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Weathergirl
- a short story -
by Eve
Adorer
I must just
look on from side-window rear seat.
Her
ankle-long raven plumage fluttering in the breeze, the same breeze caressing
the autumn leaves falling with soft sighs for her, she now stood graveside.
Broad
straps with silver side-buckles adored her ankles.
Stiletto-slim
nine-inches in stainless-steel with a one-sixteenth-inch diameter ground touch,
the toe-ends of her white kid-leather shoes turned into stilts from big-toes
downwards: stilts on which she stood on these stiletto toe-ends, tiptoe. Her
feet were thus appointed, earth’s worth confirming, by her deigning to anoint
empiric empire this miniscule of sound ground purchase her shoes afforded her.
Twenty-inch
stainless-steel with also one-sixteenth-inch-across round on ground, running in
parallel behind the savage-seeming arch of the souls of her soles, forced to
bend between her stilt standing tiptoed big-toe-ends and these: these were her
stiletto heels.
She now
stood unwavering in her pinnacle-shoes. She had just walked ass-wave my way,
her way, girl’s way, in those same pinnacle-shoes.
She now
stood unwavering in her pinnacle-shoes, teetering heaven on the verge of hell
if she fell, for if she tottered and tumbled from the four one-sixteenth-inch-across
rounds on the ground she sanctified and appointed to pay the dues due to her
beauty, these were also ‘break-legs shoes’. Such is the murderous duty of
beauty to risk so. So she now stood unwavering in her pinnacle-shoes.
She had
just walked ass-wave my way, her way, girl’s way, in those same pinnacle-shoes,
a miracle of mystical emotion, love’s number-nine potion, poetry in motion,
teetering and tottering on the brink of hell if she fell. She had just walked
ass-wave my way, her way, girl’s way, in those same pinnacle-shoes.
Her
limousine longed for her to re-anoint its leather as empress’ throne. My tongue
all-but lolled with lust for her, my mistress in the sense of ‘servant to’. Hi
Mi Si the ‘Korean Angel’ as so called by ‘Les Girls’, the magazine with the
fifty-million-dollar contract with her, attempting to photograph and film the
mesmerising miracle that is girl, and Hi Mi Si, girl’s representative on earth,
not least.
……………….
Hi Mi Si
had been the ‘Weather Angel’ on Satellite TV. The girl whose five-minute
five-day weekday slot attracted eighty-million viewers wanting to know what
‘The Angel’ would be wearing that night.
A doctorate
graduate in meteorology from
And the end
of the week, at the end of Hi Mi Si’s forecast, the newscaster would say:
“Thank you Weather Angel!”
And then
turn to the viewing audience and say: “Ladies: has she got a beautiful ass, or
has she got a beautiful ass?”
And then
banter with the delightful Hi Mi Si: “And what colour panties are you wearing
tonight Weather Angel?
And Hi Mi
Si would blush and giggle divinely.
And the
newscaster would quip with a mischievous up-flick of one eyebrow: “Now I’m
wondering if our Angel is wearing any panties at all folks?”
And she
would then go on to add: “Seriously though folks, the lovely Weather Angel has
worn a lime-green thong for us all day today.”
“So phone
the following number: 07 04 99 36 24 36 and tell us what colour panties the
Weather Angel is wearing tonight.”
“Are they
blue; are they pink with pretty white spots on them; or are they lime-green?”
“Let me
repeat the question: Is the thong worn by our lovely Weather Angel all day, and here with us tonight: blue; pink with white spots;
or lime-green?”
“And that
number again is: 07 04 99 36 24 36.”
“Land line
calls cost 10 cents a minute, minimum charge five-dollars. All names go into
the draw, and one lucky girl will receive the Weather Angel’s thong, delivered
express from her wearing it all day till tonight; and brought to the lucky
winner’s very door in aroma tight thermos packing.”
“But hey:
please ensure you have the permission of the phone bill payer before you use
that phone!”
“Terms and
conditions apply.”
“And now
the main points of the news again…. At the Whitehouse Washington DC today,
following her landslide victory in November last year, President Cleavage
Décolletage was sworn in for her second term of office…..”
……………….
Today and
this funeral, I knew how hollow the devil deep dimples in the sides of Hi Mi
Si’s caress-contoured ass, as Hi Mi Si was six-foot-sevened from her
five-foot-six in the light of the height-of-fashion pinnacle-shoes in which she
teetered and tottered as she ass-wave tottied.
I had
waited upon her that morn, the morn of the start of her mourning.
