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Chapter 3: Baroness Manchester's Device
Barbette stumbled along the darkened hall, her arms lassoed to her sides, the leads gripped by three apologetic maids. What protests she might have voiced were efficiently plugged by the bright red ball gag. The cotton slip that barely concealed her slender body had ridden up on the lowest coil, revealing her left buttock and exposing her heated mound.
Her indecent state would have been shameful had she not been so very aroused. The cotton cloth, drawn close over her breasts by a pinning coil, clearly showed her out-thrust nipples. Her face was flushed, her nostrils flaring, her eyes as wild as an unbroken mare's. Her fingers milled, seeking any purchase that might avail her.
She'd worked herself into this state playing with a manni back in her room, pursing and tormenting the poor male until they'd both heated to incandescence. Then, at the moment she'd had him literally cornered, ready to grip him with her nailed fingers, to thrust him down to the floor, toss a long leg over him and ride him until they were both spent, had come the rude interruption. Answering the door in a foggy state, she'd been roped, gagged, and hauled away. It was so very unfair!
The girls who triangleized her in their leads had not volunteered any information. They'd only said that Lady M___, mistress of the estate, had ordered it. Barbette pondered this, wondering what would cause her patron to order her roped up and dragged off into the night. Her work had been beyond approach.
Lady Goldwaith?
Could the golden-haired scientist have escaped?
Barbette had been involved in her binding this evening, roping up the dizzy intellectual for a night's isolation, fitting punishment for her abysmal showing at cards. Such punishment was routine, almost a tradition. So could her Ladyship have somehow wiggled free?
Barbette found that impossible. She'd been binding men and women all her life, from her brother back in Gascony to the maids and mannis of Lady M___'s estate. She was proud of her ropework; Goldwaith's hogtie had been absolute. There could be no way the shapely little woman could have escaped.
The only other thing it could have been was the manni who'd discharged while mounted in his wall-slot, waiting for his guest. One of the maids, Jillian, had played with him a little too intensely, triggering a premature discharge. But that was a somewhat common occurrence in the manor and the event had been dealt with the usual fashion. Jillian had been stripped, bound, and left on the dusty floor of the barn, a plaything for her fellow maids. The manni (as a reward of sorts) had been placed in the care of one of the maids for tender downstairs loving. Glenda had taken charge of him, and was even now playing her little mothering games on her trussed, helpless 'baby'. Again, a typical occurrence.
Nothing she could imagine could warrant Lady M___'s displeasure.
And then things got even more confusing. Rather than turning left at the juncture of the hall, in which direction the Mistress's room lay, she was bustled across the hall and through a hidden door into the narrow passageways that ran between the rooms of the estate. Her captors picked up their speed, their heals clicking on the flagstones.
To either side, like perverse forms of art, manni's hung buckled face-first against the walls. Straps pinned their arms to their sides and feet together, even locking their toes down, pinning them in absolute immobility. Ball gags much like her own enforced their silence.
And even though they were trapped, many of the mannis writhed in their belts. They moaned and shuddered and shook. For she knew that the only physical part of mannis that made them unique and, frankly, useful jutted through holes into the rooms beyond. There the guests licked and thrust and panted their evenings away, enjoying the charms of mannis without having to endure their actual presence.
Were her captives carrying her through to Lady M___'s room via the back corridors? What other reason would they have for bringing her this way?
"Here," one of the girls noted, drawing the party to a halt. Barbette looked about in a daze, dark eyes darting about the empty passageway. Nothing. She watched in confusion as one of the girls unstopped an access-hole from amidst a hanging series of straps. A step-box was kicked into position. Then, without a word, three sets of feminine hands pressed Barbette forward, forcing her upon the step, to face the wall. Her slip was ripped away, more work for the estate's tailor. A moment later, straps hissed around her body, pressing her breasts into the cold wall. Each buckle drew her ever closer, crushing her, making it so difficult to breath. She placed a cheek against the rough wood, closing her eyes, waiting to see what fate the women were consigning her to.
Two final straps locked down beneath her buttocks, working to hold her in place. But down along her legs, all the lower straps had been left undisturbed. Before she could come to any conclusions, the box was shoved clear. With a creaking of belts, she settled into her bondage, legs dangling, toes clear of the cold floor.
Then fingers fluttered around her ankle. She felt the cool embrace of a cuff seating home, its buckles locking it down. Firm female hands raised her leg up along the wall, brining it out until it was parallel to the floor. Barbette gasped, thankful for her limberness.
With an apologetic smile, the girls hooked her ankle-cuff to a shiny new hook-bolt, locking her leg high against the wall.
She gasped, struggling, and tried to kick when she felt the second cuff trap her other leg. They couldn't! No! But the girls did. The three of them gripped her leg tightly, raising it up and locking it in similar fashion. Now poor Barbette lay pinned against the wall, her legs up at right angles to her torso. The stress on her hips, the tightness of the belts, and the ball gag made it nearly impossible to breath. She could only hang in her straps, whimpering for mercy. Yet the only mercy she received was a pat upon her quivering butt and a sisterly kiss on her cheek. The three girls then left, disappearing into the darkness.
Barbette hung in her pain, wondering why this had come to pass. From the dark corridors around her came the muffled moans and grunts of the mannis servicing their hidden mistresses. It was almost as if she'd been locked into some dank dungeon, doomed and abandoned.
Discomfort ate at her confusion. Slowly she felt her reason return. She allowed her mind to retrace her stumbling steps, charting her position within the walls. Unless she missed her guess, she figured herself hanging on the wall of the Olive Room. There was no difference between that room and any other. She'd personally seen it made up and noted that the manni had stood by, ready for use. These girls must have already taken the fellow down and carried him off somewhere. But what of the guest who would be expecting her after-hours treat? No fleshy manni member would jut from the wall, merely her framed little box. What would the woman think?
