Explore a world which women rule, a world without wars, pestilence - or pesky domineering men! Slaves to their female masters, they exist only to provide pleasure...
Chapter 1: Welcome to the world of the Gai-Shift
Sergeant Thompson lead the retreat, speeded by whining enemy bullets, hampered by his aging body's arthritis. The dozen men who were all that was left of his regiment dove into their familiar defensive trench. The sacrifices of the dead had not moved the Germans back a single foot. This came as no surprise; nothing had worked over the eight years the Great War had so far run.
He panted, his gasps creaking his wizened ribcage. This sort of running, dodging, and dying were a game for the young, not a fifty-year-old railroad signalman. But there were no young men left, just old men like Thompson. His fellow-survivors were quite a graying, pathetic lot.
Overhead, airships of the various powers dropped their bombs, fired their cannons, and engaged each other in their usual bloated fashion. The invention of light-weight armored cloth had turned the lighter than air craft into the true aerial battleship it had originally been envisioned as. The upstart, the aeroplane, had come and gone. Thompson hadn't seen any since 1917.
As bombs thundered across No Man's Land, Thompson looked to his communication's officer, who was busy with his mud-spattered telephone. "Get Artillery Corps on the line! They were supposed to drive the bloody zeps off!"
The com officer looked up at him blankly. "News flashing all up and down the wire, Sarge. From home. It's the women." Thompson looked at him, waiting. "They've started having kids."
"That's wot they do," someone muttered.
"No, no, no," stammered the phone man. "They're having kids without men's help. All over the world. Women giving birth, mostly to baby girls."
Outside the trench, it was thundering hell; inside, there was a dead quiet.
"Like frogs," someone else muttered. "They change their biology to match their environment."
"Wot's this mean for the likes o' us," one of Thompson's men asked. He had no answer.
= O =
Constance awoke as her thin sheet was gently pulled away, to reveal her trim naked body.
Groggy with sleep, she tried to roll clear but was just not fast enough. The massive hand-like multi-claw snapped down over her, pinning her arms to her sides. From its wrist gear box, cogs whined as the fingers ratcheted tight. The leather-sheathed fingers snugged stringently. As they tightened, they arched her back, thrusting her breasts forward and out.
She whipped her head back and forth, her shoulder-length scarlet hair blurring. She made as if to scream-it was within her rights. If she could involve her neighbors, they might shut off her Mechanical Intelligence, saving her from its card-punched dictates. Such was within the established rules.
The single glowing sensor of the machine sensed this. A pivot arm, mounting a padded concavity, snapped down over her lips, her cheeks, and her jaw, instantly silencing her. Constance moaned in resignation. She was in for it now.
With a whistle of steam from its joints, the robotic arm began to ratchet upwards, lifting her from her warm bed, raising her nude, captive body into the middle of the room. As her legs cleared the sheets, two side arms swung down, snapping her ankles back to her thighs. She tried to keep her knees together, but such was counter to the machine's intent; it ratcheted her legs apart, exposing her auburn-haired sex to the room's cool air. Suspended, spread, and gagged, she was helpless.
It really cheesed her off. She thought of herself as a capable, dominant woman. To be plucked up and mech-handled so easy annoyed her. And now came the penalty for her failure...
Within the MI, a new set of program cards slipped into the input slot, blurring as they were read. With a hiss of steam, the machine slowly swung her over to the corner of the room, swiveling and rotating her around so that she was orientated correctly. She looked down at her old friend, the leather-jacketed dildo, slowly rotating up under its own programming. A small tube swung down, coating its cool black surface with pungent oils. She was held over it, giving her enough time to look down the length of her pinioned body at the throbbing mechanical device eagerly awaiting her. Then, with slow, methodical grace, the arm lowered. Constance screwed her eyes shut, bracing for the lust that would follow. A moment later, the appliance's whine took on a deeper tone as it went under load. Constance warbled into her tight gag, unable to stop the mechanical rape. Why did she program the machine to do this? Why? Why? She swore she would pull its cards, rip them up, and dash them down the trash chute. She promised herself every time it took her. But she never did.
Some women were very methodical, always arranging the same servicing time and events into their card decks. Constance preferred randomness in the attacks. Perhaps one in four times she could elude the MI. But it would take her at the darndest times; once, it plucked her out of a soapy bath. Another time, it grabbed her up in the midst of a party she'd been hosting. How her female guests had laughed and cheered as she was lowered onto the plug. Nobody, of course, had shut off the machine.
