet! Aileen smiled, forgivingly. Sure, we’ve all heard Abfana Lachmoored is one hot chick. But don’t forget she is the BRA’s leaderette. And even if she went to school in England and ought to have learned the civilisation and respect she ain’t displayed yet, she’s a bitch whose snatch we want to get behind bars.’

‘How will we tell which one is Abfana corp?’ Trooperette McUnd enquired with a hint of knowing laughter in her voice.

‘She’ll be the one in the white burka McUnd; the one with green eyes I’m told’

‘But all the natives here wear white burkas, and the wife ones never show their eyes corp. So, if she’s disguised as a wife, how do we proceed from there?’

‘When you get hold of some wives to interrogate, just ask each one of them in turn, if they’re the one with green eyes, McUnd; ....and be polite!’

Nervous laughter quickly dwindled to a tension only soldierettes about to go on patrol know; and know only too well.

Then there was silence; that quietly-determined silence expected from these proud girls, lost in their fears but rising above them to go out on patrol as their bounden duty for their country....Scotland that is of course, not Great Britain.

‘Okay. So check your rifles one last time. Now, let’s go’, Aileen instructed.
................................

The irony of it was, that it didn’t happen when out on patrol. Among the mixed messages the British government conveyed to the people back in Britain, they wanted to be able to show British army troopettes in Natanobi, out among the native populace.

The pictures were the message these days. A growing anti-war protest movement at home needed a TV news antidote. Thus, engineered-film of girls dressed in the comfortingly familiar uniform of a Scottish regiment of legs, drifting around an unnamed Natanobi town and bartering in the market place - the souk - was the counter.

They’d even found that particular unit, desert-camouflage stockings and suspender belts to wear; because, after all, propaganda necessitated such ‘authenticity’. And the authorities didn’t want to risk the message being spoiled by a glimpse of the neglectful truth found in such as Aileen’s mixed garb.

In ‘real’ life, the girls did roam the markets when off duty. And Aileen was a popular accompaniment. A very bright girl, she had acquired a sufficient facility with the local languages, to be able to bargain against the best.

And so, if they wanted silks to send home to make that skimpy nightdress for their wife or girlfriend to wear on their first night back home in Britain, Aileen was the one to talk into knocking out a bargain for the troopettes.

But an equally comforting accompaniment for these foraging forays, were the armed guards that were always near at hand.

To the untutored eye, all the natives looked the same. So the armed guards were necessary for the obvious reason that the BRA renegades were hardly likely to be wearing a flashing neon arrow badge reading ‘I’m here!’

All the native girls were dressed head to below toe. With around half, their eyes were visible. But they only through the narrowest of narrow slits in the headgear of their all-enveloping white burkas.

However, with those who had married, and were in the role of wife to their wives, even the eyes could not be seen. Instead they had to look at the world through the same narrow slits, but with those slits covered by muslin; sometimes three or four layers thick.

Aileen had passed the particular alleyway that led to the red light district a thousand times. The area was out of bounds for troopettes. But she had once found some comfort there, in the past: an event accompanied by consequent subsequent guilt.

As she’d passed the alley opening that fateful day, she was grabbed from behind and the hand over her mouth had stopped her screaming. And then the prick of the dagger blade’s tip pressing into, and dimpling its locale in the soft sculpture of the underside of her left breast, had compelled Aileen’s submission to being dragged fully into the alley, and then a dark gateway, and then a courtyard open to the sky

The blade had continued to press urgently. She’d momentarily had the choice to chance a scream. But then the hand over her pretty lips had been replaced by a large ball of rough string forced into her mouth, followed by her part-opened mouth being gagged with a smelly rag, so that the ball was forced back, and was securely pressing down her tongue.

Her head was soon in a jute sack and that sack being tied at her neck.

As if her captors could not resist, she was now thumped in her belly, and doubled-up winded. And then a huge sack enveloped the whole of her jack-knifed body, its open end was tightly tied, and she was lifted, girlhandled, onto a higher plane, off the ground - as far as she could tell a higher plane - and could suddenly smell oranges.

Aileen’s absence was yet to be noticed. So, none of Aileen’s erstwhile companions saw anything unusual about the cart smelling of the fresh oranges, or its huge load of jute sacks rolling around in its rear as if there was someone struggling to escape inside one of them.

It was being hauled through the market place by one of the slightly emaciated ponygirls that were a commonplace of this country. So indeed was such a cart and such a cargo a commonplace. Nor, given her commonplace garb and its wifely masked eye-slit could they possibly know that one of the two girls leading the cart was none other than Abfana Lachmoored, the BRA leaderette, herself.

It was thirty minutes later that a soldierette from the Military Police, one of the on-duty guards that had been accompanying the off-duty troopettes in the market place, found Aileen’s beret in the ‘sand-dust’-strewn cobbled alley. But that was already thirty minutes too late.
..............................

