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Chapter 18: Mosi's Downfall
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
Thirty days beyond the season of rains
I am Pili. I sit on my narrow lonely bed in my narrow, lonely room, Sister's diary on my lap. I read her words. I read her thoughts. I read of the temple of Astarte, of Mother Superior. I read of her intentions of forming a convent in Africa where women would be bound to their beds, rattling in their lusts and they are endlessly serviced through the long sultry nights.
I am falling in love.
Below me, the machines rumble as the seven girls ride their oscillations of frustration, their sexual juices turning flawed diamonds into perfect ones. I am not needed there. Jumbe works the controls. Mosi swaps the diamonds in and out. The below-god is silent, evidently pleased with production levels.
I look at Sister's tight handwriting, so controlled, so cautious. I read her words of bondage, of keeping women helpless in her bed, of cuddling and fondling them through the night, of producing one vast orgasm (rather than a series of meaningless ones). I dream of her hand warm on my shoulder, her ropes snug on my wrists, my clothing gone, her bed waiting, covers invitingly folded down. “Get in,” her phantasmal voice tells me. “Get in. Let us lay together for the glory of Astarte.”
I rub myself, dreaming of her.
Finally I cannot help myself – I must see her. There is a narrow accessway between clicking, clattering machines, a slot beneath Jumbe's notice and beyond Mosi's girth. I turn sideways and edge in, the cold metal flicking my titties, making me hiss like a little wild animal.
I am so horny.
I slither down the torturous slot, eventually emerging from a shadowy pocket in the corner of the room where the captives recline. They have been canted backwards, their heads supported by the gagband-headrests, their heads unhooded, for occasionally we allow them social time to murmur amongst themselves. I squat in the gloom and savor glum little Sister who slumps in her tight leather, grimly awaiting the time when the straps will tighten around her, the gag band will snap about her head, her heels will be drawn up against her ass, when she'll be pile-driven into her well-worn diamond stand.
So precious.
Teak Merrywell, the thief, seems somewhat active tonight. Her cuff-shackled legs mill. She grunts and thrusts. The leather creaks before her twisting. What is she trying to achieve?
A moment later, I find out.
“Bloody got it,” she cackles. There is a click and then, like the maw of some leathery plant, the band-sheath unfolds, her pink and sweaty body reclining in free-limbed spender. With a saucy little laugh, she reaches down and uncuffs her feet, tossing back the lank of hair which has tickled her nose for days. A comical grimace as she pulls the waste tube out, throwing it aside. Then she tucks an ankle beneath her buttocks, rises up and stretches, a sinuous convulsion, a bliss for muscles held so tightly for so long. Beneath her mop of dirty-gold hair, her apple-round face beams a smile.
“Teak,” Kate blurts, her eyes wide at her companion's freedom. “You got loose!”
“You noticed? I had a little lockpick hidden away. It took a bit of bloody wiggling to get it into position, but I finally located the catch and sprung myself.”
“Good! Now you can free us!”
But before she can, there comes the heavy tread from the stairwell. Mosi! Mosi is coming to feed our beauties, place their diamond stands and drive them mad.
Teak slips against the wall like a shadow, snatching ropes off a hook, her eyes gleaming, as naked and deadly as a panther.
I could shout a warming, let my tribal sister know the danger awaiting her at the bottom of the stairs. But the only sound I make is the faint pencil-scratching as I write these events down, dutifully recording.
Mosi is bigger and stronger than I and has forced me into bondage more times that I dare to remember. Thus it is fascinating to see Teak swarm over her, easily locking up my friend's limbs, forcing her to the floor, cording her wrists palm to palm, binding up her feet. Teak hums a jaunty little tune as she works, happy to be on the tightening-side of the knots. Mosi would have cried out but Teak was ahead of her, tearing off a strip of her victim's hemline, jamming it between her teeth, binding it so tight Mosi's broad cheeks bulge. I watch in rapt fascination as the agile girl binds my tribe-mate up, a cord hauling her pink-bottomed feet up to her straining hands, bowing her into a butterball hogtie. Mosi grunts in discomfort, looking back over her broad shoulder with fire in her eyes.
Teak takes that as a challenge.
A moment later, fingers are playing across Mosi's broad feet, fingers that know how to torture women. I've read of this Teak Merrywell in Sister's book, how she was a 'purse snatcher', how she would tie women up and molest them until they would weepingly sign a ransom-release. And for those who sexual distraction wasn't enough, there was ticking, terrible, invasive, dancing, scream-wrenching tickling that sweeps down Mosi's broad soles, tracking across her arches, advantaging every weakness of her feet. I can only sit in my shadows biting Sister's pencil, moaning quietly as I watch Mosi dominated by this pale grinning spirit. Whatever mercy Mosi might beg for is lost on the thief – I can see the red marks raised by the sheath of the extraction machines, the crosshatching of buckles and belts and skin-tight leather. Teak has lain in absolute bondage, rammed onto diamond stands for long teeth-clenching, orgasm-denying hours. Now it is her turn and she is taking her time, delighting in her prisoner's agony. Her cruel face is subdivided by the lank of auburn hair.
The other girls, those still strapped into uneasy reclines in their sheaths, silently watch the sensational assault down the length of their trapped bodies. Mosi's sobs speak for us all. I find myself near to shuddering, taken by the sight of my rotund friend suffering torments I'd long wished to deliver on her myself.
Mosi can hardly react now; she's blubbering into the floor, her nose-ring glimmering with snot, her cheeks slick with tears. Teak realizes that she is getting nowhere now – the girl she kneels over is too far gone to respond anymore. The thief cracks a wide smile, gives the broad feet a friendly slap, stands.
“Well done, Teak,” Kate exclaims. “Now free us!”