I waited
upon her morn to morn. I thus knew too ‘no bra’. My mistress’ thirty-six Cs
were always wild-child. As ever so, so now, her perfect-circle
one-inch-diameter press-stud nipples, would be scribing ‘love me’ and ‘me too’
on the insides of the Chinese-collared crisp-white pure-silk blouse she filled
to its full potential potency, standing gravely graveside, with the black
velvet mourning-band on the left of its buttoned-to-wrists sleeves.
Knees deep-dimpled, and locked back by her standing on stilts and
by the height of her heels, Hi Mi Si’s legs were bow-arch-calved. Daily
five-mile run-trained they called mere curves coward for shying and sighing for
want of meeting the challenge of comparison with the incomparable parable of
the supreme dream legs of girl.
Caressing
the supreme dream legs of this girl, were her black nylon stockings matching
the miracle of the contours of her legs to the middle of her holy sigh thighs,
where mourning white, black-lace-rose-anointed, elasticated garters gasped and
cried at the honour of clasping her stocks to her flawless bare flesh.
Hi Mi Si’s
white velvet micro-skirt’s side slits showed her stocking tops and garters
with, when her long ground-trailing winter warming white velvet neck clipped
cape flashed her, a tease of her taut buns and their deep concave side-dimples,
as the sighs of angels sang her way with the sway of her hips as she moved and
moved hearts so, any way, every way, every day.
Under where there was, as I knew, no as such underwear. No bra gave her breasts their
freedom to declare individual independence from other than the heave of her
breathtaking breathing, and the echo seismographic of her sweet footfalls.
Their soft
firm thrusts were in trust, but not trussed, free to each bob and announce in
their abundance of bounce, that here was girl, the foremost with the two most
wonderful, and all seven wonders of the world in one.
Under where there was, as I knew, no as such underwear. Just as I knew that the lips that
were tight unless they spoke of love, were sleek so to speak, from Hi Mi Si’s
insistence that hygiene’s command demanded she have completely innocent petals,
and that she thus creamed it daily to pre-pubescent silk slick smoothness.
The cameras
that whirred to record her 24/7 as her contract for ‘Les Girls’ International
Inc demanded, must even now paw this honey as her tears poured from her almond,
almond-shaped eyes, down the high cheekbones of her angel’s face to dangle
diamond on the curved to flatness upper of her passionately pouted-to-kiss-poised
lips.
And as Hi
Mi Si’s crystal clear tears poured compassionate, so too did her
girl-confirmatory scarlet passionate, anoint her fresh white towel, as Hi Mi
Si’s monthly menses seeped to weep too for the loss of Verity, her love, her
life, her wife, one week since in car crash killed.
Hi Mi Si
thus wept and wept. Hi Mi Si’s tears trickled, just as from her petals the
moon-cycle periodic punctuation, underlining that this was girl, creature of
creation and the light of this unworthy world, dripped priceless ruby pearls.
……………….
And so,
funeral ended, as she gathered her cape with her gentle hands, and precariously
swayed her feline feminine way on her nine-inch stud stilts, the nine-inch stud
stilts posing heaven the problem of out-beautifying the poise and pose these,
and her twenty-inch stiletto heels gave to Hi Mi Si’s lovely legs, Hi Mi Si
longed even more the privacy her contract precluded her.
All these
she wore were, of course, from her own-label fashion range.
Hi Mi Si
was now a designer label. Even at her own wife’s funeral, she was not allowed
to be herself. Hi Mi Si was also a franchise. She was clothing,
sportswear, makeup, gymnasium equipment, fast-food restaurants, furniture,
aromas, even tampons and sanitary-towels, as well as the supremely lovely girl
who was essaying her hip-swaying way back my way on her powerfully beautiful,
beautifully powerful legs.
……………….
Myth met
reality and won where ‘Verity’ was concerned.
Hi Mi Si
was public property. Girls the world over sighed for her. Her career as pop
singer had given them the sweet sound of her enchanting broken English
purveying heart-stopping love songs they could masturbate too, whilst ogling
the wonderful Hi Mi Si naked in the latest issue of ‘Les Girls’, their eyes
running up and down Hi Mi Si’s legs and dreaming of the heaven of the
shaven-smooth haven harbouring between them: harbinger of love.
To say that
there had been consternation when it had first hit news that Hi Mi Si allegedly
had a live-in girlfriend, would be an understatement’s understatement.