Once out of the horrible nostril-flaring breath-grasp-gasping humidity of the all-enveloping outer sack, and the smothering smaller sack that had been over her head, and with her gag and string-ball removed, Aileen had tried several of the local tongues.

Despite the unremitting moist-heat that had bathed her in a halo-akin sheen of perspiration, including, as she knelt, making momentous mirrors of her majestic thighs, the journey out to the encampment, wherever it was, had not broken Aileen’s spirit.

In Natanobi terms, Aileen was limitedly multilingual. But, as she struggled to find a convincing threat as lever to leaven her predicament, she had to insert English, for ‘helicopters’, ‘satellites’, ‘drones’, ‘missiles’ and ‘the SGS’. And yet, all the time she felt she was talking to blank walls.

The girls around her were all dressed head to toe in burkas. Most showed their eyes. But there were a few Aileen thought she ought to know were wives in a particular tribe. Was it in their mode of dress? No; more in the way they moved perhaps?

Aileen knew she ought to know. But despite the propaganda fed to the dummkopfs back in civilian UK, the truth was that contact with the native Natanobi populace had been limited for years.

The language differences and cultural contrast found the British troopettes with nothing in common with the Natanobians. And few on either side had the lingual skills to even begin to break the barriers.

Of course, back sometime when, there’d been the odd soldierettes versus natives soccer match fixed up to aid a breakdown of the barriers. But, with the rise of rebellion and the advent of the BRA, the Brits had been obliged to take security within walled and gated barracks, and were thus even more cut off from contact with the country’s natives.

There’d been the lectures of course. The senior officers were concerned younger troopettes were taking the attitude toward the native Natanobians, that ‘they’re all the f*****g same’. A high-ranking girl, with a degree in geography and a PhD in the languages and culture of Natanobi, had been briefed to make an educational video.

Aileen had seen it as many times as she had come out here on another tour of duty. But she’d paid less attention each time. She’d taken lessons in the local languages to exercise her mind. But that had been a purely academic exercise.

There’d been something in that video about one particular tribe that never let its wives out of doors, or out of their encampments, or some such. She’d giggled when she’d seen the snippet of film showing them and the way they moved.

And there was something about the deportment of the girls here, the ones with their eyes covered that is. Aileen knew the name of the tribe. At least she thought she did.

Aileen’s fuddled mind struggled. Then the penny dropped. Yes, of course, they were Lachmoors. They were the wives of the clan headed by none other than Abfana Lachmoored. And, if Aileen was right, she was in deep water.

Her nervous jabbering continued unabated. The threats and promises she was trying to convey had an audience, but not one she could tell were listening.

She had no idea how far she had been taken out from the town. The cart - there must have been a cart, there had been no sound of a motor - the cart had seemed to speed after a while. That while had followed a stop. Had they added more ponygirls to its shafts?

Even if they had, allowing for her estimate of the time she’d been on the cart, she could surely only be five miles, ten at most, from Fort Slim.

Patrols would be out for sure. They wouldn’t leave a British soldierette in the hands of the BRA. They’d know, outside of the Lachmoors, the tribes, the other tribes, mostly didn’t give a hang for the BRA.

At least they didn’t as long as the BRA left the wild Arabian ponygirls to be inseminated in the villages and towns they visited when they were in season, before returning to the wild, to be corralled herded-up and market-headed.

But then again, nor were they tale-tellers. If they openly help the British authorities, they too would be attacked by the rebels. So most all of them played dumb, and answered continually: ‘Not understand, so sorry’, until frustration would cause their interrogators to leave them alone in the peace they wanted at utmost.

Eventually, the nerve-wracked Aileen ran out of threats and pleas. But she girlfully fought the longing to plead with tears.

Her eventual brave silence coincided with an arrival in the tent where she knelt on a groundsheet, still in her troopette’s uniform.

The burka-clad ‘presence’ that entered entirely overwhelmed those in the tent, including Aileen, who knew, just somehow knew, who this must or at least might be.

Aileen just knew too that her eyes, the eyes of the incomer, were on her thighs... her thighs made enormous; proportionately enormous, and thus erotically enormous, by her being knelt on the ground: her tanned thighs naked above her stockings up to the hem of her minimal mini-kilt.

Aileen now dared to dart a look up. But Abfana Lachmoored, if it was indeed she, had turned her head. So Aileen could not see her eyes. Could this be the notorious Abfana, or was this personage merely a delegated minion?

Then she dared a look again, and Aileen saw eyes of unbearably beautiful startling unmatchable light golden green, ice-sparkling from a glint of sun through the opened flap of the tent. Eyes so alluring, Aileen lowered her own and found herself surprisingly suddenly heavily aroused.

