Chapter 7: Pollywogs
The Unbound Pleasure throbbed west, its massive shadow thrusting over Puerto Rico's lush hills. To catch favorable winds, they dropped low over southern Cuba, the pulse of their propellers rising the faces of brightly-dressed women and imprisoned men.
The warmer lower-altitude air convinced Captain Hoffsteder to order the cabin windows opened, to admit the jungle's scent. Constance Drummand leaned out an open port, the sun hot on her rubber-clad back, the wind a caress across her cheek. Endless treetops slid past two hundred feet below, then a clearing where a naked man lay pegged out on the grass. A dark woman, scantily clad in a swimsuit, played with his body with a willowy peacock feather. She twisted to look up at the passing airship, waving gaily. Constance smiled and returned the greeting.
She looked over to where Zana and Petra discussed their course and asked, "Will we fly direct and cross over the Andes east of Ecuador?"
Zana curled a stand of dark hair around a rubber-sheathed finger. "No, we'd have to climb to clear them and then vent to drop to Quito."
"Climbing and venting sounds like fun," Lady Petunia beamed from the window bank opposite.
Zana ignored her ribald comment. "No, Officer Drummand, we will cross over Panama tonight, then run down the coast to Ecuador."
"So we should be there..." Constance hazarded a rough guess, "...perhaps by noon tomorrow?"
Zana and her second officer exchanged knowing glances. With a tight little smile dancing across her pert lips, Zana replied, "Perhaps."
They dined in style as the airship droned across the Gulf of Mexico, the sun tracing the Unbound Pleasure's hull in golden highlights. As the sky turned indigo, Zana retired from the bridge. "Tomorrow will be a big day, girls. Get your beauty sleep."
Constance walked aft to the cabins with Petunia. As the scientist passed into her cabin, she looked back at the constable. "See you tomorrow, Pollywog."
Inside her tiny stateroom, Constance stripped off her rubber clothing, wondering about Petunia's strange parting nickname for her as she showered in the small side-compartment. Was there no end to her Ladyship's silliness? Sighing, she settled into her narrow cot, looking out at the night sky. The propellers rumbled on and on, lulling her to sleep. Her last though was of the five desperate women who were being mechanically serviced again and again, the juices of their passions driving the airship on through the darkness. She wondered what it would be like to be one of them, hanging in her cuffs as she was whisked to her pinched, plugged, and penised fate. All while Lady Petunia watched in girlish delight...
Her dreams were erotic, of jungle clearings and rubber suits and peacock feathers...
Her waking was anything but restful. Strong hands clamped over her mouth. With her police training, she was instantly awake but her arms and legs were pinned by the callused hands of the crew-women. Executive Officer Petra grinned down at her, her broad face leering in anticipation.
"You get special treat today, Miss Bobbie. We untied the entire crew for this. Lace her up, girls, nice and tight."
And they did just that. Constance was taken aback by their restraint of choice-rubber tubing-and could only watch over her shoulder as her arms were pulled behind her back and made fast by their cold coils. Distantly, another woman pinned her ankles with a strong arm, lashing her feet together with more tubing. But they didn't stop there; tubing wrapped around her naked body like tiny, insidious snakes, welding her arms to her back and her legs together. The compression was just enough to be on the borderline of pain. When the smirking women were done, Constance's physical form was little more than a slender pink cylinder of flesh, bulging around the tight black bands. A strip of rubber gripped her lower face with unyielding pressure, maintaining the wading that muffled her.
Constance twisted in her bunk, trying to not think of how her compressed breasts jutted in the banding, red and inviting. She wrenched at her bonds, causing the tubes to squeek like children's balloons. Everything was so tight. She grunted into her gag, issuing impotent demands. Petra laughed it off, calling out an order.
"Up with her, Mateys. Carry her aft."
