Chapter 7: Best laid plans...
Van unrolled the engineering diagram of the Unbound Pleasure on the galley table before her, placing a horizontal ruler down its length and ripping off a line. Her button nose wrinkled – she smelled so skanky. Hard to tell how many times she'd cum over the last few days, what with catlike Hisstle's rapinely ravenous radiations flooding the ship. But that wasn't important right now. Nothing was important save the calculations before her.
Given the crew weights (Executive Officer Petra logged them before every liftoff), the water-tank volumes and cargo massings, the lift coefficients of every gas cell and the airship's eight degree tail-down attitude, she could calculate the position of the Hisstle's lair and the captive crew. She measured along the centerline and drew a bisecting mark. There. Somewhere 600 feet back from the bow, that was where Hisstle was holding her molested prisoners.
A quivering wave of lust staggered the page-boyed engineer. Hisstle was attending to one of her guests, stroking and teasing the unknown sufferer. To Van, it was like being bound and blindfolded. She couldn't see what was being done to her surrogate, she could only feel the burning passion is if it were running in her own veins. Her teeth chattered in neigh-orgasmic release, her head pounding. She moaned, finding her fingers squeezing her own nipples, harder and harder until pain was lancing through the check-fired lust.
“Do it,” she cried out, thumping from her seat onto the deck, her high-heeled sandals flayed before her. “Goddess, do it!”
But Hisstle was in no rush, content to play with the unseen girl, touching her most private spots, driving her towards the border-end of insanity. Van's fist pounded the deck, her legs wide to accept a ghostly manni rod, her juices churning.
“Do it!” she screamed. “Do it!”
Distantly, the churning crewmember finally, mercifully escaped Hisstle's prolonged toying, grinding out an excruciatingly wondrous climax. Van's spine arched, she gasped at the ceiling, jerking as if live current fried her body. Then the phantom passion faded and, nothing more than a string-cut puppet, Van slowly toppled forward, her head bumping into the deck between her outspread knees, her wet perfume filling her own senses. Folded forward, she could do nothing but gasp for long minutes.
Finally, she took control.
Up, Van. If she isn't broadcasting, she's hunting. For you. To do that to you. Not someone else. You.
She dragged herself to her feet, struggling down the gondola hallway to the cargo area. To the left, the toppled transfer box. How long had it been since Hisstle had been safely secured in it? Two days? Three? She looked against the far wall to the shelving containing ship supplies. And there it was, a potent acid used to clean the fish-pasty Orgasium-film out of boiler tubing. Strong stuff. She located a flask-like bottle and filled it with the transparent yet dangerous fluid. Corking it, she tucked it into her breaches pocket and then returned to the central ladder, climbing into the massive airship envelope, her fingers trembling on the rungs.
The envelope was as spooky as always, grated walkways running between soaring girder ribbing and straining canvas gasbags. Van moved slowly, cursing the footwear Josie had locked on her. The shoes made too much noise on the metal walkways. Worse, the heels kept sliding into the grating holes. She could imagine how foolish it would be for her to go to all this trouble, the calculations and acid and everything, only to jam her heels into the walkway grid and trap herself for Hisstle's pleasure. And as she well knew, Hisstle's pleasure tended to be everyone's pleasure.
Thoughts of Hisstle magnified her fears. How daunting to realize that somewhere in this vast airship a creature stronger, faster, and far more knotty was seeking her out to place her in the most mind-blowing bondage session imaginable. In comparison, Lady Goldwaith's most debauched orgies were like a girl playing with a ribbon.
Van's only hope was that Hisstle did not have any special tracking powers. If she could truly home in on sexually-agitated prey as Captain Hoffsteder had believed, Van was doomed. But if it was only girl-seeking-girl, she had a chance. The airship was a massive place with all sorts of hidyholes.
The fact that she wasn't undergoing a rush of climactic fury meant the feline was away from her lair, prowling. The thought brought a guilty thrill to the plucky girl.
