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Chapter 15: Simply Savored
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
Twenty-five days beyond the season of rains, sunset
I am Pili, daughter of Milli, granddaughter of Vanilli.
To me has gone Sister's diary, to create the magic of recounting. To me has gone the role of storyteller.
Sister cannot do these things, not with her tied hands clenched over her tidy breasts. She lays where we slid her from her pole, her skinny legs drawn up in clumsy bound fashion, her red hair a tangle of sweaty confusion. It will add spice to our meal.
I am tasked with writing. Sleekly elegant Jumbe and round sunny Mosi see to our trespasser. Jumbe stands behind our kneeling, sniffling girl, her hands clamped across her naked shoulders, her dress brushing the trembling back, a long dark leg jutting from a slit. Her presence seems to enshroud mousy Sister. Mosi, on the other hand, delights in retying the prisoner. For this she uses ropebeans, rather like stringbeans but longer and more fibrous, a perfect addition for security and taste. With sharp tugs, she ties the girl's wrists to her thighs, then loops each thigh closed, frogtieing her. More strands loop under her breasts, pinning her arms to her sides. Sister whines into her leaf-gag, tugging at her bonds, her fear evident. Jumbe's long fingers pat her cheek, calming her.
With a rip, Mosi pulls the gag away, jamming a bright red apple in its place. The fruit plugs Sister's frantic cries. Her eyes are wide with concern, sweat standing across her forehead. She rolls her shoulders but Mosi's ropebeans and Jumble's firm grip keep her in check.
Now it becomes very interesting. From a nearby basket, Mosi fetches a long, stiff carrot, so much like those manni shafts we pleasured ourselves on when we raided kraals. Sister sees the intent in Mosi's laughing eyes and begins to oink like a little piggie, shaking her apple-stopped head, desperate to avoid this indignity. It makes no difference for Jumbe bears forward on the shoulders she holds, folding the little nun down across the cushion of her own thighs. She brings up her long dusky leg, kneeling a leg across Sister's back, pinning her further. At her sides, Sister's bound wrists wrench, her fingers willowing like savanna grass in a high wind. Her buttocks jut upwards like a double harvest moon.
Jumbe pats a cheek, raising a chirp from our prisoner.
“Begin,” she says.
Mosi needs not to be told twice. With a lippy smile, her nose-ring flashing, she carefully eases the carrot in. The flying fingers spin in agitation. Jumbe applies more pressure, easily managing the frantic struggles beneath her.
“Mff! Mff! MFFF!” Sister wails into her fruit. “MFFFFFFFPPPPPPHHHHHHH!”
And now the carrot is gone, its only evidence the green leaves that sprout from the nun's posterior like a tail. Sister hardly moves now, her breathing shallow, not daring to stir.
But we have no concerns in stirring her. Jumbe lifts her pressure off the pink back, pulling back on the girl's shoulders, forcing her erect and then further, allowing Sister to recline against her. From her place in our sultry leader's lap, her head pillowed in strong dress-sheathed thighs, Sister's tearing eyes shutter-blink at unwelcome sensations of our indelicate trespass.
Mosi kneels before her, forcing the bound thighs apart, her hand eagerly massaging juices from the dry clit before her. From her place of repose in Jumbe's lap, Sister screws her eyes shut, trying not to surrender her will, shaking her head petulantly. Pointless; many times have I experienced Mosi's demanding molestations and regardless of whether or not one wished to reward her with a stolen climax, resistance is pointless. This our little nun discovers, her pink nipples standing as Mosi's sausage-like fingers agitate her vulva, her belly rising and falling as her breath quickens. Sitting overhead, Jumbe watches with cat-like grace, her own face breaking into a wry smile, her nipples tenting her dress. I, too, am finding my recording abilities compromised by steaming glasses, taken as I am by Mosi's methodical manipulations.
Before Sister can slide into a syrup-smooth orgasm, watchful Jumbe arrests her with a pinch to a toggle-like nipple. Sister's head goes back and she moans in pained bliss, dangling over the pit of soggy satisfaction. This was just where Mosi wants her and she takes advantage of the little nun's state, packing the wetly-puckering lips with small broccoli heads. At each insertion, Sister pushes up against her bindings, her hips rising, her head going back, her breasts jutting. Jumbe's dark hands stroke her sweaty cheeks as she hums a sweet lullaby.
Eventually no more will fit. The girl arches fully back, arms at her sides, thighs thrust wide open. Her breath is coming quick now, her chest fluttering like a bird's, her head craned back into Jumbe's dampening lap, nuzzling, automatically seeking her captor's pussy. I can tell from her glistening juices and beading, desperate sweat that we shall feast well tonight.
Now it is time, observes Jumbe. Rising with some reluctance out from beneath the supine girl, she and Mosi reach down to lift Sister by her thighs, bearing her erect like a platformed goddess towards a waiting hut. I follow, writing quickly, sparing a word now and then to jam my pencil down between my own yearning lips. Each time, it comes away wet.
When we enter, Sister nearly rocks backwards off the hands the support her.
In the center of the hut stands a large iron cauldron, its water heating from the gas fire beneath it.
Sister shakes her head in frantic desperation. If anything, that insures that Mosi and Jumbe, cruel in their own distinct ways, will carry out their task. With a muffle wail, the frogtied girl is slid into the awaiting pot, its heating water sloshing over her narrow shoulders. She looks to each of us in turn, eyes desperately begging over her lip-bulging apple.