She was carried like a sack of grain between two laughing women to the cargo bay aft. It was crowded; women crewmembers lined the walls and sat on boxes, a semi-circle of leering expectant femininity. In the center of the floor lay eleven naked women, bound up with rubber tubing as was she. Hanging upside down against the rear wall was Bert51. No doubt he'd been pulled out and lashed up to allow him to stretch out a bit. Hanging from his legs would work wonders to untwist muscles knotted in his long confinement. However, the tight cords that laced up his sexual organs looked painful indeed, purpling his manhood with their constriction. She could not tell how he was taking his change of confinement-his face was hooded.
Constance was dumped on the floor next to the other women. With a shock, she noticed Lady Petunia, the woman she was supposed to safeguard, tied up nearby, a plump little bundle. Over the gag, the scientist's eyes flashed with excitement. Constance felt a sudden and unexpected flash of horniness race through her blood. Her Ladyship, happy and bound and naked, was quite a package indeed. With her ample breasts compressed by the cruel tubing and her hips and crotch so thoroughly webbed, she looked like a delighted fly in a black web. And Constance, quite unexpectedly and inappropriately, wished to be the spider. She shook her head clear, returning herself to the situation at bound hand.
Looking around, she realized that the remainder of the bound girls were the producers of Orgasium and the engineers who'd maintained their processing equipment. Lady Goldwaith and her entire staff, bound and gagged. Constance wondered if Zana Hoffsteder and her crew had gone rogue. Were they kidnapping the scientist and her team to sell their inventions to some foreign power? But that felt wrong. Nationalism had died out with the manni dominion. But if not that, then what?
At that moment, Captain Hoffsteder stepped into the cargo hold, her narrow face pinched into a smile. She reviewed the captive womenflesh arrayed before her.
"So, here you are, my little pollywogs," she smiled as her rubber boots paced around the collection of captive women. "There is a naval tradition that when a vessel crosses the equator, the first-timers-pollywogs-are run through a little ceremony. When it's all done, you'll be experienced shellbacks. Petra, if you'll rig the girls? Six in the first batch, if you please."
Petra and some of the crew spread thick matting on the deck, then began selecting women, rolling them onto it. When Petunia was pushed with a mouse-like muffled squeak onto the matting, Constance struggled painfully forward, her gag humming with concern. She must go with Petunia! She just must! The scientist was in her care.
The airship captain noted her protests and called out to Petra. Moments later, warm female hands scooped up the woman constable and tossed her into the mat. And then the crew went to work on them.
The six girls were laid out next to each other on the mat, alternatively head or feet pointing towards the prow of the airship. Then they were rolled together into the mat to find themselves bundled together like wheat in a sheath. Constance grunted at the pressure of her tube bindings and the hot pressure of the others. Meanwhile, crew women slipped thick belts around the outer surface of the mat, holding the entire package together. Never before had Constance been so completely trapped in bondage. Through a collection of milling feet, she saw the face of the Indonesian lass from the extraction circuit, her small face cruelly compressed by its rubber gag, her eyes sad and resigned. Another girl she didn't know shared their end, facing outwards.
Pressed against her sheathed, bound form in steamy proximity was the flesh of her co-pollywogs. Breasts pressed against her shins. Fingers wiggled in her crotch. A knee pushed into her chest. She was reminded of one of those south-American meals-what had that been called? A burrito! That's what they were, a womanflesh burrito!
The nearest feet to her she somehow recognized as those of Lady Petunia. They milled about, smelling faintly of sweat and soap, perfectly formed and highly arched. The feet brushed her face once, then again. And then, strangely, they cupped around her, rubbing against her cheeks like cats. Meanwhile, at the other end of Constance's existence, someone nuzzled her own bare feet. She grunted in denial. How could Petunia think this was time for erotic play? Yet somewhere in that compressed bundle of tube-crimped flesh, her nipples were stirring. She closed her eyes and moaned, trying to think of a way out of their fix yet totally distracted by the women she was supposed to safeguard!
"Day set, Captain," Petra called after she'd slipped heavy hooks through the belts looped around the mat. The lines from the hooks was gathered above into a single line. Zana nodded, touching a switch on a wall-mounted control panel. A moment later, line was pulled in through a set of pulleys. The belts contracted fractionally, and then with a shared grunt, the horizontal roll containing the six women was lifted off the deck.