These were all she could see of course – the eyes that is. Abfana wore the traditional pristine white garb of a Natanobian tribesgirl. She had changed since she had disguised herself as a wife’s wife. But still, only her eyes were visible, and these only through the narrow slit in the headdress of her all-enveloping robes.

After the briefest glance at Aileen, now a prisoner, the muffled voice, the voice from the midst of the burka, Abfana’s voice if this was Abfana, monotoned unemotionally:

‘Whip her, and then bring her to my tent.’

Stunned and astounded though she was in the instant’s instant, Aileen more than understood the instruction all too well. Her immediate problem was truly believing her ears had heard what her mind was alarmingly confirming they just had.

For the moment her lovely brown eyes shot innocent-wide with absolutely total astonishment. Her nervous gabbling had ceased a while since, but was now doubly-silenced by her astounded shock.

Then she asserted, in a tone that rang of pleading more than she wished it should:

‘You can’t do that to me! I’m a British soldierette! I’m a British soldierette! You can’t do that to me!’

This Aileen shouted, firstly in the tongue she had heard the order issued in by the visitation, and then in English.

As the source of the order left the tent Aileen occupied, strong feminine hands lifted Aileen to tiptoes in her soldierette’s boots, and proceeded to strip her naked, including of her boots.

Aileen was so stunned; she didn’t offer the least resistance. Was she further anesthetised by the obvious appreciation of the beauty of her body being expressed by the wandering wondering eyes of the husband-girls among her captors?

When she saw the whip, Aileen’s own eyes widened wider than before, almost as wide as her mouth as it uttered a long ululating but completely silent scream.

The whip was, for its most part, a huge leather strap, which was frayed and worn and showed brown patches among the black to which it had originally been tanned or stained. It had a two foot long wooden pole as its handle, followed by a leather ‘tongue’ of some four feet in length, four inches in breadth, and one inch in thickness.

It was a two-handed lift, and Aileen a six-pair-handed one. She was face-up on the floor naked, then two girls grabbed her by her wrists and next to her armpits, two more at thighs and knees, and yet two further at her ankles, and lifted her stretched human-hammock, with her beautiful suntan-bronzed buttocks side hollow-dimpled with her clenching them in her fear.

Aileen’s six-strong six strong graspers next pulled her long legs apart. But, instinctively, she fought to press her knees together to close her superb thighs and try to cover and protect the heart of her very being, the epicentre of her existence, that she instinctively feared, given the evidence of her elevated position and the hauling apart of her legs, her torturers would be aiming for; in a word: ‘it’.

Aileen wasn’t wrong. Once the girls grasping and gripping and holding her aloft were content she was readied as required and desired; at a nod from one of the girls holding her legs apart, a separate girl standing behind Aileen’s head, holding the implement’s handle in a firm two-handed grip, brought the whip practicedly over her own head, from where its tail end had been, at its furthest extent, tapping the back of her burka-cloaked knees, with force so tremendous, that its stunning savage slap: ‘THWACK!!!’ at the mid top of Aileen’s parted thighs, drove Aileen unstoppably down to the ground before her body’s uncontrollable reaction to the action of the impact, thrust her, crutch far to the foremost, in a whore’s wanton come-on to the apex of the tent, while her lovely body arched at her back more adeptly supplely than could have a circus contortionist, and she screamed so loudly with the pain that her tongue danced dervish devil till her voice gave out to silence lest she burst her very lungs.

Breathless and panting afterward, her mind yelled ‘no’. She fought. She writhed; she twisted; she bucked; she dove. But the whip whistled once more and: ‘THWACK!!!’ she hit the floor and then uncontrollably her crotch was flung up in recoil, to offer it to the ceiling, as she hollered her horrible agony and uttered vile sexual curses that made none of their intended balm for her blinding pain nor hid the state of the shame that it conveyed in dismaying display, that she was, as all her tormentors could witness, in an overwhelmingly overt state of sexual arousal, as she twisted up-thrust like a whore on heat her back bent so the wonder was it didn’t break her spine, such was she arched in agony’s agony in her body’s reflective reaction to the action of the whip after it had struck her between her parted thighs where, were she not shaved, her pubic hair would have been at its thicket thickest, with all the force of its own weight and magisterial majesty, and all the skill of the girl who wielded its savage cruelty.