In
Horrified
by this, Hi Mi Si had taken time on Hi Mi Si TV, to plead for forgiveness and
for celebration that she was to make her relationship legal, and marry ‘Verity’
– the name with which Hi Mi Si’s had been linked.
The owners
of the Hi Mi Si syndication had panicked.
Hi Mi Si’s
unattainable availability had been a major card to play.
Every
schoolgirl was in love with Hi Mi Si’s image. When they left school and began
to earn, their later teen yearnings and urges would see them subscribe to ‘Les
Girls’ and download Hi Mi Si’s songs. But early teen, along with the songs,
they would daydream of marrying Hi Mi Si, who had hitherto been promoted as a
bachelor-girl, too busy with her demanding exciting life as an international
jet-setter, to even have time for a love-life.
Every teen
girl could therefore dream that they were ‘the one’ and, that one day Hi Mi Si
would come to town, see them, and they would fall in love, before changing
their marital status forever at the altering altar.
The highly
respected ‘The Girl’ of London, England, had first leaked the rumour that
‘Verity’ had entered Hi Mi Si’s life, and her bed, before it overheated the
wires of United Girl International, Reuters Girl, and Agencée Fille
Presse.
Following
that, a face-saving panic exercise, had seen Hi Mi Si’s managers insist she fly
out to
The sight
of the snow spraying up onto Hi Mi Si’s rock-hard-nippled breasts, those
breasts stiffened with the bite of the cold, as her superb legs skilled the
skis, on which she stood only in tiptoe big toe clamps, was eroticism’s
erotica.
These were
intended to confirm that Hi Mi Si could not have been at the nightclub it was
alleged she had been seen in, when it was alleged she had been seen in it: the
nightclub she had indeed had been in, passionately kissing a New York blonde
and fellow model.
As an
unsubtle message too, to the teenagers whose lives revolved around their love
for Hi Mi Si, those photographs showing her on her skis, also showed her
supposedly being chased by fur-coat-and-hat clad Chinese dolls.
The three
exquisite angels on skis chasing Hi Mi Si, carried one
each of, a huge sack-net at the end of a pole, a scarifying
irreparably-scarring barbed-wire whip, and a penis-shaped dildo, the latter in
the form of a pretend stick of dynamite, with its blunt-end fuse apparently
already burning.
These
symbolised that they were going to net the lovely butterfly, Hi Mi Si, tame
her, and deflower her.
Yet, and
here was the unsubtle message, she had escaped and was still escaping them for
her lifelong freedom as a bachelor-girl.
Hi Mi Si
had subsequently insisted that ‘Verity’ was an indispensable part of her life.
She was as
immoveable as
An in-depth
interview with the newlyweds, ‘unable to find time for a honeymoon’, had also
run in ‘Me’ magazine, with photographs of the couple in Hi Mi Si’s St
Petersburg and Jamaica apartments. The latter showed Hi Mi Si topless in a
miniscule-to-non-existent bikini thong, on a white beach while ‘the stunning
Verity’ applied Hi Mi Si brand sunscreen to Hi Mi Si’s naked back.
The
shocking accident with ‘Verity’s’ Ferrari skidding into a
At just
twenty-four, Hi Mi Si was still at the prime of her marketability. Her
widowhood made her ‘available’ again to her dreaming public of adoring
overheated teenage girls.
A
re-release of her ‘Songs for Sentimental Someones’ rocketed up the charts. She
was back in play. An ill wind had blown her love away, but shot-high her share
price.
Already,
the gossip columns were trying to match her up with other eligible pretty girls
‘the tragic magic widow’ might marry.
……………….
Yet silly
rumours abounded that the funeral had been a sham and a shame, and that there
had actually been no body in the coffin.
Instead,
the conspiracy theorists had it, that the garter on Hi Mi Si’s thigh in the
skiing pictures, and her being naked on Ski’s wearing it, symbolised that she
was truly only married to the mountain goddesses, and sworn to remain a chaste
virgin forever, whilst dedicating her life to raising money for charity.
It was also
maintained that, by using a computer to play the last words of her hit song:
‘The Girl of My Dreams’ backwards, Hi Mi Si could be heard to plead: ‘whip me’.
And that was said to be proof absolute that she would rather pay the price of
having her naked body scourged and scarred, than let another girl touch her.
Though some of the articles and net-blogs discussing this discovery,
also suggested that she was expressing guilt for indulging in masturbation.
Such silly
nonsense is the self-indulgence of passionate teen girls with too much time and
money on their hands; or is it?
……………….
