Gai-Shift - Hotel California Chapter 2: Complimentary Package

by Rohana

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© Copyright 2010 - Rohana - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; slave; bond; bdsm; tickle; tease; chast; climax; mast; cons/reluct; X

(story continues from )

To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Continued from part 1

Chapter 2: Complimentary Package
- With thanks to Brushslut

Li-Jack found himself flat on his back, stripped naked except for the humiliating testicle cage. He was on a soft bed in one of the guest rooms, the wind from the street playing across his exposed flesh, comforting in an invasive way. His hands were bound together to the headboard. His feet were likewise trussed, locked down by a line that looped under the bed, presumably anchored to its frame.

This was position number four off Auntie's menu. Women guests tended to order this one more than the rest.

He only had a vague understanding of why he'd incurred his sister's wrath. Often she didn't need a reason. Li-June was as likely to bind him up in some tight, demeaning position and abandon him for hours, if only to muse upon his suffering with a serene smile as she worked the front desk. He was used to his sister's domineering ways.

This time, she'd come into his gadget-filled workshop screeching about the French woman, the laundry machinery, and something about an assault with a soap bar. He tried to tell her that the room key safeguard built into the desk rack, which triggered the laundry processors when the room key was hung on the hook, was unreliable. He also noted how easily one could accidentally catch the hook on an article of clothing in passing. Silently, he reflected that it was also possible that someone could simply, for amusement, push down the hook to throw the room's inhabitant into the laundry processors. He'd never liked those safeguards, considering them too unreliable, but his sister and aunt had forced him to include them.

And so he'd stood silently as his sister berated him, ordering him out of his clothes, lashing his hands in front of him. Then she'd pulled him upstairs, threw him over this bed, bound up his feet and left without a word.

Li-Jack shrugged as best he could with his wrists bound over his head, looking about. This was that French lady's room. It looked like his sister was trying to offer compensation – him! - for the laundry mishap. Trust his sister to play it cheap and leave the cage locked tightly around his manhood. There was that woman from Boston Li-June and Auntie had been pimping him at. If he discharged for the Frenchie, he wouldn't be recharged in time for this evening.

So he sighed and settled into the soft mattress, wondering what was going to happen to him.

After a lengthy interval, the door swung open. Li-Jack took one look at the poor French woman and found pity. She stood knock-kneed in the portal, wearing nothing more than a hotel robe. Her damp black hair swirled up like a yogurt cone. Her eyes were wide, her face flushed. Soap filmed her long limbs. She'd been through the wringer. Well, no, probably not. Not yet. Apparently Auntie and Li-June had stopped the process before then.

She looked at the young manni bound across her bed, an unexpected gift. He could see it in her eyes, the moment she realized he was a fruit basket, provided by the staff in lieu of her recent ordeal. Well, his fruit basket was the only thing not offered, locked up as it was. But Li-Jack had found out that often woman didn't need to go all the way with him to find satisfaction. Often they were content to nibble and slap, tickle and tease. Or even, sometimes, to talk.

Barbette (yes, that was her name. He remembered her signature in the registry) finished sucking his bound helplessness in through her eyes. With a silent nod to herself, she eased the door closed with a heel and slowly began unbelting her robe.

“Ma'am, on behalf of Hotel California and its staff, let me be the first to apologize for what occurred. Our automated cleaning MIs are the most advanced in the state and you shouldn't allow any unfortunate event to change your opinions of such labor-saving devices.”

By now, she was kneeling on one long, bent leg on the bed, the robe belt in her hands, her smile wide and predatory. He knew what was coming. Without protest or struggle, he opened his mouth, allowing her to gag him with tight terrycloth loops. Strong fingers knotted it fast. Li-Jack, experienced with such things, moaned inwardly. No fumbling. She was no looper. This was a skillful and determined woman.

Now that her room guest was suitably muffled, she passed slowly across the room, allowing her hips to swing playfully. At the bathroom door, she slipped out of her robe, displaying her strong back and firm buttocks. Casting a sultry look over her shoulder, she stepped into the bathroom shower stall, a throaty moan of contentment rising from her as she entered its heated stream.

Li-Jack watched her bathe her long tapering body, entranced by her sultry motions. If anything, she was the true definition of “French curves”, her limbs and torso a wondrous study of the female form. In the midst of his marveling, Li-Jack grimaced. His rod was swelling, the cruel cage-bandings pressing in from every side. Worse was the looped band over the tip. Like a frustrated battering ram, his shaft thudded into it. The pain of his physical constraints forced a minor retreat, placing him in a state of delicate balance. He breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps she would come out and simply read a book in his presence; some women did. But looking her her trim, strong form and recalling the shimmer of her hungry eyes, he didn't suppose she would. Then he frowned as the pain flared again.

