|Gai-Shift - Thermocline|
|© Copyright 2012 - Rohana - Used by permission|
|Storycodes: F+/f+; captives; bond; rope; gag; susp; outdoors; toys; insert; tease; torment; climax; reluct; X||
|Gai-Shift - Thermocline Chapter 5: A Fire on the Sea Rohana F+/f+; captives; bond; rope; gag; susp; outdoors; toys; insert; tease; torment; climax; reluct; X|
Chapter 5: A Fire on the Sea
Van sighed as she sat on the Kraken's curved hull, watching a huge slick of lubricating oil slowly drift away from the dock, slipping out of the pine-shrouded fjord for the open sea.
Idly she crossed her bare feet, the cool wind ruffling her cotton slave shift, a leather strap with a metal ring secure around her throat. She listened as the crew worked below, overhauling the Kraken at her directions, reseating its rivets, purging its oil lines, giving it the overhaul it'd long needed. Even as a slave to these brash lusty women, Van had quickly proven her worth in the five days she'd been at their craggy base. Unlike other captives who scrubbed pots, warmed beds and provided whatever pleasures their overlords demanded, she'd found her way back to what she loved. Her grease-smudged nose confirmed it.
She hadn't seen her boss, Petunia Goldwaith, for days. Her Ladyship had been sealed up in the chieftain's low hut since they'd landed. At night, warbling cries would lift from its smoke-hole but who issued them was impossible to say.
She sighed again, the wind stirring her brassy pageboy hair. Without passion she pulled a mark 42 multi-stage dildo from her toolbox. She unscrewed the top, revealing the interior clockwork. From the same toolbox she then fetched a glass jar of flint shards she'd carefully collected from the community's blacksmith; these she upended into the maw of the sex toy. Once it was half full, she screwed the vibrator back together and wound it up. On its butt end were several switches; she selected the three-hour time delay, perfect for thrusting into your rope-bundled captive, to leave them mewing in consternation was the timer slowly ran towards ecstasy. And lastly, with no more interest then one would show some routine chore, she pushed the phallic device into a cork fishing float and threw it out into the little harbor. Her blue eyes watched as the strange shape floated around the headland and was gone.
Suddenly the Kraken fired up, rumbling with a new-found power. She smiled to herself, sensing the pure mechanical harmonics through her thinly-garbed buttocks. Below the crew cheered at their success. Van smiled again, truer this time. She enjoyed helping these wild girls tune their submersible to a fine mechanized pitch. But how could one find happiness in this rocky inlet when one had lived in London, with its hustle and bustle, its bindings and twineings? There were airships and rickshaws and steam omnibuses and steam-powered paddle-banks and take-away slavemarts. And under it all lay the Pit with the hopes all women had of falling into it (Van more for technical interests). But here, outside of the Kraken, it was pretty much stone-age. Sigh.
Then Van became aware of a presence and looked about. Three Viking lasses who'd finished their work below stood around her, their flesh steaming in the late afternoon air, topless, their young breasts bold, their hips cocked, their blue eyes measuring.
“You have honored us, slave-Van,” their leader, a girl barely older than Van herself. “You shall be rewarded.”
“No need for that,” Van shrugged. It didn't play, of course, because in the Gai-Shift world, rewards tended to benefit all parties. She made an effort to struggle but the three were wire strong, having spent their youthful lives tussling and trussing their sisters and girlfriends, wild Norse games that resulted in long moaning hours of contemplative limb-cramping bondage. Van, tomboy that she was, still gave them no contest. In less time than it takes to write, she found herself locked up in the tight coils of their sweaty arms, a strong hand clapped over her lips, being carried down the dock, up the path, into the woods.
The only one to note the egress was Petra. However, hanging by her heels from a cross-brace, her strong body looped with bands cut from Sjefke canvas which tightened around her like fingers of rabid cupids, there was nothing she could do save moan.
Carried deep into the woods, Van's blue eyes grew wide when they entered the clearing. Of course there was a huge log, four stakes driven into the ground about it, two per side. No doubt her “reward” for her efforts had been determined long before she'd earned it. With little travail, the three pulled away her shift and wrapped it around her lower face, a handy gag pungent with her personal tang of sweat and engine oil. Warbling protests, she was forced to lie along the long bark hide, its broad trunk to supporting her back, its unyielding surface gently parting her buttocks like an insistent lover's knee.