She checked the girders she passed, reading their postings to determine how far back she was. After what felt like ages, she knew she was now 600 feet from the bow. Stopping, she slowly rotated in her skyscraper heels, squinting up into the darkness. The girls were so close she could smell them. Literally. The pungent reek of craving womanflesh hung heavy in the gloomy air. It was like that time Petunia had strapped her panties over Van's helpless head, letting her lay in bondage and pure Petunia essence until the poor girl was beside herself.
The smell was having the same effect now. Van's nipples stood out against her black tube top.
Mindful of her stupid heels, she slowly climbed a nearby girder, placing her feet carefully, ascending into the gloom. At one point gas cells pressed in from all sides like huge eager breasts. Van tried not to think about it.
Then, passing through a decking level, she realized she'd arrived.
The only place comparable to what lay before her was Ra'idah's tower-locked harem, far away in the distant Sahara. As there, the vaulted chamber was filled with trussed yet aroused women. Van slowly walked between them, stepping over them, eyes wide as saucers. Every woman lay in her own tie, specially designed by Hisstle to leave them open and vulnerable and accessible. There lay Josie, hands and feet bound before her like a little prairie calf, her bottom bright red from a recent spanking. There lay Petra on her crossbeams, eyes closed and legs open, her limbs bound down so tightly. And Captain Hoffsteder in the center of the room, her wrists tied over her head, her ankles to a floor-ring, her rubber clothing in tatters from a carefully-applied knife, somehow made more sexy by the fact that her clunky black boots were still on her feet. She looked up, eyes dazed behind tilted wireframes, mouth lost beneath a wide white gag.
Amazing. Simply amazing. Van had to shake her head to remember her mission. Picking a girl laying on her side in the corner, Van knelt at her back, uncorking her acid bottle.
“Listen, all of you,” she hissed as loudly as she dared. “I don't have time to untie you all, so I'm going to burn as many knots away with acid. But when your ropes part, stay as you were. If you start running about Hisstle will simply hide until she can hunt you one-by-one again. Wait. Wait. Just wait. When she comes back, rise up from every side and grab her. She can't escape you all.”
They might not have done it. Given the choice to lay in bound yet continuous bliss or to return to duties, many of the crew might have opted for the former. But in the center of the room, the nude, suspended captain gave the assemblage a sweeping stare. The girls realized playtime was over.
Van took a second to carefully drip acid on the wrist-knots before her. There came a gentle hiss as the acid went to work. She gave another drop or two to the ankle lashings. Ten minutes and this girl would be free.
She picked her girls well, centered on those sprawled in ropes about the deck or laying on high girders, dripping acid on each critical knot. When the time came, some of them would still be hampered by various auxiliary ties, knees, and toes and such. They'd just have to free themselves as quickly as possible and join the coming rugby pile-on. With luck, they'd act quickly enough to take Hisstle down.
Stepping up to Captain Hoffsteder, Van went up on sandaled tiptoe, pressing close to the statuesque sky skipper. The captain wrapped her long fingers around the rope she dangled from in hopes of holding her bondage together until the time she'd cast it aside. As Van administered her acid drops, she tried not to focus on proud yet nude breasts that pressed against her own. She regretted she never found out how tightly the captain could tie. She'd heard such stories from Josie.
And finally it was done, a dozen or more women laying in patent bondage, their knots slowly cooking off, their freedom a sharp pull away. She'd done all she could here. Now she had to make sure Hisstle remained away until they were ready for her.
Tucking the recorked bottle into her pant's pocket, she moved aft, hoping the feline had gone forward to seek her in the gondola. She had to keep the cat looking. Descending a ladder to the bottom deck, slipping along the walkway'ed keel, she located an iron bar and took it up. The girdered frame was beginning to ascend towards the airship's tail when she stopped in a small mooring station, an open floor-hatch with its long coil of rope nearby. This was as good a place as any to start. She reached up and gave her bar three sharp raps on a nearby girder – Gong! Gong! Gong!
