Chapter 4: Bert51
Eventually, after Chief Officer Constance had her fill of tormenting her bound manni, Bert51, with fingers and darting tongue, she removed her muffling hand and allowed her tormented captive to tell his story.
= O =
There is not much to say about my early life. My boyhood in the state manni farm in the country was pleasant. Just days of idyllic work, schooling and play under the watchful eyes of the nannies. Occasionally an older boy would disappear following his monthly physical exam. I thought nothing of it until that day the doctor looked up, my balls cupped in her hand.
"This one's at puberty," she told her assistant. "Ready a set of straps and a shipping box."
And so I was sent to Hemp-House, a finishing school for mannis just outside London. It was odd at first, because there were no bunks for us. I wondered where I was going to sleep while following the milkmaid about who was showing me the grounds. And then I found out.
There was a one-to-one ratio of 'milkmaids' (as they were called) and mannis. The milkmaids were a comely lot, either young girls with flashing eyes and curious hands, or older women who viewed the world (and their manni charges) with an experienced air.
Our days were spent in a variety of ways. Some days we would be in class, learning everything from mathematics to ballroom dancing. Or we might labor in the surrounding fields, seeing to the crops that made Hemp-House self-sufficient. Or we might take a turn stoking the estate's vast boilers, a sweaty milkmaid moving about us, calling for extra efforts, her switch quick to redden a slow boy's buttocks.
And, occasionally, women could 'borrow' us for the day, leading us into the low hills surrounding the estate, to locate a quiet glen in which to bind and utilize us. Many an afternoon have I spent in the harsh embrace of ropes, tree bark rough against my naked back and buttocks, while a milkmaid slipped off her dress, to reveal bloomers and calf-length boots, her beaming face split by a saucy smile. "Now jus' 'old still, my Bert, whist your Nellie climbs aboard..."
But the nights...
As I said, there were no arrangements for us. Rather, when the Hemp-House whistle blew, all mannis and milkmaids would assemble in the central hall. There, the estate's calculating engine would match us up. Your night-partner would drift over to you, her eyes sweeping up and down, deciding what she would do with her overnight 'guest'. And then she would lead you to her apartment, sometimes chatting you up to get to know you, sometimes silent.
It was here I learned that women come in all shapes, sizes, and most important, temperaments.
The standing rule was that mannis had to be bound for the night. There were no guidelines (outside of abuse that left marks) as to what could be done to us. In some cases (generally with the younger and more inexperienced milkmaids), I would be bound nice and tight, right out of the milkmaid handbook on ropes and knots, and tucked into bed with my mistress. Usually they would hold me, hug me, or wrap their slender limbs around me. Often they would talk about dreams and other girlish things. They might bestow kisses in the moonlight, or maybe a bit of tickle-n-slap beneath the covers. In all cases, I would lay bound within their embrace, their toy for the night.
The older maids (and the more-daring younger ones) would take total advantage of me. The would bind me wide open to their bed, their eyes flashing in hunger as they tugged the ropes fast. A drifting feminine hand would dally across my privates. Then the gas light would be extinguished and there could come the rustle of cloth as they lifted their nightgown, slipping aboard with a minimum of fuss. How often have I heard that desperate whisper of womanhood begging me to greater efforts, heated hands gripping my bound shoulders, legs folded along my sides, flesh clinched around me like a hot wet fist.
And then there were the dark ones, the women who saw a captured manni as a cat might a toy. They always gagged me, lest my cries brought the ward mistress upon them. They would secure me for the night, perhaps to a chair or hanging from a beam. Then out would come the clamps, the clips, the plugs, and the tiny cruel whips. Long hours would pass as I hung in my discomfort, while my maid lounged upon her cot, her nightgown in disarray, playing with herself while her eyes feasted on my torment.
Why do you smile so, Mistress? Ouch... Forgive me. I shall continue....
Lastly, there were the tired maids. They might have worked hard labors that day, or faced long and difficult hours. They may have already sated their lusts on a manni earlier that day. Or they just weren't in the mood. Either way, their interests were distant. Usually I would arrive in their cell and they would gesture to a chair or the floor. They would knot my bonds tight with detachment, making sure I couldn't move, couldn't speak, and couldn't disturb. In their ropes, I would become a piece of furniture, something they would step over as they readied themselves for bed, something to be forgotten until morning. Often this was the worst, their disinterest a fuel to my own fires. To be abandoned on the floor, roped and gagged, while a comely woman slumbered in her nearby bed, was the absolute in frustration.
Eventually I completed my time in Hemp-House and graduated to the world at large. I was retained on Lady M___'s estate. Her house had all the latest technologies. Each guest room had complete steam and gas hookups. Each had its own pneumatic message tubes, all connecting to the estate's wireless room. But one of her guests pointed out one amenity the rooms lacked, and Lady M___ saw immediately to its correction. This is where my fellow mannis and I came in.