Finally she emerged like a jet-haired Venus, pink and steamy and glowing. She crackled a towel briefly and briskly around her lanky body to dry it, turbaned another about her wet hair. Then, comfortably nude, she settled on the bed next to him, settling on a long folded leg in easy grace.

“Zo, here we are.”

Li-Jack blinked once, his only concession. The pain of restrain whispered a warning into his ear.

Then, with playfully horrible hesitation, Barbette lowered a finger to his ribline and pulled a long trace along its track, as cruel as a cat slowly gutting a bird. Li-Jack wrenched sideways, huffing and puffing against his gag but his sister's ropes were too firm. Down, down his body scrolled the curious finger, thumping across each rib, curling into the sensitive hollows, curling down to where his hips fanned out. It took, perhaps, twenty long seconds but to the helpless Asian, it was a lifetime. Through his tearing eyes, he could just make out her beautific face with its broad smile of pleasure.

“I zee you are tickleesh,” she noted with melodious innocence. “So very, very tickleesh. How very unfortunate for you...”

With easy grace, she leaned back along his legs, her head propped up on a shapely forearm, leering at his exposed soles.

“Mo. Mo! Pweese, mot dat,” the fearful manni managed.

But Barbette would not be deterred by frightened pleas; if anything, it simply inspired her all the more. Casually, she reached down with her free hand, scraping her long nails along the bunched bellies of the poor lad's feet. The bed creaked as he involuntarily wrenched against his bonds, twisting and squirming. Barbette sampled his distressed flesh, trying a little of this and a little of that, touching, swirling, coaxing, tormenting, playfully amusing herself at Li-Jack's expense.

Li-Jack was frantic. His sister was prone to tickling. Often, on slow weekend, she'd truss him into a ball beneath the front desk, his feet positioned soles-up within easy reach of her off-hand strokes. Gagged, balled and bundled, he could only sweat out the long hours and she amused herself between her occasional duties, abusing him with her playful strokes.

But this was worse, far worse. This limber Frenchwoman tickled with a surgeon's touch and a poker player's instinct, guessing out his weak points, ferreting out his vulnerabilities. He couldn't shift away. He couldn't block her or run from her. Bound flat on his back, her could only wrench back and forth, the cage on his privates swinging like the clapper of a tormented bell.

Finally, mercifully, she stopped. He lay on a sweat-soaked tangle of bedsheets, gasping over his gag-windings, blinking away the tears. His lungs burned and his feet tingled. He sensed her rise from the bed, crossing to her trunk, but he could not raise the energy to track her. His body shuddered as it sucked in oxygen, his nervous system trying to reboot. It couldn't possibly be any worse.

Of course, he didn't know Barbette.

“Look what I brought wit me,” she crooned. “My beloved fezzer dooster.”

He looked to see its feather-bristled mass. He saw how she fondled it like her lover's flesh. He realized that, yes, it would get worse.

She eased onto the bed like a panther, hooking a leg over his stomach, slowly slipping into a squat across his belly. He felt her mons burn against his abdomen with hot wet fire. She looked down at him, still naked, still turbaned, and suddenly he saw himself as a shipwrecked sailor, washed up on a beach of Araby, about to be tormented by a plundering tribeswoman. This image brought a wash of pain up from his caged manhood as it swelled against his confines. To make maters worse, Barbette shifted back slightly, his iron-jacketed torpedo slipping up through the notch of her buttocks, pressured painfully down by her fleshy orbs. He moaned at the excruciating bliss of the sensation, certain he'd pop a rivet from the pressure. Now he knew how grated cheese felt like.

Then, with a touch as delicate as death, the well-worn feathertips of the duster hinted across his chest. He thrust upwards, a startled spasm, pressing her back against his iron-ribbed member, sending a wash of pain to compete with the sensation of tickling. She smiled a saucy little smile as she surveyed her captive, slowly dragging the duster across his chest. As each tip flicked across his nipples, he gasped. As each strand sensitized a nerve cluster, he laughed. It was as if every sensation possible was flooding from his chest to his brain. He was laughing and gasping and blushing, all at once. The pain from his crotch was continuous.

She whirled her little duster this way and that, tracking his neck line, tracing his clavicles, sweeping into his armpits, dimpling his chin, stroking his cheeks. He bellowed into his spit-soaked gag, shaking his head, sending every signal he had, telling her to stop, stop, STOP! But she wouldn't, of course. She'd found him bound and open, she'd teased him, she'd tickled him, and now she was tormenting him. She knew what she was doing and from the tackiness of her pussy and the standing thrust of her nipples, it was exactly what she wanted.