While one beaming girl sat on her belly, pinning her fast (and leaving a moist spot when she finally rose), the others pulled her hands over her head and down to either side of the log, binding them to stout pegs. Her ankles were similarly captured and similarly bound. This left her face up, bowed like a ship's figurehead, invitingly spread. The three looked down at her, muttering ideas to themselves. Around them the forest fell still as if hungrily watching the delicious dilemma.
Van felt her own passions rise in mixed confusion at the situation. She was fearfully expectant of what the trio might do to her, a concern that quickened her sexual pulse and stood the traitorous nipples atop her modest breasts to observable attention. But it would be perfect, Perfect, PERFECT if she were a manni.
She'd love to wiggle in her rough ropes as these brutish imps worked out their cruel plans for her. She'd love to feel her meat shaft slowly swell, standing for their delight and misuse. It was her fantasy, her deepest fantasy, to be raped as a manni, to be used not with the gentle respect that women granted other women they dominated but the dehumanizing possessiveness women inflicted men they'd snared. They were used and used utterly. To be a man, to fall into this world where women tied tight, tied hard, and drank deep from the wellspring of sexual rapine, that would be heaven to the tauntly-tied tomboy.
But tied wide, she could only watch as the three settled like woodland fairies around her, two of them gently seating puckering lips over her nipples, the third settling between her parted, pinioned legs. As one, they began to slowly suck and gnaw.
“Mfffph!” Van protested, her hips rising which only helped her lower assailant. These girls had been schooled by their mothers in the proper method of prisoner torment. Countless wandering nuns and captives of raids had found themselves similarly stripped and bound, a living biology lesson for these wayward girls to practice their Viking arts upon. And now Van received their full attention, her breath coming fast over her gag, her eyes dilating, her blood pounding like the Kraken's pumps. She moaned, the cords creaking around their anchoring pegs and she pulled in frustrated rapture. And on it went, and on, until she was screaming into her soaked shift, her back and buttocks raw from the bark, her emotions chafed from the sweet tongues and nipping teeth that deviled her. When she came, it threw her up against the vault of heaven, her three tormentors also climaxing and synchronized rapture.
On a nearby path Captain Hallerna smiled sweetly, as did her trussed and leashed Petunia. Both women were sex-mussed; the Viking's robe was on inside out and Petunia's exposed flesh rope-marked in the most interesting patterns. One had to get a little walk in between bouts of depravity.
“Aren't they sweet,” the Viking chieftain sighed.
“I'm glad Van's found some playmates,” Petunia agreed.
With spirit refreshed and interest renewed, the two continued down the path towards the low longhouse, the captive bumping up against her captor in eager haste.
The sun was long when Van limped back into camp, her short hair jutting as if electrically charged, her shift damp and tooth-marked. She stumbled into to hut she'd been assigned, collapsing into a chair, her bare feet (with their rope-marked ankles) thrust wide before her as if to allow her sex to exhaust heat.
“Well, looks like you had a nice day,” a melodious voice smoked out of the darkness.
“None of your business.”
“Be a sweet little girl and let your hutmate loose, wouldn't you?”
Van huffed a bitter laugh. “Not a chance, Sasha. You stay just how you are.”
Fortunately for our eager readers, at that moment the setting sun came in through the low window, illuminating the scene we all wanted to see. Sitting with her back to a beam, aligned on a perpendicular bench reclined a woman of remarkable beauty (and with talent running from Barbette and Megan to Lady Goldwaith and Contessa Anna Oblonsky, that's saying a lot). She had a wide sensuous face with full pouting lips, long-lashed eyes, and a nose so long and straight it could pry into anything. Her hair, brilliantly scarlet, fell over her bronzed shoulders like a lava flow. Her body was a stimulating irony of lush curvature and hard flesh, captured beneath her loose slave shift, further captured beneath the ropes that locked her arms behind her and her belly to the beam.
But even captured, she still tried to allure, stretching her amazing legs along the bench, trying to draw in the tomboy engineer as a flytrap would a fly.