In the mornings, we would be put to work around the estate, doing the minor chores. In the afternoon, we would be bathed and fed. And then the maids would lead us, one manni at a time, down the hidden passages within the walls of the estate. Once I arrived near the room I was to provide service for, the maids would slide a box against the wall and force me to stand upon it, facing the wall. On the wall to either side were mounted all manner of straps which the girls would buckle about my body, pulling them so tight (often by bracing their small booted feet against my flesh) that I felt as if I were cemented to the wall. Then the box was pulled away, and the last straps, small ones, captured my big toes. A thick ball gag would be pressed between my lips and buckled fast. In the end, I would hang in my web of belting, trapped, helpless, unable to move.
Did I mention the hole in the wall? The one they slipped my privates through? I did not? Forgive me.
And so I would hang, the hole so tight around my root, my member slowly swelling in the cool air of the unseen bedroom. From the darkness around me I could hear the hiss of straps and the giggle of the maids as other mannis were buckled into place. As the afternoon grew late, the hidden passages would grow silent but for the low moan of the hanging mannis.
And you can imagine the delight of a guest upon entering her room for the night. There on a wall, along with all the other creature comforts, would be an important piece of male architecture, ready and waiting for immediate use. They could ignore it, touch it, pinch it, or even hang clothing on it. I have felt so many things done to me on the far side of that wall. Of course, specially-built tall stools allowed a woman to take full advantage of it. I'd hear that scarp of that familiar furniture and the distant whisper of clothing being shifted, then the warm touch of coaxing, exploring hands, the brush of a nyloned thigh, and the guiding press of fingers slipping me into a moist, warm embrace...
How many times a night? Sometimes, as I said, they would not use me at all. Often they would ride me before bed. Occasionally, the guest would rise in the middle of the night, coaxing me into position and slipping me in for a little nocturnal jaunt. And then there were women of amazing appetites, who would bar their door and ride, pinch, lick, sniff, and fondle me to wild abandon over the long hours.
And yes, I became quite proficient at sleeping in a strapped upright position.
I think the worst of it came, not from the guests, but from Lady M___'s maids. Often they would liven up their own dull afternoons while preparing rooms with the occasional pinch, the brushing fondle, and tickling stroke. As long as they did not cause any actual discharge (which might lessen the guest's ride), they were free to be as playful as they wished. Should they cause us to fire prematurely, they would find themselves stripped and bound on the floor of the barn, to suffer the playful penalties of their sister maids that night (the girls delighted in creating and employing devilish punishments against such clumsy trasgressors. Manipulating mannis was seen as art, and overexciting one was considered poor form).
And so a crude competition took place over those long afternoons. The maids, working from room to room, would do their best to tease and toy us to tears. They grew to know each of us, and knew just how to stroke, to touch, and to tongue our exposed flesh to bring maximum discomfort. We, on the other hand (and on the other side of the wall) would do our best to climax, to erupt like some hair-trigger booby trap. For there was a certain satisfaction in sending a cruel tormentress to the barn, bound and stripped, to suffer as we ourselves suffered. I can hardly explain the pleasure at tricking my own body to leap from its carefully controlled passions, the shudder and shake, the belts creaking around me. From the other side of the wall would come the clamping of desperate fingers, trying to still the coming flood. And then that delightful eruption with the echoing cry of dismay. On the heels of this, the angry call of the other maids as they fell upon her. The sounds of the struggle, the pleas, the hiss of the ropes and the rustle of discarded clothing. Then the voices in their dulcet tones: "Right then. Let's carry 'er out to the barn. I've got a fair idea what ta' do wi' this trollop." And then silence.
Our victory would see the room sealed against guests and ourselves unstrapped and set off to a maid's bed for the night. How nice to lay in comforted bliss while the woman who'd handled you so crudely lay in painful restraints, suffering the torments of her companions. Delightful.
The most notorious of them was Barbette, an experienced girl from the continent, with flashing eyes, dark hair, and long legs. Her specialty was dusting. Her feather duster was nothing short of murderous. To hang in the straps with feathers dancing along your scarlet shaft while she hummed in husky happiness was simply a form of torture. Every manni hoped for the day we would send her to the barn, to experience a fraction of the anguish she'd given us. To my knowledge, nobody ever escaped from her swirling, teasing feathers.
Equally frustrating was to be placed in the service of Lady M___. Like the other rooms, you would be strapped to the wall, but here, your shaft jutted out onto the foot of her huge feather bed. Once she'd seen her guest all settled in their rooms, happily engaged with the amenities, she would retire. Rarely did she use her night manni at his fullest capacity. She was generally a morning person and enjoyed an occasional ride at dawn, which we were often called to provide. No, in the evenings, she would simply use us as a foot warmer. The heavy coverlet would be drawn over the captive flesh rod, and a moment later, her shapely feet would nestle around it. She would carefully roll the skin-pole around her instep, brushing her toes along its length, stoking it like one would stoke a fire. Like Barbette, she had excellent control, but did not take great pains at checking her manni's passions. Should her unfortunate servant accidentally discharge, he would be removed to the barn, to be hung and disciplined over long days. I, myself, never earned such punishments, but there were nights when it was a close run thing, indeed.