My cock
twitched as Hi Mi Si’s legs flashed their on earth heavenly wonder from the
two-slits up the sides of her velvet micro-skirt, as she, wiggling her wonder,
prayered her way on her nine-inch stilt-toed twenty-inch stiletto-heeled
pinnacle-shoes back to the limousine.
But who was I
to have these urges? I was just her servant and one of many such too.
My mistress
was a weathergirl: sunshine and showers. Her mood could swing from joy to
despair inside a microsecond’s microsecond. Her tears and her smiles would be
on the same face, her face, the face of an angel’s angel, at one and the same
time.
My mistress
was a weathergirl: sunshine and showers. She cried for joy, she cried for
despair. She was metamorphically moody. Her high-C-string-high-strung emotions
never stopped in the middle-ground of her passion’s pendulum for a moment in
the moment of their swing.
My mistress
was a weathergirl: sunshine and showers. Her anger knew no bounds in one
millisecond’s tick, to her showering you with kisses at the next second’s tock.
She was
love. She was passion. She was desire. She was fire. She was sunshine. She was
rain. She was laughter. She was tears. She was girl.
My mistress’
eyes were everything like the sun; yet a summer’s day was no comparison to my
mistress weathergirl. My mistress: mystifyingly profound; profoundly
mystifying; simply complex; complexly simple: girl.
……………….
Hi Mi Si
had bought me in a town market place.
As with
other animals, men were sold that way in those days.
Men were
sold in so called ‘pet shops’, along with dogs, cats, rabbits, and any other
creatures girls might want as pets.
Men were in
cages like dogs or cats. As with dogs and cats, the price for a man was
labelled on the cage door.
This was
how I had come into Hi Mi Si’s life and she into mine.
I was a
stray, a hobo, a bum, a vagabond, rounded up, impounded, and given a pet shop
to sell. If not sold in ten days, I was to be ‘put down’ like all unwanted
animals were these days.
Naked and
muzzled in my cage like a dog, I could just see the street and the girls
walking by, envying the freedom that was now exclusively the right of the human
female sex.
Many
moments you never forget are ‘girl moments’.
Hi Mi Si
came in with a lovely blonde: the one the media would call ‘Verity’ but who I
always knew by her professional model’s name: ‘Chenille’.
Hi Mi Si
always called that other girl ‘Chenille’. One could see that these girls were
close from the look of lucky love in their eyes when they spoke.
Chenille
was flawlessly lovely. An American girl of twenty-six.
This was
Chenille
was flawlessly lovely, but shaded shadow by the stunning beauty of the girl she
was with that day.
Warm summer
it may have was, and Hi Mi Si wore a semi-translucent white chemise. Within it,
her lovely bosoms frolicked freely at play, announcing her provocatively
pronouncedly as girl.
Seismographic
reverberation-flowing with the emotion of her motion, Hi Mi Si’s unrivalled
duopoly trumpeted her triumphant arrival. Her nipples peeked, were peaks
pointing prominent pyramid, mid her deep cleaved profound passion-provoking
prominences.
With her
high hem made replete in its tennis-whites pleats, by the sound round drums of
her buns, giving her skirt a switch a hitch and a sway, every single
scintillating step of her way, her bulging white thong sang love songs between
her goddess’ thighs.
Hi Mi Si’s
schoolgirl-style white socks were not folded over at tops below knee, but
unfolded just over her knees. Her thighs therefore bare, displayed the smooth
muscularity of their amazing grace. Her fifteen-inch-high-heeled strappy
sandals curved her calves conspicuously to challenging contoured charms.
Her
straight glossily glowing flowing hair, outshading jade, plummeted plumage from
her crown to ground, where it essayed a cape of incalculable carat in assay.
This
creature, this supreme creation, turned the face of love’s dream toward me, and
the scent of her hair as it slow-motioned around to behind her, ascended the
air and asundered my mind.
And I
watched poleaxed as her braless breasts swayed to join her face, once they had
settled, also pointing front, only after her nipples had conducted the opening
of the overture of a serene serenade to love.
And then
she turned again, and her dainty hand touched the pretty Chenille to call her
attention to me too.
And my
breathtaking angel pointed, and both girls saw and giggled as they looked and
then blushed and then giggled again at my proud prick, standing at attentive
attention to Hi Mi Si’s charms, the charms of the she who was the she of all
shes, with my bobbing unsheathed head, throbbing red in rhythm with the sobbing
of my pounding heart as I stared astonished at Hi Mi Si: outstandingly
outstanding even among the astonishingly astonishing.
……………….
