 |
|||
|
|
Seraphima
(by
Eve Adorer)
Synopsis:
If next door was a convent,
then eighteen-year-old Seraphima was just ‘the girl next door’. Like all young
girls, Seraphima was compelled by the mysterious wonder between her legs. As
her story begins, the question of the moment is, what
is Seraphima, a convent girl, doing in the ‘Poolside Bar’?
Seraphima
(by
Eve Adorer)
Chapter 1 - Pool
Pool or
pools? Alluring: brown:
compellingly disquietening: electrically flashing golden heavenly inspirationally
joyous kinetic lightening: momentously nobly omniscient: potently queenly:
romantically spellbinding: truly unsurpassably visionarily wistfully
xenodochium: youthfully zymergic, and these and those just her eyes.
Pool or
pools? Dark-brown.
Long lashes. The lanterns of her
searing soul.
Pool? She? No question. She is
she. This is she. She that is she, bends with cue, supplant for penis, held
erectly long in pretty hands, with caressing fingers, inept girly grip, aiming
at testicular spheres, gently working the foreskin, would she, were it had had
one.
Did she hear?
Billiards? Pole and two balls making male in
intimation of intimate imitation. But then there is that third ball, so
this is not a man’s at all. Even that stiff stick in her gentle
grip is imagined not real in its masculine appeal.
Heels? Six-inches and what shape they give to already
compellingly curvaceous limbs. Legs long and high as she leans lone over table,
pool or billiards, with cue on cue to smack the balls haughtily, naughtily,
dismissively, in manner seemingly unseemly, and certainly without semen.
Lips? Pouch or mouth? Mouth. Delicately small with
upturned-to-flat curved upper-lip, and bold lower-lip. Lips at rest in the pose of a pretty posy. For she is Nubian
negro, and carries the beauty of beauties, that is the
blessing of the black girl.
More on
mouth? Mouth pouted pert in a
kiss of concentration on smacking naughty boy balls, with pole her gentle
fingers long, longingly masturbate, or seem to have in that unseemly state at
any rate. The beauty of her mouth is it’s all but circulararity: it almost
forms an exquisite ‘O’, as in ‘orgasm’.
Legs? Naked. Summary?
Summery so she is summarily at the summit of submission to sun’s solace, and
wears cool clothes as near none, as would arouse monk monkey and nun, but never
discompose none. Her legs long and black shine with the sheen of burnished
mirrors.
Did she hear?
Snooker? A duly attentive erectness to the pole she holds
pays service to her potency. Those naughty balls will get a poke from her for
daring to erect the mast she appears to masturbate, and would be master over,
but that she is so clearly a miss.
Hair? Curls coiled curlicue, Gordian knot not. Acutely
cutely concupiscent whirls whirring the wanton,
wanting of nothing even whirlpool compared, to ensnare. Damocles long to
blades, not swords as in soldiers, but slender, as in shoulders.
Face? A lantern of
loveliness that is all. But consider and quiver at what such beauty delivers.
The sun had just been worshipping her, not she it, after all. All of five feet
seven tall, leaning long to smack those bauble balls.
Breasts? Of course! Girl! Heavy, full,
unencumbered by brassiere, double-dangling doppelganger. Pyramid-point
tipped, and the points poignantly pert and alert in the warmth of the summer.
She must be forty-eight F-cup, to judge by the state of her
green-and-black-hooped crop top’s swellings, telling of the totality of its
fulfilling filling. Lolling belle bells with strikingly proud pulchritudinous
clappers: her nipples: giving content, as in conical tent investment, to the
content of her vestal vest vestment.
Pool or
billiards? Skirt?
Only just. Bent as she is, risen unbidden to leave her
pouch unhidden, for she shy but so free to display and disport.
Bare
midriff. Belly flat with cute
concave third eye: navel. Blind eye ‘seeing no ships’ to pun
quip. Fifth eye to include both her nips.