How did I come to the Royal Stables? Well, I earned Royal notice during the queen's visit. I didn't even know that Queen Lilla was my guest for the night. My first hint that something had changed was when Barbette came down the darkened hall, her lantern illuminating her trim form. Behind her were two no-nonsense women. One of them carried a satchel. Barbette nodded to me. "Theese 'es heem," whispered her accented words.
One woman nodded to the other and reached into the satchel, pulling out a drinking glass and a discipline paddle. The paddle she gave to her companion. Meanwhile, through the wall before my ball-gagged face, I could hear the low humming of a woman relaxing in her private apartment. Slender hands brushed me, and I could just barely detect an anticipatory chuckle. Then came the scrape of the stool being drawn up. This was followed with the familiar warmth of hidden thighs, the brush of pubic hair, and then that recognizable feeling of soft, silky envelopment. My unseen mistress began her slow cantor, rocking back and forth against me. At my side, the woman placed glass to wall and ear to glass, raising her hand as if a preparatory signal. The other woman stepped behind me, moving the paddle back, carefully gauging the distances and angles to my helpless, exposed buttocks. Barbette watched, a cruel witness, eyes flashing in the lantern light.
I'm not sure what sounds my partner made as she rocked back and forth on me. It might have been a pant or a warble or a grunt. I could only feel her pace slowly increase, and suddenly the woman listening through the glass swept her hand down. At this signal, the paddle crackled across my ass. Yipping into the gag, I involuntarily thrust forward.
The listener directed her mistress's timing, snapping her hand down in time to the thrust. The paddler, long experienced in these matters, played my cheeks like a concert instrumentalist, rolling her strokes, blistering my arse, forcing me to involuntarily jerk forward at each strike to the benefit of our hidden queen. And so we continued, the eavesdropper providing the stroke to excellent effect. Eventually I felt Lilla shudder in wet satisfaction on my rod. I final hard slap and I was convulsing as well, likely nearly knocking her from her stool. It was one of the most satisfying encounters I'd ever had.
As it concluded, the two women returned their items to the satchel and departed. In the other room, Queen Lilla slid off me, leaving me to smolder in the room's cool air. I hung, face pressed against the cold wall, gasping through my nose at my recent exertions. I doubted I'd be able to provide amusement for a week following this.
After some time, I felt cold fingers touch me, the fingertips slowly exploring my length in questioning fascination. I shook my head, groaning. No, I simply could not. There was nothing left. But then, to my surprise, I felt myself begin to stir, to swell, to harden. Lilla had that royal touch, that ability to make other's perform at the utmost for the crown. But how could I top what we'd recently accomplished? It would be a depressing second to my earlier performance.
But I had forgotten slender, cat-like Barbette, lounging in the darkness, her eyes simmering at me. She'd been silently sitting there all this time. I heard the rustle of her tight skirt as she hunched down behind me. And then it started. The faintest play of her feather duster across my naked, strapped, and exposed soles. I howled in my gag for her to stop, but she just gave a Gallic chuckle and continued with her playing.
Meanwhile, Lilla had slid once more into her wet, sticky saddle, rocking slowly towards that gallop. Between the two of them I begged and pleaded. But Barbette played her evil games, whisking the feathers this way and that, forcing me to dance to her erotic prodding. I could feel myself building against the hole, so excited was I becoming. Through the wall, I could hear Lilla shouting in pleasure, commanding more, more! While from below, I heard the words, "Teekle teekle teekle...". From somewhere, my passions gathered, swelling me against the hot royal embrace as I built towards...
= O =
Constance had heard enough. She jammed the ball gag back into the manni's mouth, wrenching its buckle fast. Then she shoved him to the deck, her rubber-clad fingers pinching, prodding, and exploiting her helpless captive. He tried to shift away but she pinned him like a long-limbed black spider, forcing her venomous passions into him, sucking his essence away as if it were his lifeblood.
Twice she rode him hard, slamming him against deck and walls with passionate abandon. Finally she rolled off, her sheathed breasts panting like twin bellows beneath her airship suit. Only when she recovered her composure did she towel him clean.
And even then, her wickedness rose. Heedless of his muffled pleas, she took him in her mouth and slowly serviced him, delighting in his weakened struggles. The passion came now as pain to him, crushing every little last jot of lust from his frame. He could only groan as her brilliant red hair fanned over his belly as she worked him, tapping the final drops of manly merlot from his loins. In the end, he lay on the deck like a corpse, completely spent.
Once she recovered, she fell back on her police training, binding him as she'd bound countless lawbreakers. She worked him into a snug web of ropes, capturing his body from shoulders to toes, lacing him back into a nice secure hogtie. Then, with a tired grunt, she tipped him into his box. Before replacing his straw, she jammed his hood back into place. He seemed not to notice; he was a lifeless puppet whose strings had been cut. The lid clumped back into place like that of a coffin, sealing him up, her captive.
She sat on the box, basking in her personal afterglow, her long rubberized legs thrust out before her.
A lazy smile parted her sharp face.
Quite a gift this lad was, indeed.
05.02.09
story continues in Gai-Shift 5: Engine Room
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