Once down in human-hammock hold again, Aileen struggled to fold her body, breasts to knees, to save herself from more of this brutality, and to protect that between her thighs; to protect it from this seriously serially searingly accurate missile with its missive of neo-Neanderthal love. And she closed her eyes. She’d lost her fight but must hide her mind from her shame as the whip came down between her thighs hitting it with laser accuracy yet once again: ‘THWACK!!!’ And her body reacted and anti-reacted; collapsing to the floor once more and then itself imitating a whip in lash as it crashed upward and thrust her wanton girlness heavenward once again, as if to reward the source of its begetting with the chance for heaven to kiss this creation of its earthbound representation with a blessing. And she squealed with the pain. It had taken the full utmost force of the whip once again. Her most sensitive, her most seductive, her most secret part, had again been unmercifully lashed, and all the nerve-endings with which it was armed to give her the pleasure of love’s physical charms, were screaming their pain more loudly than Aileen could vocalise in their and her pleading for mercy. And she came back from being bent-bow and once more bent low, in hammock and not hillock, yet again.

A nod, her eyes opened wide amid her tears, and her mouth moaned its pitiful pleading, and the whip came down between her thighs slapping it, slap-bang-on once again: ‘THWACK!!!’ And she shot aloft as if she had been shot and offered it to heaven once more as her body bent and her crutch tried to knock on heaven’s very door. And it squirted! Aileen came and it squirted! Amid giggles among her torturers, as Aileen concluded at her openly public shame, Aileen came, cumming in gain from her pain, and her shame feeding on her shame. It squirted, and her tormentors watched astounded as it spat at the ‘rafters’ of the tent while Aileen was arched-upwards-thrusting bent and hollering her horrible pain even amid her arrival at release and relief as it shot her love at the top of the tent, till on her bent body’s return, defied gravity splattered this evidence of her sexual humiliation on the insides of her naked bronzed thighs.
...........................

Released, Aileen now lay stunned on the ground, her legs folded sideways as she rested, panting as heavily breathlessly as a desperate asthmatic, on one thigh, her trunk held upright by one hand, with the long slim fingers of that hand spread with their double-jointedness evidenced by the way they were bridged.

Her tears had dried. The vomit-making pain between her legs was throbbing. Her face showed the shame of her surrender, but her lovely eyes still fought to hide her arousal anew, an arousal threatening to rob her of, even the very last vestige of her dignity.

Released from her tormentors’ grip, as they prepared to bathe her, Aileen once more knelt on the tent’s floor. Silenced; now suddenly no longer ashamed but proud that she had undergone the proceeding she had needed, as she now knew she had needed, to make her once more all natural girl: no longer the creature of human nurture and training, but that of nature: once more unworthy earth’s highest and only blessing from heaven. Aileen was once more and again fully and solely a girl.
.......................

Despite the desert location, the camp Aileen was in was not bereft of all modern facilities. For but one example, the hip bath being filled with rose-scented water from barrels left to warm in the sun, in readiness for her bathing, was of fibreglass.

Once she had stepped into it and folded her body to sit, flinching when her whipped crotch touched the warmed waters, somehow Aileen knew that, other than by moving herself as they gently indicated, she was not required to assist her bathers at all.

Now when they giggled at her obviously aroused state, she knew they were not insulting her, but praising her shear femininity. Their sponges lingered long over and under her heavy breasts, and they giggled at her easily erected nipples. But, when she stood for them to wash between her thighs, Aileen could not have asked for greater gentleness than they bestowed on her brutal bruises.

The towelling dry of her naked body, post-bathing, was equally as gentle. And, though she knew she shouldn’t, Aileen began to enjoy the pampering she was getting, not least, a little later, when it was busied about brushing and brushing and brushing her hair till it crackled and curled ecstatically with static, and shone as if it had captured moonlight its very self.

She continued to stand while they prepared her for presentation.

When her wrists were being buckled tightly together before her with a black leather purpose-made strap, Aileen was surprised she made no resistance. Her thumbs and individual fingers were then clasp together by individual double-rings, chosen for size, and then passed up to where each finger met its hand-nearest-knuckle. In consequence, her pretty hands were now formed into a prayer of supplication.

This preparation was all being carried out with the great skill born from years of practice. So too therefore was the strapping of her arms at their elbow-crutches behind her back. This drew Aileen’s hands back to just above her belly-button so that she took on all-the-more the appearance of a saint at prayer.

Were they of gold or some baser less basic metal? Aileen studied them with curiosity. Each was circular, no rounder than her closed mouth pouting a kiss, a ring that ‘grinned’ because its centre was filled with needle-sharp teeth.

The first was pressed. It opened, and its ‘teeth’ parted. She watched as it was passed over her left nipple and winced when it was pressed closed, so that the teeth bit into the base of her nipple, and its clasp clicked securely shut. If this biter-clamp was to discourage her arousal being expressed through her nipples it worked instantaneously. The other nipple clamp was fixed and her nipples’ excitement duly doused, even though their grip on her nipples made them pert and, to an expert, as if about to spurt.