From somewhere down among her feet, Petunia giggled madly. Constance cursed into her gag. What was going on? A moment later, she found out, and it brought her no peace.
The captain touched another switch. There was a burst of wind and sunlight as the deck below them folded back. Constance looked down to see the brilliant blue of the Pacific Ocean (they'd crossed Central America overnight, Hoffsteder had said) moving slowly past, a hundred feet below. And then a winch whined and the women gave a collective muffled cry as the line spooled out and they were lowered clear of the airship.
They spun slowly in the wind. The long hair of the Indonesian intermixed with her own, a fluttering madness. Constance craned a look upwards; the Unbound Pleasure loomed massively overhead, its open bay ringed with smiling female faces, her engines barely ticking over. Zana and her crew did not want to kill them, of course, merely to give them a good slow-speed dunking. That, and the fact that the Orgasium production units were now offline resulted in the engines idling, conserving speed and fuel.
A wave heaved upwards, spraying them with brine. Constance was not looking forward to this. From somewhere footward came Petunia's giggle. Feet rubbed Constance's face. The Indonesian girl drew long breaths through her nose, preparing herself. If only Petunia would stop!
And then a massive splash. The bundle, trailing a stream of bubbles, spun slowly through the aquamarine waters. All the feet around Constance began to wiggle as if swimming. Water gurgled into the tight wrapping, sloshing this way and that, a strange mixture of hot and cold. Constance held her breath, ignoring the dizzying swirl, the hiss of bubbles, and the grunts of her fellow captives. How long would their dunking last? How long?
With nothing but emerald nothingness before her eyes, she fell back on her tactile senses. She felt the tight elastic bonds the crewmembers had bound her up with so cruelly. The press of wet female flesh pressing in from all sides, heated, squirming. The brush of Lady Petunia' instep against her cheek. The brush of that same Ladyship's hair across her own soles. The vibration of the line that ascended upwards to where Zana Hoffsteder smirked down, her finger placed on the winch's retract switch. Suddenly she saw her place in this sad yet exotic situation, her helplessness and dependence and passivity. She felt her nipples hardened against flesh not her own. Water heated by other excited flesh swirled around her sensitive mound. She felt her excitement gathering, and sensed the same in the women pressed around her...
And then they erupted from the waves, water streaming from their lashings. The Indonesian shook her hair from her beautiful eyes, blinking into the sun. Petunia giggled in mad delight. Constance moaned in relief. They were through it.
The line reeled up, raising them slowly into the shadow of the airship. One moment was filled with the beating thunder of the fluttering props and then they were inside the hold with its relative silence. A grinning Hoffsteder shut the door and lowered them to the deck. Though her wet and weary confusion, Constance could hear some of her words.
"Welcome back aboard, ex-pollywogs. One step separates you from being a true shellback, and my crew will help you with this. Comrades, take them to the cabins. Petra, you know my choice."
Constance could hardly move, so disorientated was she by her ordeal. Still, she sensed Petra's strong arms, and a moment later, she was lofting up over the deck, the burly Russian's shoulder jammed into her stomach. Her elastic bands creaked as she was doubled up. One steadying hand wrapped around her legs, another settled over her buttocks. She was being carried over the officer's shoulder...
Hardly able to breath, seawater streaming from her hair, she sensed more than saw booted feet following them as she was borne along the hallway. A doorway. Petra's broad face before her, so bluntly sexual, as she was held erect. Other hands worked along her flanks, the tubing squeaking, falling clear. The gag pealed away, the wadding tumbling from her numb lips. Then Petra lifted her bodily by the shoulders and pressed her against something that was cool against her wet back and buttocks. Her head lulled forward, her tangled scarlet hair cutting off the world from view. Compression, tightening around her limbs and belly.
Strong Slavic fingers lifted her chin, a touch of a glass against her lip. "Drink. It will brace you." And so she did, tasting the sweetly-tart liquid that flowed over her tongue. Petra and her assistant left. Constance hung as if in space, slowly returning to full consciousness, fortified by whatever Petra had given her.