Jumbe takes pity on her. “You won't be hurt,” she promises. “Simply savored.”
And now it is time to cook the meal. The water is heating nicely, the nun shifting and stirring but totally unable to extract herself. Struggle is good. Every time she moves, pulls at her bindings, agitates in fear or shivers in unexpected lust, it flavors our soup. I almost wish Jumbe had not made that promise – fear adds a nice tang to the stew.
Mosi stands at the chopping block, cutting up vegetables with a broad knife. Jumbe stands over the cooking girl, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, enjoying the sight of Sister's discomfort. Sweat is standing across her forehead now. When she shifts, I can see her standing nipples and know that the broccoli and carrot are swelling in their heating confines, sensating her further, adding to her arousal. I can tell she's getting logy from the heat, her head swaying, her eyes closed. She looks like a woman being hand-pleasured to some lingering climax.
Mosi comes to stand over her, her cutting board loaded with sliced vegetables. With a saucy little smile, she slides them into the heated water, allowing cross-sections of tomatoes and potatoes to bounce off the helpless girl's head. A pickle centers on her forehead, a delightful Hindu bindi mark that slowly slides down her long nose, to plop against her subtle breasts. Mosi goes back to cut up her last vegetable, a swollen blue bulb, the gift from the below-god. Jumbe, meanwhile, steps up to do her part, slowly stirring the bobbing sliced produce with a large wooden spoon. As the ever-heating waters current across her breasts and shoulders, Sister moans, her eyes closed in fated acceptance.
I can smell her now, her fear and excitement and coerced passions, all rising on the steam. I can smell the broccoli swelling in her woman's place, the carrot that balloons in her poop-hole. It was as if every essence of sister, every passion, is steaming off her pink flesh, allowing us to inhale her sexual soul.
Mosi steps back, bearing the final addition to our succulent soup. Into the pot goes sliced passion fruit, its elixir juice capable of driving women mad with lust while holding them in a grip of chastity. Sister sees this addition, watches the seeping chunks bob between her breasts, the pungent odor cooking into the steam swirling around her. Her eyes dilate as the drug takes hold. Suddenly there is a scent of broccoli as her vagina clamps down. She moans around her apple, a deep-throated moan. Around her sloshes the spoon, bathing her with a devil's brew of her own making. In the light of the low flames, Jumbe's and Mosi's eyes flash. Their nostrils flair as they breathe in the intoxicating aroma of 'nun soup'. And in the middle of her pot, Sister sways like a rubber tree, eyes closed as if sleeping, her coppery hair plastered across her forehead.
The smell of her, the sense of her, is racking my emotions now. I can hardly write. All I think of is Sister staked out in some mossy glade, curtained by a willows voluminous spill. She tugs at her ropes if only to show me she is mine. And suddenly we are not sisters in gawkiness. Suddenly we are mating succubi, grinding against each other as we discover the dark ways of shared pleasuring.
A tap on my shoulder. Jumbe, tall, elegant, queen-like Jumbe, passes me a steaming bowl and a spoon. Hard to do – bolt down two or three steaming spoonfuls, write a thought, spoon down some more. In each sip I can taste Sister's essence, the fishy smell of her slit, the earthy taste of her feet, the tang of her armpits, the salty sweat collecting between her breasts. Her natural oils stir me, her lanky juices excite me. Mosi gobbles down her bowl like a starving animal (which, from a sexual standpoint, she is) – she dips her bowl into the caldron for a second serving. Jumbe sits with long legs crossed, savoring each spoonful, allowing its tangy, saucy flavor to play across her tongue. She makes an appreciative moan of pure pleasure at its taste. Mesmerized, I watch as her nipples swell like perverse night blossoms.
I can see that our living bullion cube is struggling anew, trying to force the orgasm that just won't cum. How frustrating to be her, to look up through her own cooking steam at our black, lustful faces as we slobber over our bowls. She tugs at her bonds but if anything, ropebeans tighten up when cooked. She's not going anywhere.
Jumble sets her bowl down, her eyes afire with lusts that will not be so easily resolved, not with the ingestion of elixir. Mosi is already sinking to the floor, her soup spilling across her generous breasts and round belly, her strong thighs swinging open. It will take us most of the evening to work through the effects, to finger and probe and kiss and suck, until we are granted our release. Who knows who will end up tied, who will be on top, who will be gagged and who dominated. It is always different. It is always wonderful.
As the others pull me down (Mosi has vines in her hands, and Jumbe a gag-leaf – I think I am to be bound! I am fearful with expectant lust!) I take my last moment of unclouded thought to pull down the lever on the side of the cauldron, the one that doses the flames and opens the bottom of the pot, the one that leads below. As the soup rushes out, poor Sister begins to spin in her hot little whirlpool, her eyes wide, her apple plugging her screams. And then, with a sucking noise that excites me all the more, she vanishes below the rim in a burst of sex-fregrance, gone below.
A loop over my wrist, Mosi smiling, tugging. Jumbe already has my dress parted, her hand... her hand... cannot write... Must set diary aside... wrist... on my belly... no-
12.05.11
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 16: Out of the Pot & Into the Fire
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