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Chapter 6: Release the Lancers 2.0
It could all have been avoided.
If Petra had simply said, “You know, keeping me bound naked in flesh-tight ropes that pinch my nipples and knot up my steaming snatch excites me. I've lain here for hours watching you Viking lasses swan past with your revealing costumes and limitless morals. I'm hot now, hotter than the passion of serving the collective state. I'll do anything, lick anything, be anything, in only to endure your fondling touch.”
And if her Viking captors had said, “Bound in that pile of straw, humiliated before the entire village, you've stimulated our entire clan to the point our horns are growing erect. We might not even have the discipline to draw lots for your rope-locked glories. Likely we'll just pile on, turning the entire thing into a vast orgy of wantonness.”
But how it went was more like:
“I'll never yield to your socio-fascist advances, no mater how many ropes you lock around my freedom-loving limbs.”
“Surrender, my pretty! Surrender to out dread band of sea-going reivers!”
And so on.
So, with the same foolish miscommunication that lent itself to the Japanese Crisis on this reality and sitcoms in ours, Petra found herself in the village common, stung up between thick posts carved with eroticly graphic Norse demons. Her wrists were cuffed high over her head, well apart, her ankles locked to the post bases. She twisted against the tension, her heavy breasts swaying, her thighs straining, her thick blonde hair masking her angry continence.
She wouldn't give in. She refused to give in (even though she'd have loved to surrender to these brawny, busty women). Even though these privateers had given the Unbound Pleasure the slip, she couldn't surrender. She still was duty bound to escape, to rescue Lady Goldwaith and perhaps that manni-girl of hers, the one who'd looked so fetching belted up in her hammock, sweat beading across her forehead as she'd basked in the heat of the excited crew, a vibrator purring in her lap like an intrusive kitten.
Yes, her.
Before the spread socialist stood Old Elgard, the village elder, a willowy woman of advanced years whose robes hardly hid her still-strong, still-desirable body. Pushing back her white hair, the woman who'd seen a lifetime of passion and cruelty (sometimes simultaneously) reached into a small sack, bringing out a set of linked jeweled clips.
“First,” she laughed with a voice that should have cackled but actually sounded like a luring voice-over for a Viagra commercial, “we'll stroke those nipples of yours, make them nice and perky, then clip the first clips on. You'll moan for that, looking down at your throbbing breasts, unable to do anything about it. Then I'll fondle you below your thermocline, heating up your sauce, forcing you towards that reaction you continue to deny my clan-daughters. When you are fit to burst I'll clip up your lips, a delightfully throbbing pain that will ache through your writhing body. And I'll tenderly add more, along your buttocks, across your hips, in your armpits, a positive flock of them on your tender belly. Oh, you'll hang and throb yet secretly simmer, excited in your helplessness, unable to advance. How lovely you will look gleaming in the sun, your body slick with desperate sweat.” She smiled a thin-lipped smile, stepping intimately close. Her long finger touched Petra's left nipple, forcing an admissible gasp. “So, shall we begin, my proud darling?”
Something stirred on the edge of the forest but Petra had no time for that, her expressive Russian eyes locked on the leering clips. Then came a pop, a whir. Instantly black coils lashed around Elgard, pinning her arms to her chest like a wrapped mummy. Her hand with the clip was forced against her own breast by the biting loops, the jaws suddenly poised over her own nipple.
“Oh dear me,” the Viking elder managed in sudden irony. A moment later her grip failed and the cruel device bit her swelling flesh. “Ohhhhh...” she moaned, her expression far from unhappy. “Ohhhhhh” she explained as she slowly folded into a fetal position at Petra's spread feet.
They emerged from the forest into the sun, five fierce women garbed in blue and gold tunics, their exposed legs moving in tight unison. Behind them Sergeant Featherthrust gestured with a saber, calling their shots. With each gesture a Viking went down, lashed up for now, to be ravaged later.
