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Seraphima Too
(by
Eve Adorer)
Synopsis: The original story
‘Seraphima’ concluded where and when Seraphima had arrived in
Seraphima Too
(by
Eve Adorer)
Chapter 1 – Pool
The petals
of a flower? No rosebud could so
comport. The mouth outbids the bud of mere rose to compose the kiss in repose
on heaven’s face.
The eyes like the mouth
momentarily gaze unseeing.
Reverie?
She shines? Her complexion
is smooth and soft and hot in the glaring sun: sun that has lost the fight to
out-glow her glory.
Distracted? Those she runs
down her bare right thigh, lost in thought, are long lithe and lingering
fingers. She is feeling herself without consciously feeling, and yet finding no
disappointment in her presentation.
Sighs? Soft too, and cause
for the birds to stop singing, as they know they cannot compete with the sound
of a girl.
Curls? Significantly
magnificent: coiffure of natural springs in coils as brown as black, that kiss
her forehead when the breeze teases and pleases to toy them, and dangle below
her shoulder-blades or dandle before her eyes from where she must sweep them
back with her sweet hand.
Arms? Slender shapely slim, tender in
embrace holding you to the heart of her heart.
Legs? She has been training ballet in gymnasium and is
strong and long and lissom and listen:
you have never seen such curves as her calves serve to swerve, or such power as
her thighs curve to serve.
Breasts? Wholly holy: twice and twin: pink-brown tipped
mounted mountains, independently minded to wander their wonder as she but
breathes, heaving breathtaking breast swaying uplifting breast breaths.
Face? Angel
outshining. The mouth lips petals in pose of rose in repose, below nose
with slightly flared nostrils, below eyes with lightly hooded lids suggesting
haughtiness in contrast with truth: lids that bid to save us from the searing
of the sincerity of her gaze into our souls, and the fire that lights the world
with the delight of girl when she smiles, and the world knows no greater wonder
to ponder, because girl is also the other six yonder.
Tendrils? Her pubic hair dandles six-feet-long down between
her worshipful thighs, and flutters its devil-brown curls in snake wriggle
wiggle in the breeze, as its completely compelling copious hopeless complexity
totally hides her southern mouth, coiling down in bubbling curls to saint the
poolside floor flawlessly.
Draping her peacock tail in
trail of inescapably erotic drape like cape on the poolside’s
white tiles, the inestimable Seraphima wiggles her
wonderful wonder to the edge, and blesses the water with plash of her naked
glory, as she divides and diverts the water, when she swims to relieve the heat
from the sun’s endeavours to compete with her, and
inability to admit defeat by her.
Thereafter, dripping
kissing-pearl-tears, opalescent cadences runnelling
her black body, she shakes her head pre-towel’s embrace, and makes a rainbow
hello halo. She then reached down to wring out her pubic nether-crown, gathering
her profoundly erotic despotically-brown ringlets in long fingers with
impractically long nails.
The left hand with which she
wrings is ringed single, with gold it sports: her distaff wedding ring, singing
of her marriage to the living breathing million smiles of the lovely Marina Ntebeli. For the newly twenty-five-year-old Seraphima, with the four-year new growth of her girl
confirming curls, is now Mrs
Marina Ntebeli, and the luckiest girl alive to be so
four-year-wived.
……………….
“Hi” smiled
The kiss was perfunctory but
not unprofound, as wife kissed wife by the poolside
found.
“Have you been by the pool
all day?
“Almost”, Seraphima answered distractedly, as she continued to pat
towel dry her pubic tail.
The stoppage was
infinitesimal. Innocent
Was the name ‘Camilleona’ a trigger?
The fiery Italian fury had
been the family maid this past year. She had been the replacement for the
replacement for Seraphima, when Seraphima
had accepted
The raven-haired Camilleona had been ablaze in the market place. Hanging a human haunch from a hook that her tied wrists dangled her
from. As
Meanwhile wife Seraphima had giggled at the incongruity, of this feisty
fury fighting kicking and cursing, whilst hanging as market meat hopelessly
helpless in her bonds, and crawled over by swarms of
flies feasting on her sweaty nipples and invading her pungent unwashed snatch.
The purchase was inevitable.