Arms? Disarmingly alarmingly long and slim, with too,
glister of soft down sweetly down her two fores. Two fores
not octopus, but achingly lovely to longingly look upon. Two fores not eight nor ten, but not tentative, indeed tentacle in
loving embrace in the grace of her brace.
Did she hear?
Legs again? And how! How
long can legs be and be legal? This is horny honey with legs let from ground to
nirvana, flowing in two paths, righteous, and left too: the straight and curved
but not the crooked highways to heaven. The eye follows their flow. The journey
is long with many disturbing curves. Muscles are smooth but subtly supple and
strong. Would the eyes rode these roads forever. No
stockings to hide the flawless deep black shining complexion. The curves are
eternal up to the infernal furnace in the radiant white pouch.
What does that white tell
us? Oh yes, she is new, but she has bled her lunar bleeds. She is very girl
indeed, and still with her snare drum tympanum untaught and taut. That sentry
confirming no entry is elementary, but not eliminatory of the cues on the guys
forming queues she might choose from, when she ceases to confuse, and deigns to
lose.
Bum bottom buttocks butt
buns? Inverted kettle drums two too. Conspicuously momentously muscular,
beating time’s sway girls’ gait way either siding her gateway. Timeless
metronome mounds. Rolling rodomontade silent of sound.
Round full firm smooth monumentally mountainous.
Panties? Only just. Clearly seen as she
leans keen to smack the white ball with tall pole to teach the testicular balls
a lesson with her borrowed penis cue. White: they are only just this
side of non-existent. A glowing white thong with pretty red decorative side
bows, leaving bowing wowing bottom in clear air, entirely bare.
Inside
thong? Her
mystery. Her every heavenly wile. Her pungently potent musk the while. The wild-musk-rose
pervaded pouch filling out her gusset with its purse lips closed: purse lips
speaking of love in thunderous wondrous poetic-prose-silence, in its gentle
repose.
Did she hear?
She seemed to move in
display of all her loveliness, and flash her long strong legs every sexy way
scintillatingly. And a look said she heard and was disturbed but not dismayed
at the words of the two girls eyeing her, one of them unintentionally braying above
the heat of the DJ’d music dance beat.
As Seraphima played pool or
billiards or snooker at the Poolside Bar, the silence unbid fell in a spell in
the Afro-beat. And the words fell on her dainty ears though they hidden in the
curls of her helical coiffure. Words not intended for her to hear, but
surprised by the sudden silence in the thumping music: a girl’s voice opining
pining opinion that Seraphima should be pinioned pilloried and:
“What she needs is a fucking
good spanking!”
Snooker! Seraphima the cute
copious curl-cropped girl forwards her cue on cue to address the white, and
scatter the naughty boy balls as multi-coloured seed, imprudent impudent sperm,
pissed impotent Onan by the ricochets off her stick poked white ball, as the
cue, a penis parallel, on cue, drives the virgin white ball, just as a queue of
cues should have been poking Seraphima’s pink, by turn, if at all.
And Seraphima pocketed an
instant red, and would now go for the brown, but that her heavenly eyes were on
the girls leering at her loveliness, and the words she had heard had disturbed
in her, what she had thought, if she had ever before thought about it at all,
absurd.
As the brown was nextly
pocketed, Seraphima’s nether never pocked pink knew drizzle, and longed to know
these girls who found her profoundly vamp or tramp. And, as she bent over the
table once more, penis cue in pretty little hands, her panties gusset was
daintily faintly fatefully damp.
The success with the brown,
reminder of her devil deep chocolat tunnel, was followed by a second red, and a try for the oh so appropriate pink.
Need of rest for cue this
long shot she, as her skirt hem shot up she, her long strong legs she, reached
despite need for cue support for lack of her height, the brown via white to
smite, and panties glowed bright white triangle pouched pulchritudinous ‘tween
tensioned fit bare thighs, as her mind raced with the disgrace of the drips
sipped by her gusset, when one of the staring girls had audibly called for
Seraphima to be whipped.