The Marylebone lancers were flanked by a loose wing of airshipwomen, nets in their hands, domination in their eyes.
Petra saw the tomboy, Van, poke her head out the docked submersible's hatch and duck down lest she find herself confused with the defenders and done up with ribbons. Meanwhile Vikings poured out of their huts and the sub, streaming forward, their voices raised to descriptions of Odin bound and used in any number of alarming situations.
From the high hut, Chieftain Hallerna emerged, her arctic eyes ringed with fatigue, her hair tangled, her robe rumbled. Realizing the magnitude of the assault, she grabbed up her battle-paddle and rushed forward, her warriors instinctively forming up on her. The lancers let off a crisp volley that lashed ten busty women into shared and co-joined bundling. Still, the Viking rush might have broken the Lancers and seen them all bound uncomfortably to spits above live coals. Yet with a roar, the Unbound Pleasure lofted over the trees, its boarding nets wide and ready. As it passed over the Viking advance, Captain Zana Hoffsteder dumped her nets, sending them fanning over the packed ranks. The trained airship women moved in, pulling the nets tight around the struggling limbs of of near-naked shieldmaidens. They sang lusty airship songs as they hauled the ropes tighter. Over them stood the lancers, still popping off shots at stray Vikings, calling, “That one's mine. She's got lips made for suction!” and “A double. I'll have them both! At once!”
It was over after that. The airship circled about to drop an anchor, Zana sliding neatly down its line like a leather-clad squirrel. The airship women processed the Vikings, pulling them one at a time out of the netting, binding them up in interesting straining ways. Featherthrust released her lancers, allowing them to roam over the field of bondage, tightening ropes, tearing away clothing and beginning their first enthusiastic humps. The airship women watched this rapine with rapt interest which influenced them in turn to tie their defeated opponents into more demeaning postures. There was a certain shared hope that the Captain would allow them to each be given a hut, a helpless partner, and a little privacy.
Zana strolled up, eying Petra danging like a beautiful pink X between her posts. “First things first, Officer Petra. You keep watch all these women being bound and let it work on your imagination.” She ignored the dryly desperate cry, moving on to locate Featherthrust who stood over Hallerna poised on the green grass like a pink Easter egg, her nighty stripped away, her long arms and legs bound back into a cruel hogtie. Zana toed her hard buttock with her boot heel, smiling sweetly as her opponent grunted.
“Look's like I've got you right where I want you,” she purred.
“Do whatever you want to me! Anything! I can take it!” The chieftain then interrupted her own daring promptings. “How did you ever find us anyway? There are hundreds for fjords!”
Zana smiled. “Yours was the only one marked with a burning patch of oil. We found a charred cork in the middle of it with a dildo that had evidently been used as a detonator.”
Hallerna wrenched around in her bonds to see the winsome Van standing on the submersible's deck, her slave shift wafting around her coltish legs.
“Odin's Bound Blue Balls! The waif did it! I'd have pulled off my scheme, too, if it hadn't been for that meddling kid...!” Anything else was lost at the captain's gesture to a nearby gag-bearing crewwoman who quickly silenced the vile (but fun to look at) prisoner with a snappy turn of cloth.
“Hello!” came a cherry voice from up the hill. Everyone turned to see Lady Petunia Goldwaith, gloriously naked, arms lashed to her sides, hands bound before her, knees bound and ankles hobbled, mincing towards them. Against her swanlike throat hung a ballgag. Even at 30 meters Zana could smell the reek of woman-juice, a smell she realized also rose off the hogtied chieftain. The airship captain tried to picture these two woman sharing the loghouse in a captor/captive relationship over teasing hours and shuddering nights. She knew what Petunia was capable of. That Hallerna was still conscious spoke volumes to her stamina.
“You look very nice like that,” Zana admitted, moving forward to steady the top-heavy scientist, wishing she was not here in an official capacity (for Petunia would be over her shoulder and off to her bunk in a heartbeat if she were not). “I'm afraid we'll have to keep you bound – I've orders from the queen to secure your personage. But we'll gag and blindfold you in a cabin and mark it off limits lest you be disturbed.”