At only
five-dollars, I was seen as a bargain. My loving heart though, only knew the
highest joy when I was sure that my angel, Hi Mi Si, was my purchaser from the
pet shop.
Okay, so
she kept me muzzled as I had been in the shop. But she wanted me around as her
‘
We would
exercise in her gymnasium together, and I would often join her in her morning
runs.
She was
sympathy too, when my bare feet were no match for her trainers and her lovely
legs left me behind her beautiful behind.
I lived the
life of every wet-dream. I was constantly surrounded by girls, and these girls,
Hi Mi Si and her fellow dream models too.
My penis
was some kind of measure for her. If her charms caused me an erection, she knew
she was wearing the right scent, or scarf, or bikini.
My mistress
loved to have me sit, wander, or simply lie around in her bedroom, while she,
draped in nothing but her pure silk dressing gown, lazied her lovely bare legs,
running the toes of her right foot, up and down the curvaceous insides of her
lower left leg, while she chatted for endless hours on her telephone or mobile.
I also had
the honour of looking over her shoulder, when she would check out the latest
smouldering photographs and mpegs of her stunning beauty on her website.
Girls
shared her bedroom and, too, her bed.
Not least
and most lovely of these was Chenille, the girl the
press had dubbed ‘Verity’.
I knew
Chenille was someone special to Hi Mi Si.
They would
share the shower, Chenille and Hi Mi Si. And I knew they were caressing each
other, because I could see it in their nipples when they came out of the shower
to towel down with gentle dabs, the wonder of their stupendous figures, the
beauty of which was reflected mirror in the wet body of the other girl, till
the warm white towels took each a water rivuletted breast.
Chenille
would also wash Hi Mi Si’s hair.
This I
loved to watch. Her cascade cavalcade of shimmering glimmering black was Hi Mi
Si’s ankle-and-beyond-length crowning glory.
If it were
not to become irremediably tangled, it must be washed brushed and combed
simultaneously, and the joy of this erotic essay in love, was etched on
Chenille’s face as she had Hi Mi Si, wrapped in towelling dressing gown with
extra towel over her shoulders, kneel over the en-suite hip-bath in the bedroom
where I lay around, as she shampooed Hi Mi Si’s rainbow-reflecting locks within
it.
I would
walk over and watch my mistress’ hair float lily, swirling whirlpool on the
spiralling water till it was showered wetter and shinier still.
The ‘Hi Mi
Si’ brand shampoo seemed semen in Chenille’s pretty palm, till lovingly applied
and caressed to bubbles, as it was creamed into Hi Mi Si’s dream hair. Then it
foamed like the saliva of the millions of girls who longed and lusted for the
beautiful girl having her hair wet washed.
And the
drying and the brushing, and the sighing and the brushing, and the combing and
the brushing, and the ecstatic static crackles and the brushing, and my cock
reached new heights of the height of desire at the erotic sight of the long
black train of Hi Mi Si’s trailing hair, as Chenille lovingly worked its fresh
scented fragrance from Hi Mi Si’s forehead to the floor, long behind where Hi
Mi Si sat cascading her orgasmic demon black coiffure robe.
And I knew
where this could lead as it had led many a time before.
And I
watched as Hi Mi Si moved the combs out of Chenille’s reach. Then
as she snatched the brush and took over the erotic crackling static-sparking
brushing. Then as she purposely petulantly knocked
over Chenille’s ‘Highland Drinking Water’ bottle.
And it
would be Chenille, as always, who ordered me out of the room to a next door
bedroom where I could only listen at the wall, as soon followed a quarrelsome
cry and the word “bitch”, before the first sharp ‘crack’ of Chenille’s firm
hand on Hi Mi Si’s exuberantly protuberantly up-offered bare ass, began her
spanking.
Richly
deserved, the ritual reports echoed from the walls as my mistress yelped for
the slapping of her bare ass to stop.
But
Chenille knew the apology was as yet false, and spanked Hi Mi Si’s glorious
hemisphere’s harder still.
And, even
as I sobbed for my mistress’ distress, my cock still throbbed.
And my
mistress was brave and a whole half-hour would pass with the slaps pounding her
to perdition and admission of her rudeness, driving home that this spanking was
not going to stop till.
And, that
time come: the time came that Hi Mi Si’s tender tears and sobs ripped the air
along with her sobs of “No!”. A
“No!” I knew was not a “No!” for the slaps to stop but a “No!” for
knowing that she was as hot in her pink as the new clear nuclear glow of her
reddened behind, with loves fingerprints all over where Chenille’s harsh palm
would soon apply balm, after the screams of Hi Mi Si’s orgasmic cum.