Sasha the witch had come to this beam, these ropes, and this shift-rucked poise via a circuitous route. Captured by pirates on the night her coven-coup attempt had failed, she'd been traded and retraded among less-than-reputable crews of the North Sea. After she'd come aboard, strange stories circulated, dark stories of dark cabins, strange transformations and odder outcomes. Within a week or two, her sex-weary captors, confused and tapped out, would trade her away. Thus she'd come to the Vikings, whose hearty sexual appetites and healthy interest in the unconventional and unnatural made them loath to pass her along.
“Not a chance, Sasha,” Van smiled, sorting through her ropes, her quick mind at work. “If I let you loose you'll be all over me like that first night. You won't leave me alone. You won't let me sleep. I had to tuck you in with your blanket, nice and tight, to get some rest.”
“There I was, all a-tremble beneath that tight blanket, so tight my nipples stood hard and twistable, and you didn't take advantage,” Sasha recounted. “If the roles had been reversed I'd have dialed you silly.”
“But they weren't. And they won't be. The Vikings know I'm valuable to them. They know I can fix things. But I can't fix things if I'm fagged out from being locked in your legs all night. That's why they agreed to keep you bound up at night, so I'm sharp and safe.”
“I'm sharp,” Sasha cooed, raising her hips invitingly. “Not too safe though.”
Van took two ropes, joining their middles with a sharp knot. “No thanks. I just went three hours with three vixens. I'm too pooped to pop.”
The post-bound woman drew up a long leg. “I could make you pop, sweetmeat. I could use a little magic and show you something about yourself you didn't even know. You might even enjoy it.”
“Let me use engineering and show you something you don't know,” Van responded. Stepping forward, she slipped the ropes behind Sasha's eager hips. Two of the ends of the rope were looped around the slender waist, knotting them above her belly button. Then, with the same gentleness she used to back off tight screws, Van pulled the two other ends down so they ran through the witch's hard buttocks. With her shift high over her hips, Sasha could only watch, chewing her full lip in wonder as Van pulled her twin ropes up and around between her legs. When the knot snuggled into the redhead's moistening vulva she gasped, an exhilaration of sexual declaration.
“Oh, Van, what are you doing?”
“It's simple engineering,” the tomboy responded as she separated the two ropes and passed them around Sasha's hips. “A classic study of leverage...” she joined the two lines behind the post, pulling it taunt, “and tension.” Sasha squeaked. With the knot settled hard into her sobbing pussy, poised in a cradle that tormented her with every minute tremble, Sasha hung in mind-blowing stimulation. With her head lulled back, she pushed and thrust, grinding the corded hardpoint ever deeper into her body. Yet it simply wasn't enough to tip her; she dangled in arousal just short of climax, unable to conclude, impossible to dislodge. Her gravelly moans were cut off by the cloth gag Van hauled between her lips, muting the long-suffering girl in preparation to her nocturnal vigil.
It was growing dark in the little hut as night fell. Van did not light a candle, content to lay on her cot, a finger toying with her neck-band's slave ring. In the darkness rasped Sasha's labored breathing, the witch unable to find enough comfort or discomfort to set her off. The little engineer wondered about her mistress Petunia, concerned for her Ladyship's well-being. With luck, she only had to hold out until tomorrow. With luck...
=< O >=
Captain Zana Hoffsteder stood behind the wheel she'd had the discomfort to be bound to, her eyes ringed beneath her clip-on glasses, her leather airship suit hiding her rope burns. The spent Marlybone Lancers had been returned to their rack. The crew, worn as coach-horses, clung to their stations.
The world beyond the bridge windows was dark, the stars shimmering faintly over the waters of the Skagerrak, the crags of Norway a hint in the gloom.
They couldn't return to London, not without Lady Goldwaith. If they did it would be the tower for them. That would be worse than the lancers. Well, comparable, perhaps.
Suddenly a brilliant light flared below, a pool of molten gold.
“A fire,” the watch officer called. “A fire on the sea.”
“What the hell,” muttered Hoffsteder, easing the Unbound Pleasure closer to investigate...
To be concluded. No, really.
|concludes in Chapter 6: Release the Lancers 2.0
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|world of the Gai-Shift : bound stories|