To tame this nineteen-year-old hissing-cat was a challenge neither wife nor
wife could resist. Besides, Camilleona was stunningly
attractive.
………………
Camilleona was supremely intelligent too. She had picked up
good English within a month of service. The main benefit of her doing so
however, was that her volcanic eruptions, as she conducted crescendo orchestra
with her lovely arms waiving and dainty feet stomping, in her frequent
tantrums, were now copiously sprinkled with sexily Italianated-English curses.
She was a superb maid. She
looked after both Seraphima and Marina with love and
dedication. Despite that she was constantly incendiary,
her lovely outbursts were rarely against her mistresses as opposed to the
inanimate.
No meal she prepared, was seen by Camilleona
as anything less than an international incident. Yet the delicious food she
served was coincident, and a compliment to her skill.
To tame her a little, and
just about sufficiently,
Tears and cries that revenge
was certain and sure, and would not be short of nuclear warfare if she were not
let go, were accompanied by a kicking of supremely lovely legs that saw her
twenty-inch heeled mules hit the ceiling, as she fought and wailed and railed
at her bottom being reddened for her being naughty, and kicked her lovely legs
like a thoroughbred in sight of the winning post.
Here and now, Camilleona wiggled into the scene. She wore a maid’s outfit
made for her svelte figure. In black with a tiny white apron and with excess of
ribbons and feminine frills at its hem and short-sleeved puff-sleeved
shoulders, she filled it with her thrills.
Her slender arms bare and
beautiful with soft dark down all down her gasp-making forearms, led to doll-sized
hands with which she would shortly lift her already extremely short hem when
she curtsied.
Her long slim legs were on
tiptoe in her heelless ballerina shoes, and kissed by red fishnet stockings.
Her lime-green suspenders hauled her stocking tops into victory Vs at the sides
of her flowing flanks. The bib of her dress and squared-off plunge neckline,
with a quarter-cup bra beneath, presented her tits en-prise
as they combined to ease them up and squeeze them up as if they would pop out
at any longed-for second.
First and second, both
breasts beckoned bosomically becomingly, as Camilleona sexily seared: “Good afternoon my ladies”, with
a curtsey that flashed a fiery yellow thong bursting with pod-lips that sang a
bedtime song never ever allied to any lullaby.
“Camilleona!
You are supposed to be down at the boat house”,
In response, the delectable Camilleona sang soprano with succulent seductiveness in
rising ire and fire, she inspired from her very soul, as her arms whirled wild
wind and her head shook and nodded together and her lovely mouth demanded it be
stopped with a kiss, whilst her sapphire blue eyes shone with demonic ruby
diamonds as she rose to a crescendo: “’Ow I be at
boat ‘ouse when I ‘ere and you demand of me I be ‘ere
and there and everywhere for you and Mistress Seraphima
too, and I do my best and you tell Camilleona she in
wrong place wherever she be and Camilleona try and be
good girl and be where she is said, only you change mind like windmill spin and
Camilleona not know if she come or go and I love work
for you and Miss Seraphima but now I ‘ate it, because
you tell me always I be where I not supposed be, and not tell me where I
supposed to be till I be where I not supposed to be, and Camilleona
made to look naughty girl when she try so ‘ard to be
good girl and please you and Miss Seraphima, and I
not know now whether Camilleona come or go being,
because you no make up mind where Camilleona supposed
to be and it no wonder I confused….”.
Camilleona blushed at the loving touch, but her eyes still
threatened welder’s arc burn, and her artless heart-shaped face had turned a
delicious red, as much from her blushes as the rushes of her hair-trigger fury.
“Camilleona.
Please go to the boat house and prepare for Miss Seraphima’s
birthday treat”,
“Camilleona
go, but Camilleona not ‘appy.
Camilleona not get told what do to not be naughty
girl. Camilleona ‘ave ‘er bummy spanked when Camilleona not blame!” Camilleona
shouted as she stomped out on her tiptoes giving her long slim legs rigorously
taut muscles that taught a delicious lesson in the art of curvature, as her
handsomely generous portion of titties bounced with
her pronounced flounce. And she waggled her bottom wildly provocatively behind
her, till she slammed the swimming pool room door to emphatically punctuate her
ever-discontent.