But why did ‘whip’ come to
mind all but butt? Seraphima had not heard that word used. She was deliciously
confused. Her eyes, her soft calf eyes, looked doe-longingly brief-lingeringly
at the lovely girls, whose eyes in turn were burning on the burnished bare dark
black legs of she, that she brandished so beckoningly.
Willy,
boyfriend gentle and innocent.
Boy next door. Only boy had ever known she, as friend, not more intimate as in
‘boyfriend’ one word, was more ‘boy friend’ two words.
Seraphima and Willy only
just re-met since not long. Seraphima, an orphan from the
local convent.
………………
In the interview in her
office, so far, Abbess Mercy had told Seraphima, that
Seraphima could no longer go to university, but would, nonetheless, have to leave
the convent.
This was not Seraphima’s
fault. The convent was in the midst of a financial crisis. It was regrettable,
but Seraphima’s time to leave had come. She needed to face the world outside
without chaperones.
The convent coffers were
nearly empty. College was no longer an option for Seraphima, unless she could
afford to fund herself. The abbess was sorry, but the convent could no longer
afford to do it. The abbess was truly sorry, she wished she could do something
about it, but things were as they were.
Now she was eighteen,
Seraphima was no longer necessarily required to wear the woollen dress and
knickers of the pupils under tutelage at the convent. Her school years were
over.
So Seraphima sat with her
beautiful bare dark black legs demurely but gently pressed together at her
knees. She wore a micro-skirt. Seraphima did not cross her legs. To do so was
forbidden in the convent.
In her micro-skirt,
Seraphima’s hugely handsome thighs were compelling eye-catching. They were wholly
proportionate with her lovely body, but somehow loomed very impressively and
powerfully large in the eye of the lucky beholder.
As she sat demurely upright
on a wooden dining-table type chair, Seraphima’s forty-eight-inch bosom was
pushing out her striped crop top, with her conical nipples prodding up like
circular arrowheads, stretching the material of that garment to near bursting
rip.
In her complete sweet
innocence, thinking as a girl in an all-girl environment, Seraphima had seen
nothing wrong in coming to this highly important interview, sans panties. In
consequence, the copious, completely coiled curls, of her luxuriously long
pubic hair, tumbled in impossible spirals, between her thighs, to dangle on the
floor below the seat she blessed with her beautiful behind.
One of the glories of the
incredible Seraphima, was this luxuriance of flowing
This erotic wonder dangled
and dandled from her mons veneris and her labia majora. She shampooed, brushed,
and combed it with the same loving care she imparted to her coiffure. If
‘crowning glory’ had an apposite opposite, this site and sight was it.
If the seven wonders of the
world were rolled into one girl, that girl would be Seraphima, and a sub-wonder
these profuse curls dangling down between her lovely legs to her shapely
ankles, as if it were on the head hair of another girl with her lips
permanently kissing Seraphima’s thus completely hidden love mouth: Seraphima’s
pubic hair, her beautiful upon beautiful four-foot long pubic hair.
“My sweet and honoured lady,
you are taking away my future. I beg you, my sweet and honoured lady! You know
that I am an orphan. I have no access to other finance”, Seraphima begged.
“My sweet and honoured lady,
I beg you to reconsider. Please, my sweet and honoured lady!” Seraphima
pleaded.
Seraphima leaned forward at
this juncture, her lovely negress’ mouth kissing the
air with every syllable her sexual contralto sang.
Her heavy breasts therefore
followed gravity, and flowed forward and down as they left their nestling
places on Seraphima’s chest. Her firm nipples thus bobbled up and down, rubbing
within her fortunate, and fortunately elastic, top.
Her gentle face was
completely disarming. Her eyes glowed with her youthful vitality zest and
vivacity. A stray of her head curls, swung a helix over her left eye, and
Seraphima raised a long fingered hand to brush it gently aside, thereby lifting
one of her breasts toward the heaven from whence she indisputably came.
