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Continued from Part Two
Chapter 3: Olivia Hammersmith
It started with a single cup of tea.
At six years of age, she was asking mum where tea came from, her head filling with exotic images. At twelve, she'd read every book in the library about the Far East. By twenty, the was fully fluent in Japanese. Thirty, she was Queen Lilla's chief council on the region. And by thirty-six, she was Her Majesty's Ambassador to Japan.
And now, at thirty-seven, Olivia Hammersmith was naked and on a lead. Her arms and upper torso were trussed, Empress Nabuki's knots holding the hempish web of erotic friction in place. Her head was sheathed in a leather hood, her mouth plugged with a ballgag. A black orchid ninja lead her through the night streets, dragging her away to goodness knew where.
Quite an arch of causality.
Olivia hadn't seen this last bit coming, but perhaps she should have. A year ago, when she'd come down the steamship's gangway that first glorious morning, Japan had seemed to surround her in a lovingly insistent embrace. She'd stood there, aristocratic head tipped back, chiseled chin and nose warmed by the beaming sun, a scent-laden air wafting her oak-shaded bunned hair.
The next week had placed her into Empress Nabuki's presence, a gradual scaling of events from a huge reception to general meetings to small gatherings to a private dinner. For the latter, the pixy-like Nabuki had sat across the low table from her, cheeks flushed with perhaps too much sake, eyes gleaming like cheery buttons. The Empress's questions were pointed, generally focused on Britain's cross-societal laws which assumed guilt before innocence and where justice was swift, perhaps even slick and trembling. Olivia was a model citizen and hence had only been arrested four times in her life. A paddling (which hurt in an interesting way), a molestation (nice, except for the fact she'd been hung by her heels) and two bouts of tickling (ribs in one, soles, the other). But little Nabuki had hungered for all the details.
"I would love to punish you," said the little Empress, her tiny chin propped up. "You are so refined, so elegant. I would love if you would service me."
"My service," explained Ambassador Hammersmith, "Is to my queen."
"How does she taste?"
And so the evening went, with Olivia most discomforted. Finally she rose to leave. Nabuki summoned three servant girls, cute as kittens, and ordered the Ambassador be put to bed. As she was led off, Olivia pondered the phrasing. The wording had been a curious provincial usage, one which could mean 'helped to bed', 'taken to bed', or even 'trussed into bed and used as a unwilling sexual toy'.
The three girls chittered and beamed as they helped Olivia remove her voluminous petticoat and finery. When she was down to her panties and bra, she expected the girls to leave. But without a word, as if such a thing was a natural part of their duties, they collected her hands behind her and began trussing them up with flesh-irritating coarse rope. Olivia tried to correct them, explaining what their mistress had really meant, but a small hand clapped over her thin lips. Thus she could only endure as her hands were forced into a reverse-prayer position, traced neatly up between her shoulder blades. Her breath quickened through her slender nose as ropes circled about her sensitive flesh, coaxing her breasts to jut, forming a crosshatched corset of tight cordage.
She knew the technique was called Shibari, and watched with scholarly interest as it was skillfully applied.
Eventually they settled her on a low futon, cording up her long legs in a thorough envelopment of rope. The hot little palm that had cupped her lips was replaced by a wide cloth gag. Only then did the giggling girls leave her to reflect on her isolation.
As the night grew deep, Nabuki came to her. The Empress now wore a loose robe, one that showed most of her charms as she plopped onto the cushions at the bound dignitary's side.
"Oh, look what those silly, silly girls have done to you. I must free you."
And of course, she attempted to do just that, but not very convincingly. Every knot proved too tight, too expertly applied. Nabuki's fingers wiggled and wormed against Olivia's heating flesh, seemingly unable to gain the poor woman an inch of freedom. Occasionally she would pull at the ropes, gently sawing them back and forth across Olivia's nipples or through her crotch. The captive gasped into her gag, eyes screwed shut, trying to ignore the mounting sexual pressures building within.
An hour passed before Nabuki gave up, reclining next to the fever-flushed woman, pouting while her fingers traced a rope-defined hip. "Oh, I cannot get you free, though I shall keep trying. Likely you will remain bound until morning. Of course..." her eyes lit up, her jet eyes locking on Olivia's gunmetal ones, "if I were relieved of my own passions, perhaps with the judicious use of a clever tongue, I'm sure I could unlock the mystery of the knots."
Olivia let her eyes close and gently shook her head in negation. She would not give into such pressures. She had country and queen to represent.
So Nabuki gave it her best efforts, struggling until morning to free Olivia, who met the dawn haggard and twitchy, sexually distraught.
And thus established their roles. Every night, Nabuki would order the ambassador bound up. Some nights she would tie the poor woman up herself, sometimes studying explicit Indian scrolls as she did so. Night after night, Olivia was bound fast, sometimes hogtied, sometimes balltied. Or pole-tied, roll-tied, tightly tied, elegantly tied, suspension-tied, minimalist-tied, Zen-ball tied, karma-sutra-tied. Looped, roped, trussed, corded, bound, fixed, locked, lashed, and otherwise secured.