Afterwards, Marina and Seraphima glanced knowingly at each other, and then giggled
in unison, united in love of the Italian thunderstorm.
For some reason some of Camilleona’s outbursts seemed to happen when both her
mistresses were together. Was the lovely Sicilian jealous of the tangible
gentle love Seraphima and Marina made her also feel?
But why had Seraphima’s countenance encountered a look when
Had Seraphima
found that Camilleona’s fire was not confined to her
passionate heart, her supremely intelligent mind, or the lovely legs with which
she kicked and lashed when she was not using her equally pretty arms?
Had she discovered that Camilleona, without pause, used her doll-sized hands as
paws and her fingernails as claws, and was savagely strong and virulently
vibrantly wild in bed?
Did she know that, with
incredible stamina and endlessly demanding, Camilleona
was a nymphomaniac’s nymphomaniac in her insatiability? That she made you want
to satisfy her even though you knew you never could, and even though she had
made you cum when you had but thought of her?
Or was Seraphima
only imaginatively daydreaming?
“I’ll shower and get ready
for the lake”, Seraphima confirmed as she stepped
over to
“Are you going to wear my
birthday present?”
“But of course!” Seraphima answered, with a hint of naughty sauciness in her
voice, and love in her sweet smile.
……………….
At sunrise, from the red
rocks five-miles out of Tumbleweed, the
Squatting to examine the
remains of the rock rubble surrounded fire, still smouldering,
the Nubian negress cowgirl
reached for the cigarillo. It was mostly spent. Raising its cool end to her
pretty nose, she was pleasured by the unmistakeable
smell of girl. Putting its butt to her long tongue, the taste too was
undeniable and erotically rich.
From the distance was heard
the crack of whips, and the echoing soprano and contralto shouts of the herders
urging the cattle onwards.
With the cigarillo butt
still in her long pretty fingers, and just taken out from her tongue tip’s
tasting of it, the cowgirl’s sixth and seventh senses told her not to move.
Without daring to turn, she
whispered loudly: “I ain’t lookin’
for no trouble. I’m just a cowpoke ridin’
side-guard the roundup…”
Risking the very trouble she
was an outrider to patrol against. Chancing that whoever had come up behind her
was not one of the organised rustlers that the ranch
owners had refused to bribe off, the black cowgirl slowly turned. And as she
turned she let out a gradually rising whistle of appreciation.
A wisp that fluttered out the
back of the Stetson told the cowpoke that this honey, the girl stood behind
with a drop on her, was brunette. But she didn’t get
to look into the sapphire-blue eyes and the astonishingly pretty face, till she
had travelled up two legs, each longer than the
Mississippi-Missouri, and far by far shapelier.
This girl wore heelless
brown leather cowgirl booties, with wheel-spurs. She therefore stood on
permanent tiptoe, and oh girl did it do great shakes for her legs.
She was as brown as if she’d gone about naked since the day she was born, but the day she was
born couldn’t have been more than nineteen years back. And despite the
all-over natural olive-brown tan showing her time in the sun, her skin looked
soft as rose petals.
Apart from the Stetson and
the booties, the honey wore only a Mexican style poncho. It left her lovely
arms free, and god only knew what a beautiful view from either side. Front, and
back, its corners hung triangle to cover some strategic site sights. But, from
where the cowpoke squatted still, with the aid of a lifting breeze she could
see that the brunette, was equally genuinely
brown-downed between her goddam wonderful thighs.
The dark-down on the honey’s
forearms glistened. From where the cowgirl squatted, she spotted the heavy
weapon on this gorgeous creature’s left thigh. It was still in its holster, the
holster being strapped, top the thigh near her crutch, and also just above her
knee. The butt of its handle faced forward.
“See you’re packin’ a long-barrel”, the Nubian cowpoke muttered
nervously.
“Reckon so”, came the relaxed answer, soprano with a surprisingly
south-European singsong to the accent.
The cowgirl re-thought her
introductory remark. Whether this gungirl was a good
guy, or an outlaw, the squatting cowpoke wanted up and out of where she was at.
“Don’t think I heard your
name”, she tried, desperately.