“Are you packed for leaving
the convent?” Abbess Mercy, responded.
“My sweet
and honoured lady!” Seraphima
cried out with overwhelming anxiety.
“Seraphima, my charming
daughter….” Abbess Mercy continued, in a tone of mixed mild irritation and
amusement, both prompted by the total innocence of her charge.
“Seraphima, there is a world
out there waiting for you! Admittedly, the lack of university qualification
will limit your marketability, and there is ninety-nine-percent unemployment
among girls at present…. But you could….. or maybe… well, anyway…”, the abbess
had run out of ideas for Seraphima’s future, even before she began her list of
what Seraphima could do by way of a career.
Abbess Mercy knew that, in
reality, Seraphima’s position was hopeless, unless Seraphima could find a man
or girl to marry her: a man or girl with some money of course.
The alternatives for
Seraphima, were working in the coal mines, or prostitution. Most English girls
were sold into US, Russian, or Chinese brothels. Many sold thus, still fooled
themselves they would make the money to be able to go to college. But the
market for girls, even the highly prized English girls, was flooded. Most of
them would be lucky to get even one meal a day as payment for selling their
bodies.
“My sweet and honoured lady,
please may I take the vows? Seraphima asked in her despair.
The Abbess laughed gently.
Seraphima hung her head amidst an emotionally stirring slow-motion springing
and coiling of the curls of her dark-brown hair, as they flowed to shade
Seraphima from showing that the glowing sun of her gorgeous face was turning to
sweet rain.
“My sweet and honoured lady,
why do you mock me?” Seraphima sobbed.
“My daughter: if I had any,
but any, vacancy for a nun, do you not realise that I would choose you above
and beyond any competitor in the world?” the abbess soothed.
“I cannot create from
nothing. That is the sole prerogative of the good lord. You would imagine that,
with we nuns taking a vow of poverty, the convent
would cost a whisper to run. But that, sadly for you my daughter, is simply not
so”, Abbess Mercy sighed, resignedly.
Throughout the interview,
Seraphima had been aware of the abbess’ eyes on her legs: legs given particular
loveliness by the six-inch heels Seraphima wore.
Seraphima’s
loving mind considered the
shocking idea that she could win the abbess over by using her sexual charms. It
was but a microsecond’s thought, and dismissed in the next instant. The
consequences of failure were dire. Seraphima knew she would probably be
bullwhipped. Five hundred lashes was the minimum punishment. They had given one
girl one hundred lashes every day for a whole week, bar on the Sunday, when she
had suffered two hundred.
“Let me be straight forward
with you my daughter”, the abbess continued.
“You are a very attractive,
and, consequently, a very distracting young woman. Quite honestly, I cannot
afford to have you hanging around the convent. I have seen with my own eyes,
the way the other girls look at you. And, yes, I know you have never encouraged
it, but I have heard the wolf whistles?”
“You are a disruption. A truly lovely one, but a disruption nonetheless. That is
one factor. The other, as I have already mentioned, is cost.”
“We need your cell. Come the
winter celebrants, there will be a surfeit of nuns in the convent. That is why
we do not need new initiates Seraphima.”
“Because of the dire state
of the country’s economy, I am keeping more nuns on than we strictly need, so
you see I can be charitable. But we just cannot afford to have you hanging
around…. I’m sorry, Seraphima, I am truly sorry, but that is the way it is for
all of us these days”, Abbess Mercy concluded, to the sad sound of Seraphima’s
heartrending sobs.
“My sweet and honoured
lady…..” Seraphima whispered, by way of farewell, her head hung to hide her
tears, as she rose from her chair to leave the room, stood with the copious
curls of her pubic hair swinging gently between her shapely ankles, and
curtseyed very thighilly to her de facto mother.
