Devil’s Handmaiden

Devil’s Handmaiden    
                
     Honor your parents but disobey them when Bible College means sharing recipes with your girlfriends because a woman’s cunning is in her broth. As if compulsory Chapel isn’t bad enough she is forbidden to do the Charleston in the shower, much less foxtrot with a boy. Even bathing arias are suspect when she reaches for that note in the sky.                
     She wears her low slung blue jeans for men to confront the undeniable reality of what panties conceal, on her own terms.                
     Her first dress code violation since high school requires an apparel change because immodesty is the devil’s handmaiden who corrupts in the privacy of bedchambers.                
     She rises in the glory of youth with curves mighty enough to conquer Apollo. “I’m such a distraction” are her parting words to the class. A young man admires her with his words, “Look at the poetry of her moons in motion.”                
     She is a walking sonnet fashioned for Saint-Tropez in summer; a poem not found in assigned reading whose dry ink on paper cannot compare to this Botticelli Venus stepped off the canvas. It is too late to close, her Pandoran box of charm.                
     She makes the walk of shame to the Dean’s office. There Ms. Hartman greets her with instructions to immediately go to her dorm room and change into something more modest. “But, Ms. Hartman my wardrobe is all the latest style. I don’t have any clothes to meet this school’s prudish standards.”                
     “Well, then we’ll have to improvise. I have a dress just for such as an occasion as this. With a little adjusting, it should work fine for you. Here it is. Go into the closet and try it on for size.” She doffs her jeans and tries to put on the dress but it is way to oversize for her. So she walks out holding the hem up above her waist with her crotchless panties in full view. Ms. Hartman says, “Those undies leave nothing to the imagination. That just won’t do. But I can fix them for you. Stand right here while I get my sewing kit. Now lift your dress back up above your waist.”              
     The young lady demures. “Shouldn’t I take them off for you to work on them?”              
     “My attendance is required at a faculty meeting so time is of the essence. My first career was as a seamstress so you are in good hands.”
     She trembles at the prospect of the Dean’s fingers touching her secret flower. But she complies so as not to cause anymore uproar. Ms. Hartman uses the fingers of her left hand to hold the slit together while sewing with her right hand. Each tug on her lingerie sends shivers into the young lady from fear of the needle piercing her delicate flower. But the Dean is careful as she binds the fabric to cover the young lady’s indecency.                
     At some points, the young lady feels the steel of the needle press against her but fortunately not the tip which would cause her pain were it to prick her. The cool metal against her fragile flower reminds her of the power the Dean has over her. Just once the head of the needle pokes her but not so much as to cut into her delicate flesh. She starts to quake.                  
     “Stay still young lady. I don’t want to stick you with this thing.”                
     “I’m trying Ms. Hartman. But your tailoring is getting kind of personal. Please finish soon.”                
     Finally, Ms. Hartman fastens off the darn with incidental rubs of the girl’s sweet spot making her gasp for additional tightening of that knot but the Dean says, “There you go. Now we just need a few alterations around your waist and cleavage. Or if you don’t mind wearing a baggy looking gown we could leave it be.”  
     “This looks hideous enough. Please tuck away until my finer points are discreetly accentuated.”