And as I
heard Hi Mi Si’s sobs of pleasure and pain, while the ‘Hi Mi Si’ branded
witchhazel was smoothed by Chenille over Hi Mi Si’s punished bum’s buns, buns
branded too, but with bruises and sorrow, I somehow knew that kisses tears and
long lingering loving soixante-neuf would follow, and that I would not see my mistress again
till the morrow.
……………….
And so back
to now, funeral ended, as she gathered her cape with her pretty hands, and
precariously swayed her supremely feminine way on her nine-inch stud stilts,
the nine-inch stud stilts posing heaven the problem of out-beautifying the
poise and pose these and her twenty-inch stiletto heels gave to Hi Mi Si’s
luscious legs, Hi Mi Si longed even more the privacy her contract precluded
her.
And as Hi
Mi Si’s crystal clear tears poured compassionate, so too did her
girl-confirmatory passionate scarlet, droplet her fresh white towel, as Hi Mi
Si’s monthly menses seeped to weep too for the loss of Verity, her love, her
life, her wife, one week since in car crash killed.
Hi Mi Si
thus wept and wept. Hi Mi Si’s tears trickled, as from her petals the
moon-cycle periodic punctuation underlining that this was girl, creature of
creation and the light of this unworthy world, dripped precious ruby pearls.
My cock
twitched as Hi Mi Si’s legs flashed their on earth heavenly wonder from the
two-slits up the sides of her velvet micro-skirt as she, wiggling her wonder,
prayered her way on her nine-inch stilt-toed twenty-inch stiletto-heeled
pinnacle-shoes back to the limousine.
But who was
I to have these urges? I was just her servant and one of many such too.
My mistress
was a weathergirl: sunshine and showers. Her mood could swing from joy to
despair inside a microsecond’s microsecond. Her tears and her smiles would be
on the same face, her face, the face of an angel’s angel, at one and the same
time.
The rumours
were right. This funeral was mock.
The Hi Mi
Si share price had suffered shock.
The way her
publicists packaged and sold her image was of great concern to Hi Mi Si, but
completely outside her control.
The ski
pictures posed to dispose of the idea Hi Mi Si would ever marry, had not
worked. In the ‘making of the best of a bad job’ emergency, the wedding had
deployed an actress as ‘Verity’.
The
The actress
who took part, a Chenille look-alike, made a beautiful corpse.
Now paid, she was a millionairess, and very much alive. She lived the life she had always
longed for, deep in the Amazon jungle, nursing the
natives she so loved.
That they
had staged a funeral supposedly for ‘Verity’, even though I was very much alive,
now came as a relief for Hi Mi Si, who could thus now indulge her love for me,
her ‘
The
emotional state Hi Mi Si was in at the ‘funeral’, was no more than the state
this highest of highly-strung girls was so often in when she was having her
monthly bleed.
And so,
funeral ended, as she gathered her cape with her dainty hands, and precariously
swayed her supremely feminine way on her nine-inch stud stilts, the nine-inch
stud stilts posing heaven the problem of out-beautifying the poise and pose
these and her twenty-inch stiletto heels gave to Hi Mi Si’s luscious legs, Hi
Mi Si longed even more the privacy her contract precluded her.
My cock
twitched as Hi Mi Si’s legs flashed their on earth heavenly wonder from the
two-slits up the sides of her velvet micro-skirt as she, wiggling her wonder,
prayered her way on her nine-inch stilt-toed twenty-inch stiletto-heeled
pinnacle-shoes back to the limousine.
But who was
I to have these urges? I was just her servant and one of many such too.
……………….
But Hi Mi
Si was a girl who also needed cock.
Retired
from modelling as part of the re-imaging of the Hi Mi Si brand that had
included the ‘wedding’ and ‘funeral’, Chenille, now out of the public’s ken and
view, lived-in with Hi Mi Si and me.
But Hi Mi
Si was a girl who also needed cock.
I knew as I
watched from the back seat of the limousine at the mock funeral, the motion of
this emotional woman in the twice tears, crystal and red, of her monthly bleed,
that, on high heat as she was, I wanted her, I needed her, I wanted to work
her.
……………….
The mock
funeral demanded by the demands of publicity over, my beloved mistress and I
were on the warm carpet of her bedroom.
My mistress
had removed the muzzle she had forced me to continue to wear since she had
bought me in the pet shop selling men.