Seraphima’s loud sob as she
wiggled from the room in an erotic ‘clitter-clatter’ of stiletto heels, would have broken any heart.
Abbess Mercy, found her own
tears welling. To her own surprise, she now turned
turtle in her torment, and called for Seraphima to come back.
Turned and returned:
Seraphima stood trying not to let her radiant loveliness interfere with what
she hoped and prayed might be a chance for her. She did not want her fantastic
sexuality to win her favours. She knew she had to face the world without using
that weapon.
“Okay! Okay!” Abbess Mercy
suddenly resignedly sighed.
“Look: just so long as you
continue to obey the rules of the convent, including complete chastity, then I
will let you stay around. You can help teach, perhaps: as a classroom
assistant. But remember, Seraphima, chastity at all times, and no leaving the
nunnery without at least two nuns as chaperones!” Abbess Mercy warned.
Seraphima almost leapt on
the abbess to kiss her. From the gentle diamonds of rain that had trickled from
her dark-brown eyes, suddenly sunshine broke through the clouds.
“My sweet and honoured lady,
thank you, thank you, thank you!!” she cried with her palms pressed together in
prayer of gratitude for the abbess finding her a job.
“You will never regret it,
my sweet and honoured lady. I will work so hard for Sister Faith. I know
nothing of teaching, but I will learn. I promise on promise that I will learn.
And you will never ever, but ever, regret giving me this chance, my sweet and
honoured lady”, Seraphima gabbled with tears of love running down her sweet
cheeks.
………………
The suspicion started when
two nuns reported to the abbess, that Seraphima was wearing scent.
If Seraphima was wearing
scent, she did not get it from within the convent. Was she sneaking out alone?
The suspicion increased when
the same two nuns reported Seraphima’s additional pride about her appearance.
“I’ve known her take a whole hour just shampooing and pampering her pubic hair,
my sweet and honoured lady. She brushes it till it shines. She divides it into
two tails, ties it with ribbons, and coils it into her panties, and I’m sure
that’s where she is wearing the scent, my sweet and honoured lady!”
“Seraphima is at a difficult
time of life”, Abbess Mercy speculated, with an intonation which, if a hearer
had not known better, might have been taken as indicating a wish she (the
abbess) were Seraphima.
“It is good of you to call
this to my attention. I share your concern that she may be sneaking out at
times, and seeing boys.”
The two
betraying nuns, portrayed surprise on their pretty faces. They had, quite honestly, never even thought of the
possibility that Seraphima was consorting with boys.
“Yes”, Abbess Mercy
whispered into the intercom, speaking to her secretary in the neighbouring
office, whilst firmly waving the two betraying nuns out of the room.
“Yes”, Abbess Mercy
whispered, “Sister Mercury: please put me in touch with the Inquisition. I need
two of their detectives. I’m afraid that my trust in a certain young lady has
been serially seriously betrayed.”
………………
The very same night on the
day Seraphima had been told she could stay at the convent, as long as she never
went out without escorts, she was in the Poolside Bar, playing snooker with
Willy. Seraphima had shown great enterprise in escaping the convent. She had
been seeing Willy for over a month by now.
Willy, though boyfriend in
thinking in his mind, had never laid she, even hand on she, and was as innocent
of she as she. And she completely no more than chased for chaste kiss on peach
soft face cheek by he and no other ever. Even mouth only kissed at corner
accidentally proximately.
Okay her eyelids kissed
closed in moment of passion when he had ejaculated in his pants caressing her
face. Then she had kissed his palm, and giggled golden, not cruel, but honoured
that he had shot his oyster for her beauty incarnate carnal.
And she had offered her
mouth, but he would resist that kiss wanting to save that savour for his saviour.
And she had been honoured that he would not touch her and he had leaned forward
her head to kiss her forehead in gratitude for his spunk, and his still hard
issue tissue, and then her smiling eye with fluttering lashes, even as she
sighed to say she wanted him inside where she was yet to give a cock a ride.