The leather lasso loops that were passed over and around her breasts, were pre-prepared at each end of two straps conjoined at the mid-point of each loop. ‘Prepared’ was more than could be said of Aileen, who gasped open-mouthed when the nooses were tightened around the bases of both and each of her breasts. As they were tightened, her bosom took on an uplifting and swelling that nature would never provide and her nipples a further engagement with engorgement that the unengaged might have concluded was from her being with milk.

The loose ends of the lasso looped straps, having been drawn tight to pert her breasts, were presently passed behind Aileen’s back, in pretence they were a brassiere’s strap. And the loops’ tension was maintained by careful selection of the hole through which the buckle prong of the one strap was fed through the eye on the other strap. And so Aileen stood proudly with two exceptionally proud protuberances evidencing her femininity beyond all peradventure of doubt.

Through rings atop each of Aileen’s gold nipple clamps, long slim gold chains were passed and, for the moment, left to dangle at their longer ends. Each chain had a golden fishing hook attached to the shorter ends that were through the rings. These hooks twinkled in a shaft of sunlight. They to, as yet, loitered unemployed.

Aileen’s breasts were not strangled, but squeezed sufficiently to maintain complete attention by their erection in tension, with no opportunity for gravity to return any part of their new-found pertness to its natural soft-firm caress of her chest where they had hitherto rested as nature intended. And now her breasts were swollen by their strangulation, how the biting clips clamping Aileen’s nipples bit her teats!

Next she was obliged, by the holding closed of her nostrils, to open her pretty mouth so that her tongue could be clamped. Her preparers did not let her see what they were about to do. But a glance down past her nose spotted a hint of a glint of a sprung gold clip which, fingers pressing, held its toothed jaw ajar.

This was in her sweet mouth in seconds, its jaw allowed to flip closed, and her tongue bitten through by its needle sharp spaced-shark’s-teeth, so that her head jerked back and she shook her long dark moon-glowing hair in a ‘no’ knowing attempt to shake off this painful cruelty.

The fishing hooks at the end of the chains through the tops of her nipple clamps were now inserted through the very tips of the clamp-swollen nipples of her lightly strangled breasts, through where her milk would, were she lactating, secrete. And the long hitherto loose chains were clipped to a central ring on her golden tongue clamp. This gave her head, her tongue that is, rein and reign over her tits.

The six inch deep leather belt that went around her waist had a buckle with six tines, and needed the strength of two dressers, while two more held Aileen steady, to haul it sufficiently tight for its buckle to be fastened. And thus was Aileen’s already trim waist, reduced to an hour-glass’ simulacrum of the waistline of a dieting wasp.

Already whipped to femininity, Aileen adored this wasping, and just knew the wild wantonness of the wider wiggle it would give her when she walked.

Aileen nextly had two long leather belts attached to and dangled from golden rings on the sides of her wasping belt. Around her ankles, tight ankle straps were buckled. These two too had golden rings on their outsides.

Now the straps from her wasping belt’s side rings, were carefully tightly flatly wrapped and counter-wrapped, crisscross, around her thighs, her knees, her lower legs, and then tied off to her ankle straps’ rings, so that Aileen’s lovely legs were bound tightly, and she stood in such an alert state of attention, even her regimental sergeant major would have lauded and applauded her.

Her conjoined sandals came next. For these she was sat. For all Aileen could see, they were bringing over two eight inch high rectangular-triangle-profile wooden blocks: blocks of wood joined together by a single leather strap of the same depth as the sloping side of each wooden block: the side to which the strap was affixed. She also noticed that there was little to no space between the blocks where the strap nailed to them held them all but kissing side to side. And each block rose at 60 degrees from where it would presumably rest on the floor, and dropped off vertically at its rear.

On closer examination, at what she was to discover to be the lower edge of the steep sloping fronts of the blocks, there were individual hoops sewn to the leather strap, sized and spaced for each of her toes. Once her toes were through these, her foot was bent such that her heels were on the top edge of the eight inch tall wooden wedges, and her ankles were then secured to the blocks by the tying of individual leather straps from the rings in her ankle bindings, to rings in the middle-back of each block.

Now Aileen was, by gentle handling, bid to stand. And she cruelly tortured her clamped and bitten tongue, when her attempt to scream went wrong. But good cause for screaming she had, for her toes were now horizontal on the ground, bent at a crushing angle from where the sandal hoops in the wooden blocks individually imprisoned them.

A round white woollen-weave beret-like cap was next placed over Aileen’s moon-glowing hair, and the draw-ribbon that would be end-tied at the back of her head, pulled tight, so that the rim of the cap, which purposely fell onto her upper eyelids, was secured securely in that place, and she was instantly demured and blinkered by being only able to look submissively down with her gorgeous brown love-lanterns.

Thus she was unable to properly see the snow white woollen-weave burka until it was held before her bound naked body in a prepared state, a rolled up state. And she had no choice but to submit to its being raised, and the hood part arranged over her head, smothering her shimmering hair and adorable face in its all-enveloping, all-covering, all-disguising, all burying mask.