“But Zana, I want to be disturbed!”
“At lest we got here in time to keep you from revealing the secret of Goldwaith Elixir to these heartless raiders.”
“Oh, that. I told Hallerna about it the first day.”
Zana's eyes widened so violently her clipons nearly tumbled off. “What? Why?”
“Well, I was tied over this barrel with my legs indecently wide, and Hallerna was twirling this feather all around my private parts. As I started to quake, she reached up and cupped a titty. I arched in rapture at her fiery grasp...”
“No, why did you tell her? Now she can run her submersible all around the world. She can raid where she wishes, carrying off women in tight bindings, erotically breaking them over the long voyage, treating them as sexual playthings here in their camp...”
“Yes, that's way I did it.”
“What?”
“Oh, Zana. Think about it. There are a lot of women in the world trapped in dreary little lives. They might be dominated by a cruel, experimental mother. Or live in a cottage with autocratic sisters. Or perhaps in a village filled with bored native girls who have nothing better to do then to torment them. Suddenly this submarine shows up. Suddenly they are bound fast, clutched in the hoary hands of lusty sea-bitches. Before they know whats happened they'll be rocking in their belted hammocks while the crew lines up to play with them. And here, fresh air, good food, easy chores and a new bunk to be tied to every night. Can you imagine a better life?”
Zana started to imagine it but then her nipples rose against her flightsuit and she forced herself not to. She shook her head clear and noted, “But what if they don't want to be slaves for the rest of their lives?”
“Well, Hallerna and I had a good talk one of the times the gag was out. She agrees that they might end up with too many slaves. In this, she agreed to arrange to release them from their tight and juicy bondage after the flames of passion have run their coarse. Free transport anywhere in the world.”
“But what will I tell Queen Lilla?”
“Well, I'm sure we could arrange for her to be on the Embankment without guards one night, should she wish a capture to be arranged...”
“No, I mean... Oh, what's the use. Done is done, I suppose. Sergeant Featherthrust!”
“Aye,” the slender soldier called from where she'd knelt, knee in the back of a Viking she was just putting the finishing traces too.
Zana eyed the lancers who were now into their second courses. The muffled moaning of their Norse meat was as sorrowful as it was erotic. “How soon before your troopers are... done eating.”
“Well, they did gorge on your crew a few days back. I figure they'll all become flaccid by dusk. I'll buckle them into their racks as they stand down.”
“Very good.” With that, she called to her third officer who was doing quite a job lacing up a young shieldmaiden across her own shield. “Allow half the crew to take a... host of their choice into the huts. The rest I want on picket around the Unbound Pleasure's anchorfall.” An expectant groan from the less-senior members of the crew met this command – they'd have to wait in knee-locked chastity for their turns. Zana smiled. “You can all take a fondle-toy on duty with you. Just keep your eyes open and your legs shut. Switch the watches at 2pm.”
“What about me?” moaned Petra. She still hung from her posts, her thighs wet with excitement from the scenes of capture and molestation taking place around her wide-buckled feet. “Captain, I've been holding out for days waiting to make my move. I want to make my move now with any of these little blonde bints.”
Zana laughed without humor. “I promised you punishment if you failed and this is it. You can hang up there for the rest of the day and watch what takes place. I'm sure there'll be no end of binding, staking-out, massaging, pinching, teasing and tickling to keep you amused.”
Petra groaned, her cheeks flushed, her nipples strident, surrounded by a sea of hardbound womanflesh. For the umpteenth time she regretted having not given in.
But now Zana had looped an easy black-sheathed arm around Petunia's shoulder, her other hand fondling the gag still dangling around her neck. “Looks like its time to plug you up and stow you aboard, my Ladyship.”