Eventually the machine finished with her. Dazed, she didn't even feel herself being levered off its mount, swung back over her bed, and unceremoniously dropped. She lay in crumbled ruin, moaning in the reverberations of her ecstasies. It was only when the alarm clock rattled twenty minutes later that she stirred to any purpose. She was a cop. She had a duty to perform.
After washing her tender, abused body in the shower, she proceeded to dress. White blouse, leather skirt, slender knee-length boots, the standard bobby uniform. Her red eyebrow arched as she noted the day; August 25th, 1982. Gai-Shift day. Sixty years ago, what was known then as the Great War, and now as the Final War of Men, ended. The living cells of women, like the clockwork memory of her MI, had hit a tipping point. Suddenly it was possible for women to mentally trigger their own pregnancies. Men were no longer needed. The male species, decimated by the war and selective breeding, was now a consumer good available to the wealthy, rather like show horses in the last century. Without their wars, economic competition, pollution, and brutality, the world was a better place.
Twice in her life, Constance had experienced a manni. The last time was at a spa, where she'd rented a strapped-down one for a few delightful hours. He'd strained against his straps, moaning into his gag. Constance had found the experience to be noisy, messy, and yet oddly enjoyable, in a dirty animalistic sort of way. It was certainly different from the detailed and passionate affairs she'd shared with other women, and certainly a lot more strange then her MI's assaults.
Sometimes she thought about owning a manni for herself. Still, it was an awful lot of money.
Shaking away her daydreams, she descended her building and caught the nearby tube train for Piccadilly Station. The recombination steam engine pulling the coaches produced very little steam and soot. Quite a trade-off, when you considered they could burn just about anything. Petroleum-fueled engines had been in their infancy when the change had come and the yoke of Male-Dominance had been cast aside. Goodness knows where the world would have been had that wasteful technology had been further pursued.
She entered the Central London Precinct House. Her desk Sergeant, a hook-nosed older woman with a hard eye and cruel smile, nodded to her. On the nearby bench were three women, a nun, a maid, and a third (impossible to tell her occupation or social rank, given her nakedness). They sat in gagged silence, roped in creatively unique styles. Clearly, they had been brought in to be processed by justice. As soon as the court officers could get around to it, they would be tried. Their civilian-applied ropes would be removed, while official straps took their place. And then justice would be served.
Constance had to smile. She loved when justice was served. It was painful and scary and erotic and lovely. She'd been served many times in the past, and always looked forward to it.
She passed through a door and into a long corridor. In one room, a number of mannis hung bound and gagged from overhead racks. Most of them had been WWP (Wandering Without Permission). They, too, would face justice before being returned to their owners. That was quite a bit of fun in itself. Often, Constance would take her lunch down to the room and watch them being disciplined.
She ignored the low moans echoing from the room, her heals clicking as she continued along the hall. As always, she stopped and exchanged pleasant words with Samantha, the Routing Officer. As always, the girl's desk was a snowstorm of paper. The two women chatted about their plans for the coming weekend, ignoring the ranks of strapped, gagged, and naked women hanging in orderly inverted rows along the far wall. These women had been found guilty of various crimes. Buckled up like meat in a butchers' shop, they hung awaiting the execution of their sentences, determined by Judge-Mistresses, their punishments jotted upon their toe tags. Constance had to smile knowingly at their concern. Everyone got arrested from time to time; it was part of everyday modern life. Several times, she had found herself dangling in strapped helplessness, her blood pounding in her ears, her fate looped around her far-away toe one memorable time. Rarely did she even know what her crime had been-someone had sworn out an arrest on her and the Judge-Mistress had determined it to hold merit. The crime was unimportant. Nobody cared.
And so she'd hung. That last time, it had been a little embarrassing to have Samantha kneel down to smile into her inverted face, to coo at how her head now matched her hair in redness. And how the girl had touched her, stroking her body, tracing her breasts, as if it were of no concern. Prisoners had no rights, no matter who they had been. Then the officer had stood, and Constance had been left to look at those delightful legs as Samantha read her toe-card and whistled. "You're in for it now," she chirped. Constance had decided that, someday, she'd see her bold little friend hung from her heels and run through the mill.