The remainder of this cruel adornment of this adoring adorable girl, comprised its voluminous robe. This was skilfully pulled and tugged out till it covered Aileen down to and beyond her en-pointe enforced tortured feet.

Her dressers arranged the mask hood of her burka so that Aileen could see through a slit covered with several ply of muslin. But, even so, her lovely eyes could no longer be admired.

Aileen was now bound as, and wore the garb of a wifely Lachmoor tribesgirl. A shroud in a coffin could have been no more cruel.

As she moved her head to strain to see through eyes in which the upper eyelids were lowered for humility, because her motion pulled on the chains that ran from her tongue and were hooked to her nipples, Aileen lifted and dropped each of her breasts by turn with the turns of her head.

But even this sexy enticement was invisible to the world outside her cruel garb. The clamping of her tongue and the binding and chaining of her breasts being solely to affirm her subservience and to remind her that she was a girl.

Aileen was now being bid to walk. Her lovely legs did their best, but they too were purposely tamed by their bindings, and her toes were incredibly painful. Her shoes being bound together so they were, though nominally a pair, as if they were one, all she could do was shuffle along like a Chinese girl of the distinctly distant days when foot-binding had been legal.

Aileen’s progress was dreadfully slow. With her eyes lowered and shielded against their seductive powers being aglow, she struggled to see where she was going. Her hearing too was muffled by her headdress, but she was aware that the husband-girls who had dressed her, were giggling at her unpractised snail’s progress. Indeed, once out of the tent in which she had been bound and robed, Aileen’s shuffling wiggle walk made a snail’s snaking trail in the desert sand.

This style of dress was so alien to Aileen. She had never imagined it was so cruel and demeaning. To be curtained and draped and hidden from the world so, was so savagely uncivilised: so prehistoric. Yet, till she was rescued, she would, it seemed, have to suffer this. Perhaps once freed, she could use her talents and write an account of it for the online-magazines back home.

As Aileen shuffle-wiggled along in the direction she was being obliged to go in her burka-bondage, she began to feel a surprising arising. This was so shaming. A civilised, if not cultured at least worldly wise, western girl such as she; how could she possibly find herself being turned on by this primitive treatment of her body and mind?!

And yet the knowledge she was turned on by her predicament turned Aileen on even more. And the knowledge she was turned on by being turned on by being turned on drove her to a distraction she could not detract from as, invisibly beneath her garb, it demonstrated her femininity at its foremost.

As she approached the tent toward which she was being directed, two of the girls in the husband-girl burkas, strode ahead of Aileen and parted the flaps ready for her entry.

Once within, ashamed at her arousal, even though it was invisible, and her lovely blushing cheeks were hidden even from heaven beneath her burka, Aileen stood.

Once she had troubled to rise from a table scattered with what looked to Aileen, like hand-drawn maps, Abfana’s gorgeous ice-green eyes looked her over.

‘Leader most high, this is imprisoned the western girl. She has been whipped as you commanded. And she is now wived for your disposal, Leader most high.’

Abfana casually walked over to Aileen, who instinctively lowered her head again, and then raised it again proudly. The chains tying them to her tongue, matched this lowering and raising with enforced echoes in her tethered tits.

To Aileen’s astonishment, actually using her name, Abfana’s surprisingly gentle voice enquired and sympathised:

‘I hear you came under the whip, Aileen’. You are not the first girl that that has happened to, and nor will you be the last. Take it as the introduction to your life as a Lachmoor wife.’

And, with a wave of Abfana’s hand to the lackey husband-girls, Aileen was dismissed from Abfana’s presence.

It was on exiting Abfana’s tent in her cruel bondage and demeaning burka, that Aileen came again.

She came as she wiggle-shuffled obediently back to join, she assumed, the other wife-wives in their tent. She came at the thought that, she hoped and prayed, she might be joining Abfana’s hareem. She came in consequence of her earlier flogging. She came because of her present bondage. And she came because she hoped and longed, that she would be imprisoned in a burka for the rest of her days.
..........................

And she came in her bed, and she came as she awoke and was half-asleep at her alarm clock’s abrupt reminder that she must awake and arise and face her working day.

Too late to avoid messing her bed with her squirt, Aileen closed her eyes and longed she could return to the wet-dream. It had been so vivid. And yet now she could hardly recall it.

Changing her bedding would have to wait. She stripped her under-sheet and removed her duvet cover ready for the wash. But, more immediately, she must get a shower and ready herself to face her day.....
.............................

Going back over what’s said above, strictly speaking, it hadn’t been the army or the army for Aileen. Family and local tradition had it that it should..... must..... ought to be. But Aileen was bright. Straight out of school she’d wanted to go into the army....almost straight following. But that was after she’d done time as an intern at Ursa Bows investment bank. ‘Work experience’ they’d called it. She’d been just sixteen.