…………………
Back to here and now, Willy
watched Seraphima’s hem rise over twin moonrise and tight white crescent star
nestling bright in the shadow of deep black sigh thighs.
He would reach and remind
her hem of its modesty, save that his sap was rising and she had her shot to
make, would his not come first, in thirst of thrust at and in such an erotic
sight and site.
And he saw too that the two
ethnic-Chinese with the jade parade of unparalleled shine straight divine long
down onto their laps, were ogling his Seraphima.
But that was so filthy. Girl
was for boy. God did not provide that another girl… But such
dainty hands. Them white on silk smooth ebony
thighs: Seraphima’s. Imagine. No must not! Disgusting! They, surely not in her
panties, or pretty lips kissing her lovely negress’
mouth, or touching-up her perturbing protuberances till her nipples danced.
Must not
think that. Must stand between
and hide her. Seraphima not, surely not, I mean not really showing herself, I
mean her body, I mean her legs, I mean to two girls other, that would love to
be her lover!?
Girl next door played as
childhood neighbours. Propose tonight. Dressed white. Aisle. Willy’s mother in smiles and tears.
Seraphima in pure white, fully qualified. Again too at night. And at pink dawn the red in the bed to
show it had been shed. Sacred in her panties now as she leans to poke the cue
ball white, into the pink, with her sweet mite of might.
And it is an extremely long
reach for her. And she is up out her six-inch heel, left foot on tip top of big
toe and right leg raised in a parable of prayerworthy parabolas, and her white
gusset straining to hide the seat of her passion, which is showing a smile
within the diaphanous. And her pink would glisten were it not for the grace of
lace. And, oh god, the contrasting white of the under wonder of her delicate
foot, as pure as her soul, as she shows the contrast of her sole raised foot’s
sole.
And then she is all legs and
legs and legs and legs and legs and giggles as she celebrates her pocketed pink
and slinks to the scoreboard to add the six, as she thinks she must miss the
next red on purpose to show she is just a girl, and let her would be hero know
that he can defeat her at any game he chooses. Wishing that
she could lose that to love that had lingered lifelong within her.
Longing the strand that stretched to guard her praetorian,
could be forced to yield to that she had saved it for: her boy. Longing a turnkey to unlock her cell. Her
goal to break gaol on the cock of a male.
But Seraphima’s eyes told
lies, as they smiled at Willy, only to gaze past him and see the two Chinese
ravens, seemingly ravenous of ravishing and rapine, were gone as suddenly as
they seemed to have arrived: were they spies?
Were they spies in disguise?
Seraphima had no right to be where she was. The convent had strict rules: no
boys. Seraphima had sneaked out in clothes stolen for the night from the communal
wardrobe. Clothes reserved for girls allowed out on trust, but not for girls
out on a tryst.
Seraphima had not seen the
Chinese lovelies before. They could be inquisitive, or Inquisition nuns in
mufti. Either option was disquietening. Seraphima was curious. She had been
lured by their leers. She knew new naughtiness between her legs.
Seraphima had to know. Her
mind was in a panic! Was their look lust, or discovery of her breach of trust?
To wrest from her duo of
soul-brown eyes, where her admirers had gone, Seraphima made as if looking for
the cue she in fact knew where she had rested. They were not at either bar, and
the street door was open!
Seraphima looked ill: so
much so that poor Willy gently assumed she was on the verge of something
uniquely female.
“Excuse me will you Willy,
but I must go to the ladies…” Seraphima whispered.
An excuse made and Seraphima
was now in the powder room, admiring her perfection in a mirror within the room
of thrones, wondering if she was alone or had discovered her Chinese cousins’
coven.
The clearing heard the
multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of
peace and conflict; of life and death.