There, she thought. That should do it. She cocked the pipe over her shoulder, imagining Hisstle looking up at the distant ringing noise, confused. Van figured she'd move to a new location and rap out another summons. If she could keep this cat-n-mouse going long enough...
With smooth certainty, something drew the pipe up out of her grasp.
Van staggered back, looking up in shock.
Hisstle lounged on a crossbeam like some exotic pinup, her fir snow white, her face a mixture of catlike curiosity and human amusement. Her only clothing was the hunting ropes looped easily around her slender waist. Her tail didn't lash so much as rock.
“How amussing,” she purred, her long fingers playing along the pipe as if it were a manni's straining erection. “Did you mean to lurrr me out and hurrrrt me? Pain and injury goes against ourrr rrrrrules, little one. Hisstle will have to come up with some nicsssse tie-up to put you in.”
Van took another step back, then another. Her bare heel bumped into something that spilled back. She shot a look over her shoulder. The mooring rope lay in shifted disarray like a huge perverse snake. Nearby yawned the open floor hatch, a milky bank of clouds far below.
“Time for yourrr tie-up, little one,” Hisstle said, discarding the bar over her shoulder.
Van kicked the rope out the open hatch. Not looking back to confirm that Hisstle was no doubt leaping at her, not sparing a moment to let fear freeze her in her tracks, she dove low, caught the rope where it looped over the rim above the fearful drop, and let herself roll over into clear space!
She felt the rope sizzle through her grip as she started to plummet away from the airship's belly. If she got going she'd burn her hands and fall to her death. On impulse rather than thought, she clamped the rope hard with Josie's glorious, wondrous sandals, feeling them brake, feeling herself slow. She came to a stop. Forcing her eyes open, she looked around.
She hung half out of clouds that shrouded her lower body like an enormous white tutu. Above, the massive whale belly of the Unbound Pleasure. From the square hatchway, Hisstle watched her intently, tail lashing, a Well, isn't THIS interesting expression playing across her face.
Van's teeth chattered in fear. She fought the instinct to scream up to Hisstle to rescue her. If Hisstle carried her to her lair too soon, she might smell the burned ropes over the agitated musk. Van had to buy time.
But Hisstle wasn't selling any. Head-down, the nimble female started to descend the rope!
Van looked down, up, down again, wondering what to do. A braking heel slipped. She dropped sharply, squeaking in fear, clenching up on the rope. The bottle in her pocket caught against the line, the cork popping out. Acid splashed. Van squeaked again, forcing her hips away lest she burn herself on the dangerous liquid. Most of it had soaked the rope. Van watched the sparkling bottle spin away through the clouds and tried not to see the foreshadowing.
Hisstle continued down, a loop of capture rope clasped in her grinning muzzle.
Van, mindful of her fingers on the acid-wet rope, eased up on her feet. The cable started playing past. She dropped into the clouds.
Maybe she won't see me – think I've fallen. Maybe she'll lose interest.
Van slowed her descent, muffled in heavenly white.
This must be what it's like to be locked in Petunia's underwear drawer.
Van began entertaining hope that perhaps Hisstle wasn't as crazy as she was. Perhaps now she could start back up...
“...little one,” came the gentle voice from above. “...come to me... Hisstle will tie you up niccce and snug and carry you back to our lairrrr....”
The line trembled. A shape loomed in the clouds above. Van parted her ankles and hissed down the rope.
She came out of the bottom of the clouds, still descending.
A vast brown plain stretched away to all sides, so featureless and empty that for a second she took it as simply a darker cloudbank. Well away to the east she could see the heavy fall of rain that signified the leading edge of the storm that had dragged their airship to wherever this was. She looked down again, saw a single droopy wet tree, realized that she was still thousands of feet in the air.
And then the hissing end of the rope passed through the flash-burned flanks of her once-stylish sandals.
“Goddess!”