Night after night. Thus began the so-called 'Japanese Crisis', which set two nations into collision.
Of course, Olivia had her orgasms, usually two or three a night. She loved sweet little Nabuki, with her smutty bondage expertise and her imaginative inflictions. She loved the brush of the girl's hot flesh, the flash of her eye, the bite of her cords. After the girl left, still unserviced by her captive's tongue, Olivia would lie in her helplessness, her body grinding out climaxes that shocked the conservative women to her core (which seem to be located between her upper thighs).
The paradox of the crisis was this; Empress Nabuki was a sadist. She would continue to pressure the ambassador until her demands were met (which would involve Olivia using her tongue in a very base form of diplomacy).
Yet Olivia Hammersmith was a masochist. She loved Nabuki's bonds. She would do anything in her power to remain a captive to the elf-like ruler. In that, she feared that if she plowsheared Nabuki's furrow with her tongue, the pressure would end.
The irony was that if Nabuki really wanted such attention, then threatening to not tie and punish Olivia would achieve her goal.
The second irony was that Olivia hungered for Nabuki's muffin. If her diminutive mistress settled herself into a pretty perch atop Olivia's face, the woman would have serviced her with gleeful abandon (especially if her own nipples were swirled in the process - she loved that). But Nabuki would not force herself on her captive, she demanded compliance. And Olivia would not grant it, so the frustrating impasse dragged on.
If the two women could agree on anything, it was that Olivia Hammersmith looked so very fetching in Empress Nabuki's ropes.
There was one discerning element across the blissful stress of Olivia's captivity. Falling under the ropes and knots of little Nabuki and her servant girls was like being tied up by a younger sister and her giggling friends, little more than sensuously degrading party games. Often the very fantasy of such a scenario would set Olivia off, dampening her knotted crotch rope. They were like cruel little girls, a corruption of innocence. But late at night, when Olivia was alone in compressing tension, the panel to her room would slide back and the one known as Kiyoto would look in on her. Kiyoto was a white orchid, a woman powerful in the ways of the rope. Where the others were kittens, she was a panther. A single disdainful scan from those cool eyes was enough to tremble Olivia's lips (not the gagged ones).
She would love to be tied up by such a warrior. On nights when she was not too fatigued, she tried to get loose, dreaming of getting almost undone before being discovered by Kiyoto. Suddenly the sandaled feet would step over her and she'd be flung onto her belly. Strong hands would lace her up, drawing the ropes impossibly tight around her sex-hungered flesh, tightening until she sobbed in surrender. But alas, Nabuki's own training was extensive, and never was Olivia able to present Kiyoto with a reason to intervene.
Bound fast, she could only lay in her ropes and dream her wispy passions.
Until the night the black orchids came.
She was savoring a rumbling little climax brought upon by Kiyoto's recent inspection when three non-servile servants entered. In quick order, she was grabbed up and lifted along a rope towards a skylight. Only when it was almost too late did Kiyoto enter, falling into combat with the black orchid rearguard. What little of the action Olivia witnessed heated her all the more. She would love to come under the whirling scarves of such a master.
Then the long run though the streets of Tokyo, shamefully naked yet anonymously hooded. It was hard to run with a ball-plugged mouth - sparkles of oxygen-deprivation danced in her narrowed vision's periphery. Then Kiyoto had dropped out of nowhere onto the bridge, fighting the second black orchid. She'd not been permitted to watch the battle, led off in a trot past the last of the houses, turning off the main road and down a narrow lane. Within her hood, behind her ballgag, Olivia moaned. Where was she being taken? What was going to be done to her? Already she missed little Nabuki. She swore if she got back to the palace, she'd push the Empress of Greater Japan down, even if in a public place, and tongue her until she set the girl to squealing. She desperately missed her little humiliator.
They were crossing between fields. Ahead, a line of trees. Beyond, a rounded hill stood against the moonlight.
They passed through the trees, and Olivia sensed silent pickets lurking in the shadows to either side. Was she near the black orchid hideout? Was she about to be...?
They came out into the next field. Behind the slits of the leather helmet, Olivia's eyes widened in shock.
What she'd taken as a hill was a huge English airship. High on the bow stood the vast name Unbound Pleasure. Olivia dimly recalled hearing about this vessel from her government circles, a long-distance flyer that was propelled by that strange fuel source, Orgasium.
Women stood about, holding down mooring ropes, forming a perimeter. Olivia began to buck in her ropes in earnest, shaking her head, muffing her protests. But the dark-robed women simply pulled her lead harder, driving her up the steep gangplank.
At the top of the ramp, silhouetted against the glare, stood a leather-clad airship officer. Her tight face was framed with a black flow of hair. On her narrow nose perched a set of spectacles, the eyes behind them breathtakingly blue. With little ado, her leather fingers plucked the ball from Olivia's mouth, dropping it to cool against her slender neck.
"Ambassador Hammersmith? I'm Captain Zana Hoffsteder. I've been commissioned to bring you home."