“Free you?” The woman-sprite laughs, slowly walking up down down the line of wrapped up women like a general reviewing her troops. “Don't you remember Petunia making a maid's toy of me? Don't you remember the long nights I lay in their bloody possession, roped and toyed and teased until I could only cream and scream? Or when I lay in on that hot deck, wrapped in that bloody canvas that tightened and tightened around me. And how, while I was so wrapped, little sister Annie here racked my rug until I nearly passed out? Remember all that? I sure do.”
“But you can't...”
“Can't what? Leave you to be used like human oil-drilling machines, rising and following on your lust-warm stones? Leave you to bloody sob for orgasms that just won't cum? Leave you to be used and used until you don't have another drop of sex and grunt of climax left?” She smiled an elfin smile, tossing her lingering forelock from between her eyes. “Bloody right I will!”
“But...” Kate looked to her aunt. “Petunia, stop her!”
The shapely blonde sadly smiled, chin-gesturing to her own collections of sheath and straps. There was nothing any of them could do.
Meanwhile, Teak was seeing to her own needs, depriving Mosi of her colorful wrap, hanging the robe across her own slender body. The result is stunning – her strong, compact torso causes the long folds of blue to cascade in heavenly ways, her burnished hair in sharp contrast to the cloth's natural hue. She looked like a spiteful nymph-goddess come to earth.
I am quite conscious of the fact that had I descended the stairwell rather than my hidden way, I might now be laying on the floor, my tormented and tingling feet cocked neatly back, stripped and sobbing and naked before my beloved Sister. And now Teak would be standing over me, wearing my own emerald-green dress, laughing over my vanquished state.
I collect my knees and set the dairy atop them, carefully writing this, my mind fixed on the sensational imagery of such a reduction. If only it had been me...
Now dressed, Teak crosses to the cupboard, flings it open. Her face lights with gaudy reflections. “Bloody yes!” she laughs. “Finally I'm big-time!”
It is the diamonds she has found, those perfect carbon-aligned diamonds. She shovels handfuls of them into her robe. Across from her, the other girls watch from their strapped-down repose, seeing their labor of sweat (well, other fluids, really) being carried off.
And now, garbed in her native dress, pockets bulging with diamonds, beautiful Teak Merrywell bows for her captive audience. “I'll see you ladies around Trafalgar Square, eh?” And then she is gone with scarcely a rustle, vanishing up the stairs, out the hidden way, across the fields. She is gone.
The other women look to each other. “You know,” Petunia say optimistically, “she was very adamant about learning how each of us were taken. I think she was planning out her escape route for some time. She might well win clear.”
“If I ever catch her,” Kate fumes, “I'll tie her up like a big ball of yarn and let give her a float spell that will keep her aloft for days. Then I'll take her outdoors at let her go. She'll drift across the night sky, her body mummified in ropes, her bare feet milling in the cool air, her mouth rope-gagged. Yeah, let's see her escape from 5000 feet! And I'll plan it so she comes down somewhere inhospitable. Maybe rural China! I'm sure oriental farm girls would find it amusing to have such a toy.”
Mosi, meanwhile, grunts and heaves on her ropes, unable to escape. The sight of her fleshy nude body twisting and heaving, her bare feet milling, is quite stimulating. I find myself using the end of the pencil to pleasure myself, biting the diary lest my moans alert the processor-girls of my voyeuristic presence.
Time passes. At one point, Sister pushes out a pale little foot, to rub it tenderly along Mosi's broad cheek, a comfort. The image is so erotic I find myself swaying, my blood boiling. If that had been me, I'd have sniffed and snuffled Sister's perfect foot, savoring the contact, partners in bondage. But goddess Astarte, who I am coming to believe in, must have other plans for me.
Sounds of angry feet on the stairway and Jumbe flairs in, eyes flashing, taking in the motionless girls (they should be bobbing on their rocks) and bound Mosi (who should be bobbing them). She frowns and yells, “Pili!!!”
I slip along the wall – did the others see me? – sidling up behind the noblewoman.
“Here, mistress.”
She doesn't even turn. “Untie Mosi.”
I nod and scurry forward to do her bidding. I can only describe in past-tense (I am now back at Jumbe's side, Mosi rising, naked, rubbing her raw wrists) how much I enjoyed Mosi's bondage. She'd been tied so well. How darling her impotent, bound fists had been. How her broad feet paddled in helplessness. I took my time picking at each knot, prolonging her captivity, making her wait for her freedom. I was in no rush. Had I had my way, I'd have rolled her back and forth, marveling in the perfection that was 'Mosi, Captive'.
Jumbe reaches past me, tossing a lever down.
Teak's padded sheath, empty following her escape, cranks open like the maw of some ravenous creature, projecting forward on its boom. In a swift motion, it snatches up Mosi, locking around her. With a whir, its straps draw tight, arching her back, projecting her generous breasts, seating about her snatch. As it snugs up, my friend struggles and whines. Jumbe watches with hard amusement. Now fully secured, the boom retracts, placing my demoted companion between Kate and Chespeake.
Without requiring instruction, I step forward, stooping to buckle the cuffs around my friend's thick ankles. As I do this, she begs down to me.
“No, Pili, no. Don't feed me the soup. Don't thrust me over a stone.”
I walk past Jumbe, back to the cupboard where the ever-heated soup waits. In moments I will pick up the spoon and pot, cross to this line of hard-buckled women and force this stew into them. I can imagine Mosi's pleas as I ram the spoon into her mouth, forcing the passion-enhancer into her. But what puts a tremble into my fingers is the thought of Sister. Soon I shall face her. Soon I shall feed her. And soon I will place the diamond stand between her perfect legs, step back, and let my mistress throw that final lever.
I set the diary down.
12.08.11
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 19: Pili to the rescue
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