She grabbed the rope with desperate strength, feeling herself stop – just. The frayed end of the rope butted her crotch like an aggressive date. She closed her eyes, sobbed once, feeling her stilettos dangling in far too much open air.
“...little one...”
Hisstle was easing down the line, head down, eyes wide, the loop of rope now clenched in her hand. Now she was six feet above the dangling girl. Effortlessly the feline looped her lanky legs up in inverted Indian fashion to vice-grip the rope. Hands free, she zipped open the loop, readying it for capture.
“Hisstle will drop this line over your shoulders, wrench your arms to your side, just like with yourrr captain. And just like yourrr captain, Hisstle will reel you in, truss you up, sling you over our shoulder and carry you back to our lair. Deliciousss plans Hisstle has forrr you...”
Van trembled, feeling her hands beginning to slip.
“Hisstle thinks,” the cat purred, strangely calm in this fearfully airy place, “that we will tie you in an easy balltie – ankles to wrists, neck to knees. Your tight brrritches, we shall pull down. Your panties, we shall rip away. Your top, we shall pull down, exposing your tender, delicious breasts for our amusement. Your bottom, pert and tight and quivering, we shall feel, groping and stroking until you are in very much heat. Hisstle will make you sweat and moan a verrrry long time...”
Van's arms were leaden. She didn't dare move her unsupported legs lest it make her rock. Then she looked up, meeting Hisstle sweet gaze.
In this precarious instant Van truly understood bondage. She understood Hisstle. Hisstle's amorous transgressions, the capture and binding of the crew, was nothing more than her honest efforts to please. Like Petunia Goldwaith, she granted pleasure – forced pleasure – to all she could.
In a thunderflash, she realized that bondage was, to a degree, about captivity and discomefort. True. But at its root it was play between equal partners. To the bound, tied and gagged and stripped and hidden away, it was confirmation of value – after all, precious things must be possessed, correct? Additionally, the bound was absolved of any effort in events – they lay in their sex-soaked swoons, a reactive plaything. Oh, they could fight and roll and pant and mew if such drama appealed, but for the most part, their role was reactive.
And the binder? What was more heady that to sit in a room drinking tea, thinking of the cute little thing roped up in the dark boudoir. The careful consideration of position, the pacing of the torment, the hours of captivity, all these things the binder directed. From fantasies, they created living art.
The old world, the Pre-Gai-Shifted vanilla world, had not understood it. They thought bondage was rape and pain and injury and, perhaps, death. They were blind to its beauties.
Hanging at the literal end of her rope thousands of dizzying feet in the air, Van now saw it for what it was. The heavenly truths of captivity, denial and wet satisfaction stood clear and obvious. Suddenly, the world with all its captures, kidnaps and slave raids made perfect, perfect sense.
The rope twanged.
High above, strand after stand was parting from the sizzling cable. The separations came faster and faster as each cord failed under the increasing strain.
Tears streamed down Van's face.
“Hisstle! Run up the line as fast as you can! The rope's giving way!”
“Not without you, little one. Not without my golden prize...”
“I don't want you to die! Leave me!”
“I'm going to drop the loop over your shoulders now. Ready?”
“Hisstle! No!”
Hisstle cocked a wrist to lasso her plaything.
Freefall!
Van tumbled head over stillettoed heels, screaming like a steam whistle, terrified and yet embarrassed. The heavy rope had tangled around her waist like a kite's tail, dragging her, dampening her roll. She looked around in the cracking rush of wind. Hisstle. Below. Falling free, her white fur so brilliant against the dun landscape. But cats knew how to fall and Hisstle was in control, limbs out, steering her descent.
She's going to land in that tree! Please, Goddess, let her live!
Van was drifting away from the exotic, sliding across the gray sky, the long line crackling overhead.
In the Gai-Shift world, death was a quiet thing, a gentle reservation bestowed at the end of a long and very satisfied life. It almost always came with sleep. But occasionally accidents happened, small tragedies.
Van knew she was going to die.
Her mind readied itself for the inevitable.