For his own part, Li-Jack found himself torn between the tickling and the sexual tension. With his sausage compressed to the point of bursting, pain joined this triad. He was swamped in emotions, any of which would have been debilitating, but in concert, they thundered over his soul. He found himself wondering, with what small part of his intellect remained, if he would die. He could see no other way out of this.

But his body had other ideas.

It was the strangest sensation, jetting into his sister's cage. It was like dynamite exploding in an iron safe. He felt the merciful release, felt the hot backsplash as it cascaded down the sides of his shaft, felt her flinch as it spattered her back. He pumped and pumped, and when he was finally done, he looked up to see the beautiful Frenchwoman casting a Mona Lisa smile over him as if sharing his release. He feared she'd continue with him, and with him spent, it would be nothing but tickling torment. But no, she simply stood, fetched a tissue and wiped her back clean. Then she sat in a big chair facing him, casting her long legs over its armrests, settling into its soft cushions. Only then did she bring the butt-end of the feather duster into play, using it as a dildo to service herself. He could only watch from his ropes, his sexual discharge a warmth in his crotch as this sexy worldly woman worked herself into tender self-gratification. He could chart her progress as easy as an astronomer could the sky, witnessing the heated flush across her cheeks, the perking nipples, the thrusting hips, the saliva-wet lips. And then she, too, was humming in the grips of her own orgasmic event, the chair springs squeaking as she shook in her passions. He found himself compressing against the sticky bars of his cage as her orgasm moved him towards erotic interest. She looked so sweet, climaxing, the duster forming strange plumage between her outthurst legs.

But, no, she was sated now, and tired, given her long day. She tissued again, then casually unlooped his ankles and wrists from her bed, handing him his ropes. Walking him to the door, she said nothing, but in its frame she checked his departure, tipping a warm, almost sisterly kiss upon his questioning lips. Then she closed the door and he was in the hall, naked, his nuts caged up in a tacky framework, his hands filled with coils of his sister's rope. He shook his head (the unfettered one) to clear it, then slipped downstairs to report to his sister, hoping he wouldn't meet a band of guests returning from a night on the town.

He found Li-June in the kitchen, her shoes set neatly aside, her long legs curled up beneath the chair, a cup of tea and a newspaper sharing the table before her. She looked up, saw the mess, frowned.

“Put those things away, clean yourself up, and go to bed. I'll figure some punishment for you in the morning.”

Bowing, he backed out, reflecting on these ill tidings. If one thing was true about Li-June, it was that punishments she slept over were worse than ones handed out on the fly. It was as if she dreamed about the placement of every rope, every band, fantasizing in her sleep of just how tightly he could be drawn and how long he could be kept. Once, after a long sleep, she'd tied him naked, horse-fashion, on the hotel's forward dormer in full view of the street. When she'd finally let him down, he'd hardly been able to walk and the papers had already gotten their picture.

Silently, so as not to anger her further, he coiled the ropes neatly on their pegs in the store room. Then he took a cold bath in a small tub, carefully washing out the cage he'd sullied in his excitements. Sleeping with his cage on was nothing new; his sister did not want to risk him pleasuring himself in the midnight hours – stealing hotel property, she called it. Once he'd toweled himself and his imprisonment dry (she'd fly into outrage if it were to rust) he crept off to his small bedroom. There, he got the first pleasant surprise of the day (well, the second if he counted Barbette's tender skill).

A letter was waiting for him on his desk.

In accordance to federal law, it had been stamped with a manni-stamp, one that earned it the lowest postal service. From the post mark, it had taken its sweet time getting to him. But then he saw the return address, a small railroad town in the central plains. His heart nearly stopped.

It was from them!

With shaking hands, he ripped it open and read the contents, fully expecting a rejection of his proposal. Hardly believing the words before his eyes, he read it a second time, than a third. They'd accepted his offer. He could join their crew. They would pick up on on the morning of...


He had to be across the bay, in Oakland, tomorrow morning at precisely 6:47am, hooked up and ready. If he missed this chance he'd spend the rest of his life in his sister's cruel clutches, a hell compared to the paradise the letter hinted at. He had to be there on time. He had to!

He knew routes through the city, alleys and walkways, courses that would circumvented the patrolwomen who prowled the nighttime city. He knew he could make it. But his sister and Auntie would raise the alarm if he wasn't heating water and starting the breakfast fires before dawn. He couldn't leave them to raise a fuss. They would have to be neutralized.

But what of the guests? What of the women who would come looking for their hostesses when breakfast wasn't ready?

He knew what he had to do.




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