Petunia reluctantly opened her mouth to receive the ball. “Please, don't forget to find my assistant Van. I don't want her to be left behind, to be corrupted by these barbarians.” She sighed. “I wish to be the one to corrupt her.” A moment later: “Glug.”
=< O >=
Van skipped into her quarters looking like a woodland fairy with her golden pageboyed hair, laughing blue eyes and short cotton shift. Even with the leather band locked round her slender neck (with its tinkling silver ring), she appeared winsome and carefree. Her cheery mood could be explained by having spent the afternoon applying fulcrums and levers to the Viking prisoners, increasing their discomforts to the approval of an airship women. The quicker the resolve of the captives broke, the quicker their tongues would wiggle.
She'd kept her distance from the Marylebone Lancers. Their sexual/carnivorous appetites made her uneasy.
But she was going back home now, back to London, back to her job as Petunia's assistant. It had been an interesting holiday but it was time to get back to the grind.
She'd returned to gather small trinkets bestowed to her by some of the Viking women who'd owned her during her short stay. Yes, they may be lawless raiders, but they had been gracious hosts and generous dominants. Often the maiden would cozy up with her, laughing and cooing and coddling her. While she preferred the manni fantasy, that of laying in strict ropes for strict usage, these gentle entwinements had been nice. Twice she'd been given handmade trinkets, earrings and a pin made from sea-smoothed stone. She was just scooping these up when she heard a low groan from the corner.
Sasha was there of course. With her unslavelike appetites and her domineering demands, she was always in trouble. This time her punishment consisted of dangling naked from a beam, wrists corded up here, ankles there. Old Elgard seemed to have paid a visit; Sasha's shapely butt had been assaulted by a piranha-school of clips. The scarlet-haired troublemaker could only hang in her long hours, trying not to focus on the ass-breaking pain radiating through her.
She canted her head to look to her younger hutmate. “What's happening outside. I heard something that sounded like bolofire...?”
“A British airship attacked the camp and defeated the Vikings. I'm going home.”
“Home,” Sasha moaned as if climaxing. “Home. Back to Sheepish. Once I'm back, I'll pay back Megan and the rest of them. The broom's mine. The district's mine. Cut me down so I can get these damn clips off and leave this place.”
Van placed a toe behind its opposing heel coyly. “I don't know anything about brooms and districts. I just know you were very mean with me that first night, not asking permission or saying please, just jumping into my cot. And Hallerna's maidens will need lusty slaves to get their orgasium processing started.” In her girlish hands Van was slowly placing a mouth-plugging knot in a long cotton swath. “No, I think you should stay here. It would be best.”
“You can't leave me here! You have to let me go! I've got to go back! That little Megan needs to be trussed up and canned most strictly! I can't stay here! No! Don't! I won't....... GASP-Mupfherffff....”
Van released the sharp nose she'd clamped shut to force in the gag and smiled down at the gently rocking redhead. Sasha did look adorable done up like that, with her hair and ass sharing the same color. The little mechanic smiled, thinking how nice it would be to be a manni right now with Sasha positioned just so. How easy it would be to sidle up to her dangling ass, to press her blood-engorged head into whatever orifice she pleased, to slowly ram against the dangling woman like a doorknocker against a sweating, trembling door. How nice it would be to be a manni.
Outside, the engines of the Unbound Pleasure were rumbling to life – time to go. She scooped up her trinkets and traipsed toward the hut's door. Behind her, Sasha hung in mute, painful suspension. But the witch was not through, not yet. There was something about this little girl that played right into her hands, that dovetailed into her magical abilities quite well. Into her gag she pronounced the curse, adding a suitable delay-deployment spell so the transformation wouldn't be immediately. Better it waited until she was home in London, surrounded by women. She cast it with a flick of her wrist-bound fingers.
In the doorway Van paused, struck by something that felt like a hot flash. She shivered, her nipples suddenly rasping against the rough shift. Her sigh was guttural. But being young, she shook it off and dashed out into the bright sunlight, going home.
The End
30.01.12