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Seraphima Too

(by Eve Adorer)

Synopsis: The original story ?Seraphima? concluded where and when Seraphima had arrived in Ntobi City, the capital of Senabre, a former British colony in southern Africa. When and where her story continues, experience and maturity have added to the manifest manifold charms of the exquisite negress?. Now read on?.

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? Revere the eyes brown, and the eye?s brown.

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 Marina, the epitome of love, after she had ignored the dripping wetness of her wife, Seraphima, and kissed the naked wonder on her god?s own lips with the kiss of two girls long-since mated and married and daily in each other?s company.

The kiss was perfunctory but not unprofound, as wife kissed wife by the poolside found.

?Have you been by the pool all day? Marina smiled, as Marina always but always smiled, for Marina was the smile of love.

?Almost?, Seraphima answered distractedly, as she continued to pat towel dry her pubic tail.

Marina sat showing an appreciable appreciateable expanse of thighs from her miniskirt?s slow rise: ?I?ve taken the afternoon off. After all it is your birthday. I thought we could take a boat out on lovely old Lake Charlotte, just like we did last year on your birthday darling? I?ve got Camilleona lined up to do the oaring, while you and I relax in the sun together for a change.?

The stoppage was infinitesimal. Innocent Marina seemingly didn?t notice that the towel halted its patting dry of the dripping pearls from the hirsute curls of the hair that confirmed Seraphima as the supreme of girls. Nor did she notice Seraphima?s nipples flicker, as the black angel looked up momentarily, and then renewed her concentration on drying her nude body.

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 Marina?s offer of marriage.

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 Marina had examined her thighs, squeezing them to inspect them for acceptable strength to accompany their evident beauty, she had spat out her incandescent anger with Italian phrases it was fortunate that her two would-be buyers had no ken of.

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, Marina had had, more than once, and very severely, to spank Camilleona?s lovely olive-brown-complexioned bottom.

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?, Marina mildly reminded with intoned surprise.

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?.?.

Marina took both the lovely maids pretty hands to calm her.

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?, Marina sighed, as she kissed the hands to calm the feminine eruption?s disruption.

?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 Marina had just now before mentioned Camilleona?s name?

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 Marina and kissed her adorable wife.

?Are you going to wear my birthday present?? Marina called as the lissom Seraphima lithed to the door.

?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 Dry Gulch Valley was an ocean of dust: a drifting shifting gritty red fog.

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 Nub City. Even then it had only been from frustration because Sexy had gotten away.

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 Lake Charlotte, the biggest lake of the inland archipelago that was Senabre, the southern African jewel in which Seraphima had now lived for four lovely loving years with her darling of a darling wife, Marina?..

??????

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, Marina merely pulled the rope tied to the relevant tit, to order Camilleona to use her right leg more than her left, or her left leg more than her right. But otherwise, the two ballooning tits were gently but firmly pulled both together, so as to keep the motor swimming with her swoon-worthy lower limbs, blessing the water with their shear beauty as she therewith and thereby pushed the girl-gondola along.

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 Marina suddenly asked, thus breaking the lapping splashing silence: smiling, just as Marina always smiled, referring of course, to the celebratory boat trips this year and last.

?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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Miracle

• 04.08.2020
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