After Aileen’s while whiling away there, her school’s headmistress had been the one to encourage her to apply for a full-time post. She was highly thought of, Aileen that is. The feedback from her erstwhile employers had been very complimentary. Ursa Bows decidedly saw a future for Aileen in banking.

Oh, the excitement she’d felt when she’d had the text and confirmatory email invitation for her to attend a formal interview at Ursa Bows! Tummy butterflies had been like more like pterodactyls.

Her momma had had her doubts. The family history had always inclined to serving the nation. But serving the nation was no guarantee of financial security. Despite the disasters of 2008 and the decades that had followed, now all ancient history, here in the later 21st century, banking was wild and free and bonuses bouncing ever higher by the year once again.

Aileen had spent two hours just brushing her hair that morning: the morning of the morning of her interview. Her momma had helped her with her make-up. She’d worn her school underwear out of necessity. She had no alternative to its cheap nylon. But she’d unfold-rolled brand-new shear-nylon stockings slowly up along her long legs.

A miniskirt with matching jacket in her favourite colour, ultramarine-violet, had been borrowed off an older cousin who worked in a fashion boutique, as had the crisp white pure cotton blouse with the genuine onyx buttons. Then she’d slid on her ‘best’ shoes with the two-inch heels. How she’d havered over those before buying them! Three or was it four or five times she’d passed the shop before she’d decided.

At the interview, she’d sat and was sure... the eye-contact was excellent.... so too the body-language. She’d done ‘interview technique’ in school. Such lessons began two years out from graduation, as did work placement / work experience - the internships such as she was back then experiencing. She’d known the signs to look for and respond to. And all the signs had been just great.

She’d expounded her theory of the causes and impact of the collapse of the US investment banks in the latter part of the first decade of the 21st century, comparing and contrasting with the events that had led up to and been the fallout from the great Wall Street Crash of 1929, adding-in the devastation of the preceding Great War, the subsequent and consequent New Deal intercession, and the question whether it and the approach to economics it had seemed to encapsulate in real-life, was practise of Keynesian theory, and if it had been a sufficiency to ameliorate the impacts of the Great Depression, and / or whether Keynesianism was proven more definitely by the rush to arms and fuller employment for which the second war of the 20th century had, arguably been the necessary compelling force.

Her exposition had been accompanied by nods and smiles, and looks of appreciation between and from her interviewers. And the momentary silence that had followed her seamless thirty minute presentation, seemed of the variety that, had this been a surreal dream rather than a reality, might have led to appreciative applause.

The chairwoman had then spoken: ‘Miss McAveen....’.

Aileen’s pretty face had broken into one of her sun-shaming smiles. Then she sweetly lowered her lovely brown eyes. She knew, she just knew she had wowed them. Surely the offer of a permanent post would be hers.....Surely!?

‘Miss McAveen; you have very shapely legs’.

Aileen had lowered her head and blushed.

‘Working for the bank, a standard uniform skirt and shirt are worn at all times.’

Aileen looked up, her pretty mouth agape, avoiding, only just avoiding, a scream of joy as she fought, only just fought, her natural urge to rush over and kiss the interview panel by turn to thank them for taking her into the bank’s employ.

The summation continued...

‘You will gymnasium for a minimum of two-hours daily – seven days of the week, concentrating on keeping your shapely figure. It must include pectoral exercise to maintain the natural uplift of your evidently large and correspondingly handsome breasts; and leg exercises to keep those excellent limbs of yours in their present splendidly elegant trim.....

.....You must shave it to complete innocence daily, and will never wear panties. You will also have to wear seamed stockings. And to additionally display your lovely legs, shoes with nothing less than seven-inch stiletto heels. Never any with platform soles, of course.....’

As she had rushed out of the room in a flood of tears embarrassment shame and disappointment, Aileen had heard the tapering off of the offer of ....... ‘a full time post as a uniformed bank-maid....’
.............................

Tears filled Aileen’s eyes. She now despised Ursa Bows. When entering her apartment back home, she’d brushed past her momma, who had been shocked at such completely unexpected and totally uncharacteristic rudeness, but realised, this being Aileen, it must have a substantial cause.

The sobs from Aileen’s room told her momma what must be wrong. Or so her momma concluded. She felt heartbreak and heartache for her lovely young daughter, but decided it was as well to leave Aileen to cry her disappointment out of her system.

Life would not spare her from some disappointments. Life was a series of lessons we all have to learn, and those lessons must include heartbreaking experiences. It must inevitably be that Aileen must be toughened-up by such events.

So her momma brewed herself a cup of tea and decided not to go to Aileen’s room to comfort her daughter; even though, and even so, she longed to do so.