“Don’t reckon I told it”, came the cool calm answer.
The roles now changed, with the
olive-complexioned leggy brunette assuming the questioner’s part: “Just how
many you got rolling down the valley below?”
“We’ve twelve-hundred head
of brunettes, two-hundred or so of blondes, one-hundred-fifty of redheads, and
some fifty negresses so damned gorgeous like you
could only dream of….”, the cowpoke replied, proud of her part in the
commonplace duty of herding ponygirls to market.
“We can always use an extra
gun. We had five prime milkers stolen only yesterday,
even ‘fore we’d left Tumbleweed….”, she went on. Won’t
do the rustlers no good though. We got ‘em branded on their sweet asses with the double-O of the
‘Organic-Orgasm Farms Inc’ …”
“Maybe you’ll lose some more
if’n you don’t get yourself back down there”, the
tanned brunette mused, in a husky stage whisper.
The cowpoke’s eighth and
ninth senses now told her this was her only chance to change the order of
things. She didn’t like squatting in seeming subservience, even to this
astonishingly lovely stranger.
In a split second she had
risen, ripped her gun out, and was facing the gorgeous brunette; or would have
been save that in an even more split second, a bullwhip had wrapped around her
wrist and wrenched it so hard aside, as to leave her six-shoot in the rocky
dust, before it had nextly wound around her neck to
half choke her.
“I just knew it.
You’re…you’re the Loner”, the cowpoke croaked, as she was throttled to a faint.
…………….
‘Pronto’ had not lost all
her human sympathies. The Loner had always been gentle with her. She only used
the crop when Pronto got frisky. She had never dug in the spurs; at least not
since that time they had chased Sexy Red out of
The settling back down of
the dust in Dry Gulch Valley after the cattle drive had passed, had not
entirely covered the unmistakeable prints of the
hooves of Pronto’s fellow ponygirls,
being herded from one town to another to meet market forces, where there was a
meat market to meet, and make replete.
The Nubian negress Pronto, knew renewed fear.
She knew her place and was thankful for it. The day she had been purchased by
the delicious brunette now riding her, had been the sweetest of her young life.
Why this lovely creature had taken pity on her, Pronto
would never know.
Tacked out in harness with
mouth bit, she had been obediently walking the circle that drove the pump to
draw up the village’s water, for four years by then.
The marks on her body had
told of how the village girls treated her. The spiked cactus they had inserted
into her cunt after their night on the raw rye whisky, had been the least of their cruelties.
They had constantly rubbed
her to the verge of a cum, and then mocked her cruelly
when she had cried with the frustration of not being able to go all the way.
Then, when she had actually cum under the lash of a casual noonday
bullwhipping, they had mocked her again.
So as to distract the cruel
girls, the Loner had thrown coins in the dirt as she had cut Pronto’s bonds. Pronto could never have counted the money,
but she knew it was far more than she had been originally sold for at market.
The villagers had actually
bought her as exchange for the worn out bucket they had replaced in their well.
Pronto had been the last in
the sales’ ring, and a giveaway, since her former owners wanted her off their
hands, having already made all the money they needed, and more, from the ponygirls they’d previously sold. They did not want to go
back home with the one remaining pony-whore in tow. They wanted rid, at any
price.
When the peasant girls had
led Pronto out of town to their home village to work their water well, the old
bucket she had been exchanged for, had been left
behind in the town cattle market, in truth, unwanted.
After the rescue, the Loner
had ridden her bareback out of the village with the cactus still up her. But,
in gratitude for her rescue, the Nubian negress
wonder, Pronto, had fought girlfully against the pain
of it, and the astonishing arousal it had given her. She had gritted her teeth
on the rope through her mouth in lieu of a bit, and slavered as she fought not
to cum while the cactus’ spikes continued to rip her.
Here and now, as she
recalled her rescue from Tumbleweed, and that cactus in particular, she found
her cunt wetting-up the leather crupper that divided
her love-lips.
But now she was being forced
back there, back to Tumbleweed where she had been tortured by all the village
girls: ridden, driven by her mistress’ relentless pursuit of the notorious
outlaw Sexy Red.
…………….