My
weathergirl’s storm was momentarily over:
The
frequent showers in the northern area, had been
replaced by sunny periods. Meanwhile, in the south, we had a continuation of
the droplets of red rain that are forecast to be followed by a three-week dry
spell.
My love
crawled for me on her magnificent haunches with the long train of her
soul-black coal-black hair, a cascade trailing peacock parade on this peahen,
behind her beckoning red-beaconing rear.
My
red-ended cock was hard rock, throbbing fit for blue murder, as Hi Mi Si’s
fabulous figure sent me into rhapsodies higher than desire.
She knew
how to tease and please her Verity, and moistened her mouth to give me a vision
of the wetness in her south, as she crawled, and then raised her lovely oral
orifice to kiss my awed cock before sucking its head in, over her hot tongue.
This was
purposely mischievously brief. It was a ‘come-on’ to attract me to her
preferred choice, this time, for the orifice I should fill with fiery fuck
cream.
Yet she
still knelt, offering me my free choice of her three gateways to heaven.
She still
knelt, and I looked between her slim arms forming the bridge of sighs, with her
swaying breasts the bells of a campanile. And further behind was the bridge of
thighs, with red within her nunnery, read as praying cardinal for sin’s
preying.
But I had
known I wanted her butt for my rut since the dawn of this morn, when I had seen
her in her pinnacle-shoes with the twenty-inch heels, and salivated at the holy
wonder of the tautness of her ass cheeks with their deep dimpled curved hollow
concaved sides, symmetrically siren in the wiggle that is the gait of girl, as
she swayed her dancing way over, to pick up her skirt for the funeral.
On the
floor with her, matching her like-for-like by being also on all-fours, I heard
her scream as I licked the red cream from her cunt, and lapped the salt of her
moon-month sacrificial scarlet, as preliminary to making her harlot.
When I felt
her ribs and her backbone’s individual zones through her flawless flesh as I
slid myself along to grasp her shoulders while she still knelt, she gasped with
astonishment as well as assent. Yet I know I shocked her when she realised I
was going to fuck her ass.
She
screamed as I rammed my cock past her sphincter, a scream of pain and want and
wanton desire.
I worked
her asshole as she gasped her pleasure. Then I leaned down and nibbled her neck
in a message she knew was to make her crawl with my hard, hard up her.
And Hi Mi
Si’s wiggle worked my cock as she obeyed my silent call for her to crawl
And, ‘the
Weather Angel’ gave me her wiggle with her breasts waving bells warning of
oncoming thick cream in the anal region, as she moaned her pain and desire for
more of the same, while I reamed and rammed her.
As she
wiggled girl across the floor with me full up her, I rammed and reamed her, her
sphincter stroking and stoking my cock to new heights of hardness, as I
pistoned her buttonhole.
Hi Mi Si
with my cock hard up her bum, mining her anal shaft, crawled over to the mirror
she had had mounted in the floor, and the ceiling above one area of bedroom
floor, so that she could not only feel my cock working her, but could watch me
work her, as she did and would so watch when I took her cunt.
And, as she
moaned with the pleasure of my cock going deeper into her ass, a trickle of her
menstrual blood made a scarlet raindrop that teetered brink, a tear to drip
drop and splash a Rorschach blot making sacred the ground on which she suffered
her love of the agony of my spear up her rear, while her nunnery still cried
the livid pearls of her monthly sacrifice.
Now she
crawled to wall, smearing the blood on the mirror, longing I should return to
lap her drips and inside her with my skilled tongue. But knowing now with my
hard-on hard up, reaching the soul of the deepest brown coal in her anal
tunnel, that her allowing herself to be crashed and crushed against the wall
would give me better grip for my hearty thrusts as I worked her asshole with my
searing pole.
I was twice
Hi Mi Si’s slave. Her slave as an unpaid servant, I was also a slave to my worship
of her incredible beauty.
So she and
her girlfriends would mock my cock when it got a hard-on watching them play
with their tongues swapping their girl honey, or giving the other girl a taste
of her own.
But when at
last she let me make love like this, the memory of that mocking was a spur to
stir me to greater lengths of erection, so much so, that I wondered if Hi Mi
Si’s giggles and her pointing at my throbbing point, were not preparatory to
heightening me for her own pleasure when at last I would work her love holes.
Her
laughter and giggles were horny to me too, and would tinkle divinely all the
more, as my cock throbbed from the heavenly sound of a girl in full giggle.
Ever since
I had seen the solid taut tightness of its hemispheres when she had donned her
pinnacle-shoes for the funeral, but not yet her skirt, I had wanted to take her
ass.