But past was past. She held no true grudge. As they continued their ordinary chat, Process-Servers came and went. Often, they would cross to the hanging crop of helpless women, examine their tags, and select one. With routine complacency, they would push their court-appointed victim along the overhead tracks, steering them to their little processing rooms. From some rooms came the crackle of paddles across pert buttocks. From others came the wisp of feathers and the muffled cries of laughter. And from others, an ominous silence. Justice was served in the most interesting manner possible.
Occasionally a woman would be picked out and rolled to the corner. When this happened, the hanging prisoner would whine and plead, to no avail. In the corner was a round pit, from which wisps of steam trickled up. Once centered, their hanging pulleys would be spooled out, and they would be lowered into the darkness. Constance did not know why these women were selected. Perhaps it was for repeat offenders, or simply the whim of the Judge-Mistresses. All Constance knew was that vast machines lurked in the darkness, machines that made her home MI, with all its programmed deviances, look like an egg-beater. Woman consigned to the pit usually went to the hospital days later. And always with dreamy smiles on their weary faces.
Constance bid Samantha a good day and walked the short hall to her office. She settled behind her desk, fetching the first of the message capsules from the pneumonic catch-cage. The usual police business. Orgasm-theft. Dozens of kidnappings. Public displays of captivity. Unbrokered partner swapping. Yawn.
Crime and justice were different from when mannis had run things. In fact, they were hardly recognizable, and actually defied solid description. Murders, thefts, and robberies, like bronze weapons, were lost to history. Now, the police processed women citizens as it saw fit. If a woman was delivered bound to the station, she was likely guilty of something. Police officers walking their beats could apprehend a suspect on gut feeling (often, perhaps, this feeling might be that the woman in question could really use a good tickling/spanking/dildoing). Generally, the punishment fit the crime, and generally, it was rather enjoyable.
Every so often, another message cylinder rattled into the cage. She carefully read one; a serial fondler was working the Knightsbridge district. Constance knew exactly who this woman was; she'd personally processed her in the past. Jotting down an arrest order, she slipped it into the correct tube. It hissed away. No doubt the criminal would be in bonds within hours.
Suddenly her door opened. She looked up, frowning. Samantha was supposed to clear her visitors.
Standing in her doorway was a stocky blonde, her face a cheery oval, her eyes flashing in inner delight. Her bust was impressive, her hips generous, yet her tummy was fit and her legs well-built. She was dressed immaculately, and her wealth was evident by the strapped, bridled manni at the end of her firmly-grasped leash.
"Who let you in, Miss...?"
"Miss Goldwaith," the blonde intruder beamed, handing over a card. "Petunia Goldwaith." Her card confirmed the name, and added but a single word: "Scientist".
"The Routing Officer is supposed to clear visitors. How did you...?"
"Oh, her," Miss Goldwaith giggled like a little girl. "I've got a Royal Charter from the Crown. She tried to stop me but I had her arrested. Some officers stripped, strapped, and hung her up while I watched. She has a cute little butt. Oh, I hope they order her a paddling. Do you think we might watch?"
Constance blinked at that information. She was used to dealing with rich puffers. But rich puffers with a charter were another matter. At the wave of Miss Goldwaith's finger, Constance could find herself naked, strapped, and slowly being lowered into the pit, where dark machines reached for her while their attendant probes spun up...
"Dear me, you look flushed," Petunia said in concern. "Could I get you something?"
"Oh, no no, Miss Goldwaith. I'm fine. Now, what can I do for you..."
The scientist smiled, her gloved hand absently stroking her manni's growing rod. The manni grunted and groaned into his leather gag, his swelling member restricted by cunningly-placed rhinestone straps. Constance watched the slow masturbation, knowing exactly how the poor manni felt.
"I am afraid," Petunia said, all rosy smiles, "that I was unable to catch your name. Your silly little Routing Officer did not manage to give it to me before they seated her gag. And you are...?"
"Chief Officer Constance Drummand."
"Oh, too formal. We shall have to call you Connie." Constance winched at that; she hated that name. While she digested that, Petunia absently flicked the end of the slave's throbbing penis with a gloved finger. The manni looked as if he'd pass out, but didn't dare to.
"Now, Connie, you must come with me. We're late as it is."
"Late? Late to where?"
"Buckingham Palace, Silly," Petunia Goldwaith chided, giving her slave's collar a tidy little yank. "Science calls!"
21.01.09
story continues in Gai-Shift 2: Queen Lilla's Mission
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