Pronto could not recall
seeing the girl at the Tumbleweed livery stables before. She was superbly sweet
and always smiling love. Her gentle demeanour showed
even in the movements of her delightful little hands. To be rubbed down by this
negress angel was going to
be a delight.
A silver coin changed hands,
and her mysterious mistress left Pronto to the tender loving care of this
pretty negress, as she, Pronto’s mistress, decided to look around Tumbleweed.
…………….
The ‘jink’
‘jink’ of the Loner’s spurs as she wiggled off on
tiptop tiptoe along the raised wooden sidewalk of this godforsaken dump’s dump,
‘Tumbleweed’, was the last sound Pronto heard, as the smiles of the stablegirl angel glowed, and she stroked her nose, to settle
Pronto, ready for a washing down.
…………….
Tumbleweed was a tumbledown
would-be town that did its best. It had only been built because there was a water well in its northern centre, and for no other reason
of any account.
There were
some decent woman in the town. As the ethnic-Italian olive-bronzed
stranger, tall, willowy-slim, long-legged and very lovely, waved her sexy ass
slowly down the street, they scurried and hurried back into from whence they
had just emerged, or turned a one-eighty to attend to something they had just
made up as a recalled urgent mission.
Naked beneath her poncho,
the Loner was cool and calm in body and mind. She kept her bullwhip coiled on
her right thigh, and her ramrod in its holster on her left. She was used to
causing this degree of disturbance.
She was sweet and gentle by
nature, and hated the fear she created. To any woman coming within reach of
her, she reached up her long slim fingers to politely touch the brim of her
Stetson, and whisper a reassuring: “Good mornin’
ma’am”.
Although seeming relaxed the
Loner’s eyes turned within her lovely head, to survey for positions from which
a gungirl might drop her. The Loner inspected all she
passed, against what she half expected.
After what she passed became
past, her experience told her all was safe behind. All she therefore had to
worry her still, was to front and either side of her,
as if that were not enough.
She was looking for any and
every hideout where an outlaw or gang member might be found. She was looking
for Sexy Red, and her cohort of co-whores.
Sexy Red, so named after her
profusion of flame-red curls that fell in a tumbling titian torrent down below
her lovely ankles, was vicious and a killer though she was but a twenty-nine-year-old
English girl. She had once been a Girl-Court judge. She had made her name from
slaying lawgirls. There were nineteen notches on her
six-gun, and she had every intention to score more, if more of those pesky
tormentors got in her way. There was, therefore, a price on her head.
Sexy had made a million
dollars from violent bank robberies. There were never any witnesses of these.
Sexy and her gang took care that every woman and girl who might testify against
them was shot dead, after they had been made to load the looted money onto a
stolen buckboard of course.
Everyone knew Sexy Red was
behind the spate of robberies. Nobody was around who could testify to that in
court though. Nonetheless, Sexy found it the better part of caution, to keep
herself and her companions-in-evil hidden away.
She didn’t want the
notoriety. She wanted to enjoy her spoils. She had a string of the finest
Italian born bred and trained ponygirls, she would race for huge bets, as many lovely girls as
arm-candy and bed companions, and her coequals in evil, her gang-members, with
whom to get blind drunk on stolen Italian girl-pee, every night if she chose.
Sexy Red, born as Teasetta Loveschild, had a
background of curious parallels with that of the Loner. They had both been born
to parents who had died leaving them as orphans. Sexy had been brought up in a
mid-west orphanage, where she had gotten into bad company. Too intelligent for
school, she had put her mind to devilment. Her notoriety had begun when she had
been discovered one afternoon in bed, with her school ma’ams’
head in her crutch, with the school-teach eagerly licking her out between her
lovely thighs.
The Loner had known that
same orphanage for a while, but had been whisked away, first to live with a
maiden aunt; then, when the aunt had died, to a convent school, where she had
been raised and taught by nuns, in an atmosphere foetid
with suppression of the deep sexuality that a girl as stunningly attractive as
the Loner naturally possessed.
…………….
In a microsecond’s
microsecond, the Loner had turned with her bullwhip uncoiled.
The lovely Nubian negress flinched, but somehowed she was in no danger.