The day she became of age. Up in her room over her mother's sewing machine store, repairing an erring machine. Noise in the street. Three girls, petticoats and wicker baskets, beaming in the sun. Her mother, her dress so blue, her blonde hair as much a mop as Van's yet braided down the back, laughing, gesturing to the side stairs. The girls start up, eager hands drawing crisp white ropes from their baskets, giggling wickedly. Deeper in the baskets, dildos, creams, clips. They were coming to pull her to the floor, pin her under their warm weight, tie her up in humiliations beyond their former cowboy-and-indians play, then slowly strip her. They were going to introduce her to womanhood...
Van shuddered at the memory, the slipstream doing nothing to cool the heat in her crotch. They'd kept her tied for two days. Mother had fed them downstairs between sessions. During an hour break, they'd left her hogtied on her side, a magazine with a naked throbbing manni carefully positioned for her enforced consideration. Something had come to her then, something more of a realization than a desire... Sun shimmering on her workroom tools. Hanging, toes dangling above the floor, her arms cramped to her sides by the giant MI fist. Rolling her shoulders, trying to pull free, impossible.
The door swings open. Lady Goldwaith strolls in, voluptuous in her Victorian petticoats, her creamy neck and bosom risque in their exposure, her hair golden in a column of sunlight painting her like an actress onstage. She inspects her dangling technical assistant with twinkling green eyes.
“Such a silly girl, thinking you could reprogram Willie Hall's MIs to target me.” A smooth glove pats her cheek. “After all, I INVENTED MI programming. Now, let's just let your program run, with you substituted for me.”
A gloved mechanical hand slaps over Van's mouth. Van's eyes widen as her mind reviews the subroutines she'd allocated for her employer, now to be directed at her. She shrills muted alarm. Petunia settles into a seat like a merry butterfly, leaning back, eager for the show to begin.
“Mmmh! MMMMFF!”
Two gloved hands, their robotic pinkies delicately extended, reach around Van's shoulders, locate her still-soft nipples, squeeze. Van throws her shoulders and yells into the handgag, booted feet kicking. But it is the third hand, the one that loops UNDER the great fist from behind, that slides up into the folds of Van's leather shop-skirt, that extends a finger and gently thrusts, that gets her. With her nipples being rolled like sexy cigars, with her puss being bump-thrust, Van can only wiggle for Petunia's amusement, a doll to be played with in the most decadent manner.
Eventually Petunia invites the maids in to watch.
The show lasts a long time.
Still falling, her hair crackling, Van smiles sadly at the memory. The ground is coming up fast now. Without thinking about how to do it, the doomed girl rolls onto her back, looking up at the rope cracking above her, a frenzied dancing snake. The maid's bedroom in the Goldwaith country estate. She's kneeling on the bed, a thick tubular extension swelling between her legs, Sasha's curse, a conversion of gender. It's a massive feeling, a heady battering-ram feeling, so thick and powerful.
Before her, Cindy lays on the bed, her torso web-wrapped with tight ropes, knees cocked and locked in ropes. Her well-lubricated, well-bored pussy glistens in the dancing candlelight. Eyes sleepy with fulfilled hunger slowly blink above the over-wide gag.
Van is more than ready for another go.
She leans over her captive, fleshy partner, hands braced on the bed above Cindy's cord-defined shoulders, sliding into the warmth of her V-ed legs. Her jutting rams-head presses against the sticky flesh, the pricking pubic hair, forcing a slobbering acceptance as it is enveloped. Cindy's sleepy eyes roll open in renewed passion, her back-throated grunts reverberating through her gag. Van finds her rhythm, pumping like the mechanisms she adores. It's everything she could hope for and more.
Still falling. Now she can smell the storm-wet ground. She's close. She has a moment to realize how much she loved this Gai world. Petunia. Zana Hoffsteder. Hallerna of the Vikings. Josie. Hisstle.
She only wished she could have-
The End
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26.02.13
story continues in Gai-Shift - Peregrine 8: Afterward
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