Olivia blinked. The outcome was worse than she'd suspected. She twisted but was checked by the Empress' ropes and the black orchid's tight grip.
"No! I've a duty to our country! I must remain! You must let me go."
"Queen Lilla had ordered you home. She was concerned for you, given your role in the 'Crisis'."
"It wasn't anything I couldn't handle," Olivia panted desperately. "We were right at the cusp of a breakthrough." Or, perhaps, a tongued breakthrough of Nabuki's cusp.
"You can't go back. It's too perilous."
"Let me return to face the peril!"
At this point, the black orchid thrust her hand forward. "Gold. You promised gold."
"Aye, that we did," Hoffsteder noted, forwarding a clinking bag. The woman ninja gave it a weighing toss and nodded.
At that moment, Kiyoto broke from the treeline and all hell broke loose.
Olivia Hammersmith watched her move through the clearing like a nimble ballerina. From her sleeves, from hidden caches in her robes, she flung out scarves and triplines. The airshipwomen attempted to intercept but each of them found themselves tumbling to the ground, their limbs trussed up, their legs fouled. It was breathtaking, the speed at which the lithe warrior tied up any who faced her. Olivia, from her vast experience, knew it took at least ten minutes to rope a willing girl, three times that if the ropework was extensive. But here in this moonlit arena, Kiyoto had disabled a score of girls in less than a minute, leaving them to lay in wiggling bundles in her wake.
"Save me, Kiyoto," Olivia screamed. "Return me to the Empress!" A moment later, Hoffsteder's firm fingers were wedging the ball back into place. "Be quiet. And you..." This to the black orchid. "Go down there and fend her off."
"You paid for Ambassador's delivery. I give you that. Kiyoto too kick-ass for me. Rotsa ruck!" With that, the mercenary vanished over the side of the gangplank, lost to the darkness.
Things might have become dire for Hoffsteder and her crew had not for the quick-witted Petra, the blunt Russian second officer. From the forward control room, she witnessed Kyoto's unnerving attack. Turning to the navigator, she called out, "Quickly, give me that illegal MI card deck you purchased in Prague!"
"But I didn't..."
"Now!"
As ordered, the girl pulled a short stack of programming cards from the heated bosom of her leather flight suit, handing it over. Petra rammed them into the card reader for the Mechanical Intelligence engine that controlled the ship's loading arm. A moment later, the huge yet nimble mechanical arm came to life, unfolding from the belly of the airship, reaching down out of Kyoto's blind side. Its long fingers snapped around the slender oriental, pinning her arms to her side, lifting her sandaled feet free of the ground. She struggled, seeking weakness in the gripping claw, then went limp as a doll.
Hoffsteder watched as her crew freed itself from its bondages. Her fingers toying with Olivia's lead, looking down at the helplessly pinioned and suspended white-clad figure. As the last crewmember limped aboard, she called back over her shoulder.
"Petra, prepare to lift ship. I want the off-duty crew secured to their bunks as soon as we reach cruising altitude. Oh, and let the cunning little Jap go."
The second officer nodded and pulled out the cards. The claw opened. But Kiyoto, so filled with fierce action shortly before, slipped to the ground, kneeling dejectedly, head down.
Hoffsteder frowned and glanced to her second officer who shook her head in return. "My captain, the card deck I used was specifically written for locking up female targets. It shouldn't have hurt her."
It was then Hoffsteder felt a nudge against her shoulder. Turning, she realized that Hammersmith had pressed her with her ballgag. Realizing the Ambassador had something to say, she pulled out the plugging implement.
"She's failed her mission," Olivia told her, her tone as subdued as the girl below. "She's failed her Empress. She can't return home. If you leave her, she will be dishonored."
"What, she might kill herself?"
"Worse. She'd assume a vow of chastity."
Hoffsteder hissed. Such a cruel culture of absolutes. Adjusting her spectacles, she looked down at the kneeing figure. From behind her, Olivia noted, "She is yours by right of capture. You should take her with us."
"Uh huh," Zana drawled, considering. Then, to Petra, "Assemble a binding party to truss up that firebrand. You've seen how dangerous she is; use plenty of rope. Secure her in a spare cabin, with daily orgasms to keep her subdued." Petra nodded. "As for our Ambassador, she seems slightly distraught by events." Olivia hissed as leather-clad fingertips dipsticked her moistened pussy. "Put her up on the Orgasium extraction circuit. There's no reason she can't work off her passage."
Olivia was hustled upwards into the airship's envelope, to be put on a revolving circuit of agitation, molestation, depravity and climax-delay. Meanwhile, Kiyoto remained kneeling, hardly noticing as the binding party stripped her of her white robes, collected her limbs and corded them expediently, then lifted her to their shoulders and bore her up the ramp into captivity.
With that, the last of the anchors were withdrawn, the ramp rose, and the mighty Unbound Pleasure rose into the sky. Its prop wash troubled a single silk scarf which looped for a moment over an upthrust twig, flickered briefly, then came loose and flew away into the darkness.
The End.
21.10.09