Despite the
welling tears, or because of her high-strung emotion, Hi Mi Si had not laughed
or mocked my pulsing cock, when she had seen it on the morn of her mourning as
she reached for her skirt. Rather, it was as if she had made due note of my
excitement at her deep side-dimpled firmness in her twenty-inch heels and it
had decided her, at last, to cease her reservations, and have her anus lose its
spiritual proximity to intact virginity.
Now I was
up in and working her asshole, she was in ecstasy, so much so that the drips of
her menstrual teardrops, formerly merely red, were now whore’s hunting-pink, as
her girl-honey made her lick-mix hormonally potent, and that which dripped onto
her thighs or plashed on the carpeted ground she sainted, was the elixir of the
goddesses: honey and monthly sacrifice, the double unique of girl.
I came in
her ass, as ever all, and as ever all too soon.
Poor Hi Mi
Si would always so pay the price for her incredible beauty,
that only another woman could pay her full duty, and a cock would cum in
betraying spasm before the dawning of her longed-for orgasm.
But, though
it was certain she had had no joy, she paid me the compliment of moaning,
consummate actress, for the consummation of my hot seed spitting into her
beautiful body, as if she too had orgasmed instead of no-spasmed as my thick
cream hosed white-hot inside her.
This I
surmised was from her need to be left frustrated, and to mock herself for
having again imagined a cock could deliver what only another girl could ever.
Such wonder
as this girl was, was born for borne sacrifice.
Male
satiation was stranger to her because she was so beautiful that no mere cock
could provide what she needed inside her body mind and soul.
But just as
she bled red, so did she need to be white fed.
Hi Mi Si was a
girl who also needed cock, even though she knew it could only fill her, but
never fulfil her.
Before now,
I had parted her petals to post my pearls in the girlmost part of this girl of
girls.
She had
also before eagerly savoured and then swiftly swallowed the saline oysters of
my post coitus drips, after her throat had just taken the pumping squirts of my
scorching milk.
And now she
had allowed me entry past her sphincter sentry, and I had hosed the white-fire
of my exultant desire’s exhaust, into the holy sepulchre of her southern core:
spraying my seed onto the altar of a girl in the high heat of her monthly
bleed: the heat of her holy bleed, the bleed she indeed still dripped even as I
worked savage ravaged and raped her ass.
And she had
moaned as she felt my pulses piss my milt deep into her hyper-hot body.
But she had
moaned only with her mock of pleasure.
Sensitive
only to her love for me, she had moaned with pleasure but only as an actress;
but in truth in distress that she had had everything to tease her and nothing
to finally please her.
And yet,
she had moaned as she felt my pulses hose my milk into her body, with her
pleasure at that very distress: the distress that she was a mistress subjected
to the excess of my access to her body, and my pissing my love into her
orifice’s inner altars to soil her as I despoiled her.
Her beauty
was only enhanced by her tender surrender to my red-tipped ego, and yes too,
the ever presence of her never present cum, even though I filled her holy holes
with my squandered presents.
…………………
And: as I
withdrew and drooped, Hi Mi Si raised her ass and put her face on the ground as
if to kiss it, but, as I knew, in fact to take my still hot spunk yet further
up her anal tract.
Then: as
she still crawled on the floor, an overspill of my plentiful potent cum-seed
dribbled white from her asshole, down her perineum, seeking entry to the
possibility of impregnation within the lips of love’s eternity: lips still
crying the scarlet tears of girl’s moon-cycle menses.
And: “Oh
god I that need!” Hi Mi Si honeytoned, as, holding my chin, she looked love
into my eyes before she kissed me on my forehead with her sweet soft gentle
lips.
Then: “I
love you Verity”, she said, playfully, even as her emotional weather swung once
more to tempest, with raindrops teetering corner her glorious almond eyes: a
rain-shower for the sacrifice she had just undergone in being skewered by my
prick, and was still undergoing, with the frustration of her not having a cum,
and the pain of her period.
And even as
my cock swelled with renewed passion for my weathergirl, Hi Mi Si’s cunt still
dripped her red blood, her ass my white seed, and her carpet was thus slow
spattered rose-pink, by droplet drips of love’s combined chimerical chemistry.
Then:
“There’s a cwever wickle wuvvy duvvy”, my weathergirl pout-praised, as she
cuddled my furry ears and her siren soft sensual lips pecked an angel’s kiss on
my ever-damp and ever-cool St Bernard dog’s nose.
The End
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