Her dark eyes flashed open. The straps creaked across her back as she tried to thrust away. Far to the sides, her toes wiggled desperately. Non! Non! They wouldn't do that!
The Olive Room had been consigned to Baroness Manchester!
A moment later, something brushed against her pussy which lay framed and exposed to the room beyond. Long, strong female fingers explored her with frank interest. She screwed her eyes shut, her hands forming into fists, and tried to pull herself away from the wall and the threat it contained. Furthermore, she willed herself to not be excited nor to show any interest in the unwelcome advance but in this she failed. The Baroness' touch excited her, bringing forth her body's natural lubricants. Her nipples stiffened against the hard wall. She didn't want it, not in this derogatory manner. But to the Baroness, it mattered not. The fingers twisted and traced, dragging her wetness over her lips and around her mound, bathing her in her own juices.
And then, through the plaster and wood of the wall, she heard the faint whine of pneumonoics cycling up.
She tried a final time to lever herself away from the coming assault, the buckles straining to control her quaking muscles. But this, like every attempt before it, failed. She was just as open as she'd always been.
The hard rubber tip of the artificial penis nudged up against her lips, bringing a low moan of despair to her throat. In the other room, the Baroness rotated her hips with practiced motions, slowly working the swelling ram deeper and deeper into her unseen recipient. Given the clever manner in which the deployable dildo anchored into her, she delighted in the feedback from her deepening thrusts. She would not find herself limited by actually witnessing the angry and frightened face of the maid she was assaulting. In fact, it might not have made a difference if she had.
A final weighty press shoved the shaft deep within the writhing maid; her eyes broke open in surprise at the sensation. While the part of her that held her pride smarted at this rough treatment, her sensuous side grew more and more pleasured at the thing that thundered within her. At her sides, her balled fists opened, the fingers wavering blindly. Her long slender feet arched back, toes pointed. Her body turned against her mind, locking it away in a tiny little box, and allowed itself to savor the moment.
The baroness began to thrust forward and up, driving Barbette high into her straps, rising her on violent concussions of lust. She bounced on the rubber post like a ball on a paddle, grunting into her gag at every impact. Her nipples rubbed against the hard wood, a bliss of frustration. If only Jillian where there to pinch them, or to stick a long finger into her anus, or tickle her feet. Such would be heaven. Such would be...
She could think no longer. She was a mindless beast, crying into the swollen mouth ball, bulging against the straps, pinned wide and open and free. The baroness, in a similar state, made a final run to climax, thrusting, thrusting. And then, standing on tiptoes, she shoved upwards, pausing, pausing.
Barbette shuddered and shook, banging her head against the wall without feeling the pain, her orgasm long and twisting. She pressed down so hard and so firmly, she felt like she was trying to lay an egg. A moment later came the trailing disruption of the penis falling away; the baroness had tumbled to the floor of her room. Without the support afforded by tightly belted strapping, there had been nothing to keep her from her blissful collapse.
Whenever Barbette had truly passionate sex (which, to her credit, was often) it would be followed by dark, twisted fantasies. Hanging limply in her straps, gasping through her nose, her mind played its usual tricks. She imagined a manni hanging over her bed in a web of ropes, wrapped head to toe in excruciatingly tight bonds. His throbbing member she would take into her hand like a luxuriating Greek goddess would an offered cluster of grapes. She would torment him with her tongue, delighting in the metallic taste of him as he throbbed towards ejaculation. How she would squeeze and twist him.
Or there might be four of her fellow maids, bound as tightly as cordwood, each physically mounted upon a bedpost knob. The bed soared through the sky, with her in its center, laughing so huskily at the impaled women to each quarter. They would be hers to do with whatever she pleased.
An image of Lady Petunia Goldwaith materialized, one in which her ladyship was bound as she was against the wall, but round perfect buttocks hanging out so invitingly. And there Barbette would stand, a crop of hardened leather in her hand, smiling so certainly at her frightened target. How pleasant it would be to linger, to trace each cheek with the tip of the crop, the rounded flesh so pliable, pink, and unmarked.
The afterglow was fading. Now the straps where becoming bands of pain across her back. Her legs ached from their contortions. Without sex to distract her, she could only focus on her body and its discomfort. Certainly the girls who had placed her thus would take pity on her and release her.
Besides, Jillian would be bound up in the barn all night. And Barbette was already thinking of that Irish girl, and what she might do to her. She felt need to reestablish her dominant nature. Perhaps a little tickling. Perhaps a little molestation.
The thought of this made her pussy moisten anew.
Which was fortunate, for a moment later, a blunt form pressed against it, parting her lips and forcing its way into her.
Her black eyes blinked in astonishment. Then she remembered; unlike the mannis who she occasionally cavorted with and who, like stallions, needed to be paced, Baroness Manchester's phallic device needed no downtime. Driven by pneumonics, not biology, it was ready to spring into action at the touch of a button. And the baroness, who, like Barbette, had recovered from her recent passion with a desire for more, and done something about it. For there, in the opening in the wall, hung Barbette's mound, ready for use. And the baroness was more than ready.
Barbette rolled her head back, eyes closed, lulling. Even with her strapped buttocks, her hips shuddered from Manchester's enthusiasm. Barbette could only endure what came. With her blood quickening towards climax, she could only wonder how many times the baroness would inflate her device.
She never did find out. Over the long hours of night, she lost count.
20.07.09
story continues in Gai-Shift - Reversal 4: The New Manni
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