As the Loner recoiled her
whip: “Stranger”, the nubile negress
began, “I’m sheriff of this here town, and what I says, goes. Whether you like it or don’t, ain’t none
of mine. We’s simple
folks here in Tumbleweed. We don’t want no trouble.
You’re welcome in this town long as you surrender up that there six-spin on
your horny thigh, and the blacksnake coiled on t’other.
So let’s have no trouble and a handover: butt first, and no ‘buts’. Savvy?”
The Loner ran an
appreciative eye over the shapely black girl with the long trail of pubic hair
forming a tail behind her. She filled her denim miniskirt like it was poured-on
paint. Her stiletto booties half up her calves didn’t hide none that her legs
had acutely cute curves. Her ass said ‘spank’. Up top, her red-chequered shirt danced about like it held two mischievous
puppies. Her face lit a light that her lowered brown eyes and soft moist lips
tried to hide. Her closed mouth formed all but an ‘O’ for orgasm. She was too
sweet to be trying so hard to be hard. She was made to be kissed; not to take
this risk.
“Sheriff Seraphima?”, the Loner queried, but more as a conclusive statement
than an enquiry.
“The same”, the sheriff
answered with a look of astonishment. Say, but how’d’ya
get my handle stranger?”
As her startling
sapphire-blue eyes fellated the feminine figure of the sheriff, the Loner
tipped the edge of her Stetson in polite salute of a charming lady: “Arizona
Ranger ma’am. I won’t be in your town more than I got to. I’m trail for Sexy
Red. I hear talk she’s been flashing her goddam
gorgeous golden curls hereabouts. And I want speak with her, kinda urgent, if you get my drift. Then I can be on my
ways…”
The sheriff’s answer came
too quickly for it not to be a lie.
“I haven’t even thought
about Sexy Red’s ravishing rolling ringlets this four-years
and more. You got the right ‘Tumbleweed’ stranger?” she reflexed,
without confirmatory eye contact.
“Maybe”, the Loner answered,
her intonation of even so brief a phrase confirming an
understanding of the attraction that Sexy Red, with her supremely superb curls
and her heart-stopping heart-shaped moon-white face, and the sweet freckles
dancing over her pretty little nose, could engender.
“Sheriff Seraphima?”, said the leggy Loner.
“Sheriff Seraphima?”, said the lovely Nubian negress
Pronto.
“Sheriff Seraphima?”, said the smiling loving stablegirl.
“Sheriff Seraphima?”, said Sexy Red…..
Seraphima awoke to the gentle splash of the lake water: the
water of
………………
The African sun bowed down
before Seraphima’s glory. Her dark black body was
naked, bar detail such as a summer-blue bikini bra, that
lifted her breasts to a balcony scene in which the twin heroines stood proudly,
side-by-side, and rose and fell with the easy breathing of the gorgeous woman
they were in intimate animated converse with.
On her lovely princessly head, she wore her birthday present, a totally
impractical, but deliciously delightful woven-straw sombrero, with a
summer-blue ribbon tied in a silly saucy bow around its crown’s base.
Seraphima had braided her pubic hair into two pigtails, which
she had woven, alike-to-garters, around her vast thighs, and held in place with
summer-blue side-ribbons tied in chocolate-box bows, to match and echo the bow
around her hat, and the blue of her bra.
Deep within the darkest of
dark curls that still hid Seraphima’s ultimate
mystery though: within her cave closed cave, there were stirrings.
Seraphima’s eyes, her devil-deep-down-darkest-brown lanterns of
searing love, showed daze from the afternoon day’s heat causing a dream phase,
as she awoke to the peaceful plash of the water, whilst the boat, a punt, a
girl-gondola, bobbed its uplifted prow, snailing
sailing proudly in the midst of the coastal water of the huge salt-lake, Lake
Charlotte, more a sea than a pond: its waves rippling blinding flashes of the
hydrogen fuelled Helios smiling birthday love from above, and warming the
nubile Nubian negress as it blessed her soft smooth
flesh.
As she realised
she was now having a wide-awake wet-dream, Seraphima
moved a handsome thigh to hide what was happening besides inside, as her long
proboscis clitoris, coiled like a butterfly’s snout in its moist pouch, was
threatening to uncurl, and show how very much she was a girl, by rising up and
out of her to express her aroused joy, as if it were even remotely possible she
could be mistaken for a boy.