She shook wet red hair from her eyes and looked around her. Captain Hoffsteder's quarters! And she was strapped, as Lady Petunia had been, spread-eagle to the wall! She wiggled fingers and toes but found no purchase. She looked down at her body belted to the wall, buckles gleaming in the cabin's lighting, leather banding so snug against her wet flesh, wide opened, helpless...
Through the walls, she could hear other women being secured. Muffled pleas harshly cut off by cupped hands and thick cloth. The grunt as ropes were pulled tight, then tighter. The creak of small bunks as helplessly bound women finally settled, resigned to their fates. All around her, the women of the burrito wrap dunking team were bound, secured, and made fast.
How was Lady Petunia bound? Was she merrily chuckling though her gag as crewmembers added more and more tight rope, trying to break her cheerful spirit? And the Indonesian; this morning, her existence had been endless mindless cycles of sleep and sex beneath her automated taskmasters. Then, suddenly, she'd been thrust into a bundle of women and dropped from the belly of a zep into the ocean. She too was likely bound, likely blinking through exotic eyes at this new world of tiny cabins and ship-shape knots.
Through the wall came the whine of the winch; the second group of girls was being dropped into the ocean below. Constance closed her eyes and remembered the sexual strangeness of the experience. Oddly, she wished she could be with this second group, to experience it again.
The more she thought about the bondage around her, the hotter she got. Her breath rasped in her lungs, her belted breasts straining against the straps holding her torso fast. Her lust was growing, becoming almost painful in its intensity. And then she realized what had happened: Petra had given her some of Petunia Goldwaith's formula! That was the only thing that could explain the pounding passion that radiated from her trembling body like flames. Had it not been for the straps, she would have torn into the hall, tumbling the first girl she'd found, anything to sate this mad hunger that was roaring through her.
She began to scream aloud for Zana. She needed attention. She demanded attention. Other women began to call out, desperate shrieks in an airborne lunatic asylum, struggling against their ropes, desperate for the relief of a playful caress. One by one, they eventually fell silent, likely gagged. And then the door opened. Zana, her slender form gleaming in its rubber flight suit, stepped in. She smiled a frosty little smile at her captive as she stepped up. A moment later, a strange gag was thrust into the policewoman's mouth. Zana buckled it in place, then squeezed an attached air-bulb, expanding the gag within Constance's mouth until her jaw creaked. The pale blue eyes behind the clip-on spectacles glimmered in amusement.
Now that Constance was safely strapped and muffled, Zana casually unzipped her flight suit and stepped out. The captive groaned at the slender body with its discrete patch of pubic hair and modest breasts whose nipples had begun to harden. Zana smiled, carefully placing her clip-ons aside, casually and absolutely naked before her desperate, helpless victim. Constance would only look over the wide gag with vulnerable eyes, tears of anguish forming. A sense of love/lust roared through her system, the result of Petunia's damnable elixir. She wanted to wrap her arms around Zana's warm, slender form and hug her, pressing against her warm, soft flesh. Simultaneously, she wanted to bind the Captain into the most frustrating bondage possible, until she was little more than a ball of trapped, quivering flesh. Yet she wanted Zana to bring out that cunning box of instruments, to pinch, confuse, and torment her to rapture. She was a sexual nexus point, lusting for a direct assault against every sexual nerve ending until her pussy exploded in a white hot flash of incandescent passion.
For the longest time Zana studied her, smiling at her guest's desperate whimpers and the slight creak of the straps. Then, finally, she stepped forward, slowly, seductively, her slender face nuzzling Constance's. Narrow hands slipped up and down her torso, tracing the cruel belts, sliding over nipples, feathering over but not touching her aching slot. Constance's eyes were now screwed shut, her panting desperate, an animal in a trap. Zana whispered horrific things into her ear. The fingers continued their play.
Constance's last sane thought was how she wouldn't survive this...
23.02.09
story continues in Gai-Shift 7: Pollywogs
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