The silence that followed from Aileen’s room, her momma attributed to Aileen having cried herself to sleep.

But Aileen was, in fact, providing her own comfort. Over and over in her mind, she tried to recall every word spoken by the panel after her interview, every single word, every phrase, every precise phrase, every tone, every intonation, and the looks she had got, the appreciative eyes running up her legs to her thighs, and the leering glimpses that sought to asses her breasts and just how big a girl she was; and with this repeated reheated rehashed reminder of her humiliation; she was eagerly masturbating.
...............................

Aileen’s lovely hair, soft and fragrant after its daily morning wash, trained down to below the base of her buttocks. And thus not much more than inches above the hem of the bum-hugging black spandex miniskirt she wore.

Both the skirt and the pristine white silk v-necked blouse she filled, with its buttons undone down to just above her belly button, were standard bank issue: Ursa Bows standard issue. Newly issued with more to match, at the start of Aileen’s seventh year in that bank’s employ: newly bought with her own pay.

She’d also had to buy her black nylon seamed stockings, her sinful-black suspenders and her satan-black quarter-cup uplift brassiere from her own wages. So too the eight-inch stiletto heeled ballet toed patent leather mules that stood her on her superbly shapely legs.

Aileen wore the uniform of a bank-maid. Her function was purely decorative.

She was often an attendant at meetings. There she was deployed for her legs to be ogled and for her cleavage to entice.

The latter was particularly deployed when she was instructed to serve refreshment.

On such occasions, when they could ogle what they saw as Aileen poured from a jug held by such pretty hands, even clients who would never before have dreamt of it, would find they took milk in their coffee.

Aileen was a show-stopper too. Many a meeting ground to a halt as clients of the bank were inexorably drawn to, as evidenced just beneath the parted frontage of the blouse her heavy bosom filled to such duel predominance, the shear erotic wonder of her merely breathing: breathing so breathtakingly wonderfully evidenced by the rising and falling and swelling and contraction in Aileen’s uplifted, three-quarters bared, breasts.

This day, Aileen had just returned from a mission to make some photocopies, when her immediate manager suddenly appeared on the scene, to give Aileen instructions on a matter which was also part of Aileen’s duties and routine.

‘McAveen?!’

‘Ah, there you are girl!’

Ms Frobisher, Aileen’s immediate superior, always addressed Aileen by surname alone when a client was present, and, come to think of it, unless she was being oleaginous because a superior in the bank was also present at the time, even when there wasn’t a client to impress. The presently present client was a Japanese businesswoman.

That ‘Frobisher’ and ‘frost’ share an initial letter was, in the case of Aileen’s boss, Ms Septimina Frobisher, no coincidence. So too do ‘Septimina’ and ‘spiteful’. Septimina, an aged dried-up spinster, though she was still only thirty in truth, had been jealous of Aileen’s beauty of face physique and soul, since day-one of Aileen’s engagement by the bank as a bank-maid.

Aware of her power over Aileen, in a world where she knew that finding re-employment was impossibly unlikely were Aileen to be dismissed, Septimina Frobisher loved to demean Aileen; and, to make her feel small inferior and embarrassed, was one of her favourite pastimes.

Though it was none of her business to know, Aileen knew, from gossip, that this young Japanese was a client the bank was particular anxious to take on, and steal away from a key rival.

Septimina Frobisher, who was but the messenger and not the interpreter of the pretty Japanese, took advantage of the visiting business-girl’s limited English to be spiteful to Aileen once again.

‘This, McAveen, is Ms Hai. She’s quite smitten by you. She’s asked all about you. Goodness alone knows what she sees in you; but she wants you. So go to the boardroom and wait till she’s ready.’

As Aileen bobbed a very leggy and lovely-thigh-disporting curtsy, she sweetly breathed: ‘Of course Ms Frobisher’.

This only riled up the bile of jealousy in Ms Frobisher over again. She wanted to be crueller still. And she had been storing up a nasty barb, and now joyfully deployed it:-

‘......And when that’s over McAveen, report to my office please. I have the bill prepared for the damage your stiletto heels have caused to the banks flooring over the past month. You will, of course sign for the cost of repairs to be deducted from your salary.....’

‘Yes. Yes, of course Ms Frobisher’

And, given the history of her two years working under Septimina Frobisher, it was no surprise to lovely Aileen, when Ms Frobisher added:

‘Ms Hai wants to jack-up your cock and give it a good hard hand-slapping. That will be alright I trust McAveen?’

‘Of course Ms Frobisher’, Aileen quietly whispered, as she bobbed yet another erotic curtsy.

And then she began to wiggle to the boardroom as supremely seductively as only a stunningly gorgeous shemale such as she, Aileen, possibly can.....