But there was no sight nor
sound save the mirror’s futile attempt to capture the beauty of a negress with
a constant kiss formed by her delicate mouth, and her eyes lighthouses flashing
‘come-hither’, siren for shipwrecks in the channel ‘tween the mountainous
mounds of her bosom, when seeking shelter on the gentle waters of her belly,
for sailors deceived into seeking calm, to find but alarm in the maelstrom
ardour in her passionate harbour.
Surely illegally long,
lovely dark-black legs transported the transparently torrid Seraphima back to
her boy, and her hand, her gentle hand with its white palm in wholly holy
contrast to the delightful dark upper, and the shine of her unvarnished
untarnished long fingernails, her gentle hand pulsing with the vitality of this
vivid vrouw, was held, as she swayed her graceful way, her every move signalling
silently that she was significantly sex.
“We need the money. You are
going to make the money we need. You are going to pay public penance for your
sins.”
The clearing heard the
multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of
peace and conflict; of life and death.
Willy felt a pulsing in his
pants as he held the dainty charm of Seraphima’s dark-brown hand. There seemed
to be a new rapture to the way she swayed this day. This night there was a
fight within her skirt as her buttocks rolled as they strolled to his car, and
he opened the door for Seraphima to take the front passenger seat.
Then Willy watched,
captured, enraptured, as Seraphima’s long legs were fully revealed by her
rising skirt riding up her smoothness. And Seraphima’s lovely eyes smiled up at
him for the honour he had paid her for holding the door for her, till she could
settle her holy shrine on the thus sainted seat. And her sighs as she watched
him watching her skirt’s hem slide up the vastness of her strong dark black
thighs, told of the bells that tolled in Seraphima’s torment, the terrible
temptation threatening snail trail on the seat she made throne.
As Willy sat beside
Seraphima, her giggle when she dropped her removed panties in his lap flashed
goldenly in her glorious eyes.
Then her dainty hands
grasped Willy’s strong arm, and her sweet head was on his shoulder. Her
unspoken message was in the token she had removed from covering her coveted
curls. The white triangle that she had dropped in his lap, told him she was
accessible, and that, if he wished, as who would not, he could savour the
aroma-Arabic of her drip drop droplet dipped panties.
Seraphima’s mind whirled.
She was girl. The two Chinese that had teased her with their emphatically
wanting eyes on her handsome thighs and the bright white triangle between them
besides, had reminded Seraphima’s mind, not for the first time, or in a
revolutionary revelation to her sweet innocence, that she was as attractive to
girls as to boys.
But the true revelation for Seraphima, was in her reaction to the discomforting
rediscovered attraction. Her mind told her that to be so honoured by equally
beautiful girls such as the raven haired charmers she had entranced so, was the
higher of the two loves.
To be the love and lust of a
boy’s would-be thrust, was a norm of expectation. But to be the allure of
another girl was an honour higher. Another girl would know her desires and the
source of her fires. Never yet kissed, Seraphima knew now she longed to be
tasted on the butterfly wings of her prominent promise proud-pouted mouth, by
another miss, who would not miss, but kiss her properly.
………………..
Yet, if we go back in time
to the toilets of the bar the lovely Chinese had left, Seraphima was now
waiting. She wanted to waste time in case the Chinese dolls arrived from
elsewhere, having not been where she had entered to try and find them.
She would have gone off with
the Chinese for sure, and handed them her panties as her calling card, when she
was certain they wanted to make love to her.
She had sensed that the
sentinel scent central to her gusset would signal her surrender as well as
rendering her open to sliding entry.
Her curiosity had then taunted
her. Feeling the yielding softness of her tiny shielding white lace thong, with
no excuse for taking it off to show she was willing and ready, Seraphima had
been overcome by shame and embarrassment that she would so speedily mentally
surrender to total strangers.
Not in so many words did it
occur to her, but she determined to punish herself for being so turned-on by
being objectified by her fellow girls. She would, this very night she would,
confirm her heterosexual credentials.
[to
be continued….]
|
|
|