Seraphima’s lovely wife, Marina, sat at the rear of the craft,
controlling the direction it occasioned, by occasionally pulling gently, with
practiced relaxed skill, on the two silk ropes that led to the outboard motor,
as the motor quietly motivated the craft forward, in the gentle breeze that
blew on the blue of Seraphima’s fabulously
filled-full fulfilled bikini top.
As Seraphima
moved a birthday-girl’s thigh to shyly hide that she was getting a clitoral
erection, she was thankful to see that Marina was, with her eyes ablaze, in a
gaze solely at the horizon of the course she was taking the boat afloat.
Seraphima closed her eyes to hide herself from the knowing
stare. And then she opened them again, to look at the kitten-cat smile from the
outboard motor.
Seraphima’s eyes followed the ropes that ran from each of
Marina’s lovely hands, to the rear of where her wife sat her lovely rear, to
steer the girl-gondola, and marvelled at the way
those ropes were tied to the coral-pink nipples of the tits of the maid Camilleona.
The exquisite Camilleona was mounted motor to motivate emotionally, the
motion of the girl-gondola.
Camilleona was completely naked, bar the flippers on her feet,
which, along with her long slim fabulously shapely lower legs, were immersed in
the lake’s lapping waters.
Her upper body was leaned
over the rear of the boat, and reared up proudly as if, in fact, her gorgeous
figure were its figurehead. Her arms were pulled aside, straight aside, and
tied by the wrists to the boat’s inner stern. Her lustrous brunette hair was
wound into a single pigtail, which coiled over her slim delicate shoulders, and
lay in her cleavage, as if it were the cruellest of
gentle whips.
To steer the boat to port or
starboard,
The unmistakeable
look of arousal in the powerfully passionate Camilleona’s
gorgeous sapphire eyes, was matched by the secretions she was salivating down
the pole, the rowlock, the fifteen-inch-long steel spur on which her cunt was spiked, and by which she was impaled to the rear
of the boat she was forced to give emotional motion to, by the use of her
wonderful legs.
The ferociously fearsome fury
of the Italian minx, was so placated by the
ministrations her swimming whilst so impaled on the, and in the, very source of
her saucy passions, that she now smiled mistily and mysteriously. And so much
of the joy Camilleona was enjoying, was from her looking
at, and over, and up, and down, and all around, the superb near naked Seraphima. And Seraphima burned
with the embarrassment of knowing that she was this tortured girl’s
masturbatory totem token. But yet her shy blushes only rushed her clitoris to
moist shining erectness. And she could not help but look at Camilleona
to see if Camilleona had seen that she, Camilleona, was giving she, Seraphima,
a very literal, very hard time in the littoral, with her proboscis clitoris
shooting up and forming a rigidly proud mast in the prow of the boat, hard and
throbbing pleasure-painfully, and ultimately gainfully, as her slice slithered
with her horny-honey. And Seraphima saw the Italian
angel blush with the honour of her wonder causing
such an earthly heavenly upshot. And Seraphima looked
love at Camilleona, as she, Seraphima,
within the deep dark tangled wrangled jungle of her profuse profusion and
confusion of pubic curls, bubbled with joy. And Seraphima
quietly crossed her curvaceous legs and squeezed together hard, her gigantic
thighs: thighs wrapped in wreaths formed from her plaited pubic hair: wreaths
awarded for her thighs’ winning winsome wonder…..wrapped her wreathed and
pubic-hair-gartered thighs hard together, and sighed as she almost silently
secretly came, secreted a moist spurt that hurt, and came a second time again.
As Seraphima
avoided Camilleona’s look of love and lust and pride
that she had made her mistress cum inside outside, a long pregnant pause
followed.
“Are you glad you’ve now
come twice on your birthday, my angel?” the innocent
“It was…. It is just wonderful
my love”, Seraphima answered after a pause:
responding with her head lowered in completely inappropriate and misplaced
disgrace and opprobrium, at what she had just done, in having open-air orgasmic
cums, enjoying Camilleona’s
enduring her still enduring torture.
[to
be continued]
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