Chapter 12: Bert51 to the Rescue
Bert51 moaned.
How had his life come to this? Only a week ago, he'd been happy in the Royal Stables, content to suffer his bondages and to occasionally jolly the lady riders. And now here he was, bound hand and foot with rough hemp ropes, laying on the woven grass carpets in the bedchamber of a juiced up Ecuadorian queen, his body throbbing after being used, molested, probed, licked, tickled, thrust, raped, wrenched, wenched, gnawed, and vacuum-pumped. The queen, it would seem, had had a strong reaction to Lady Goldwaith's elixir.
As best as he could, he twisted his throbbing shoulder muscles and looked up at the bed. The woman who had literally devoured him lay in a near-coma state on her featherbag bed, her face wet with her sweat and his juices, snoring quietly. Earlier, she'd returned from her pursuit with mistresses Drummand, Hoffsteder, and Goldwaith, the three cruelly bound, and ordered them detained in a nearby hut. Then, with eyes burning like twin furnaces, she hauled Bert51 into her Royal Chambers, panting like a bellows. It would appear that her burning sexual hungers had allowed her to overcome her original dismay of his presence.
And so three hours had passed with her unable to sate her burning lusts, using him in every desperate way possible. Finally, a three-minute shuddering orgasm had racked through her - it had almost shaken poor Bert51's teeth out, jammed as his head had been into her crotch while she'd arched his legs back to suck at his toes. He'd ridden out the storm, his skull feeling like a walnut in a nutcracker, before being discarded like a broken doll on the floor. She'd simply toppled back into bed in a near-death post-orgasmic state and the chaos of the bedchamber had stilled.
A stillness ruffled by the murmur of airship engines.
He could hear it circling around above the clouds in the midnight sky, a distant throbbing. The Unbound Pleasure was looking for her captain. But to recover her would be tricky indeed. The jungle was a carpet of blackness, the location of the village unknown. And the natives were alert, being as capable as he of detecting the whisper of her engines. One hundred dangerous fire arrows stood notched against one hundred bowstrings.
He lay there, slowly struggling with the ropes, looking for a way out. Then a door creaked open and a young, pleasant handmaiden slipped in. She gave him a long look up and down as if she'd never seen a manni before (which she, of course, had not). With care to not awaken her sleeping queen (though not even dynamite would have shifted her at this point), she took hold of Bert51's ankles and dragged his bound body from the room.
In a small side room, she cradled him in her arms and slowly began to wipe clean his stained, sticky body with a wash rag. She took her time, marveling at the differences of his body, in particular the legendary difference. When he was finally cleaner than he'd ever been, she smiled a conspiratorial little smile. A moment later, she lowered her head down over his member, slipping it between her sulky lips, her tongue exploring its alien delight. Bert51 moaned to himself. Certainly he couldn't. Not after his Royal Performance. But the handmaiden's steady attention soon had him swelling within the tight confines of her mouth. Her nails bit into him like a cat pinning a doomed bird. He was conscious of the tight ropes, and then suddenly he was floating in bliss, feeling himself pulse out a little more of himself while she enthusiastically lapped away. He took no little pride in his accomplishment.
She cleaned him up again, a little dabbing attention to hide her unauthorized use of government property, and then did a curious thing. One moment he was sitting in her lap, enjoying her attentions. Then she rolled him onto his belly, her fingers working his knots.
He remained motionless, even as his arms were freed, for now she was working on his legs. When she was all done, she twisted around, seeking longer thicker ropes. Bert51 had the impression that she was going to bind him up comfortably for the night, leaving him on the side room floor. And strangely, she had the assumption that he would just sit there and allow himself to be tied without a fuss.
Always, in England, there had been a half-dozen women within easy call whenever he'd been released. But here he was, alone with her in a small room, the queen lying in state next door, and the balance of the natives stationed on the village's perimeter to watch for any sky invaders. It was no trick at all to reach around the handmaiden's smooth cheek and clamp a hand over her mouth. Then, with ropes still warm from his captivity, he bound her up, marveling at the wonderfully strange sensation it gave him. Bound hundreds of times himself, he'd never tied a woman up, and he found the experinace quite enjoyable.
She watched over her shoulder, her lower face bundled within a sash-gag, as he laced up her small dove-like hands, corded her trim ankles, then drew the entire collection up into a nice crisp hogtie. Through it all, she hardly moved a muscle, seemingly content to be bound up by this strange demon. She looked so alluring that Bert51 had to pause to slip a hand down past those trim little buttocks, to fondle her wet pulsing vagina with his knowing fingers. She murfed into her gag and arched her back but could not escape the fate he gave her. A moment later, her small hands clenched into fists, her toes arched back, and she gave a long, luxurious moan into her gag. With that out of the way, Bert51 stood, wiping his hand on his naked hip, a desperate plan forming in his mind.
He slipped back into the bedchamber, moving as quietly as he could. The queen snored like an idling sex machine. Swallowing nervously, he crossed to where Petunia's canteen hung from a small peg. Likely the queen had plans to utilize its frustrating liquid on her enemies. Bert51 had heard the airship crew speak of the formula during his rest periods; its power fit into his plans as well.
With the canteen in his possession, he slipped into the village lane, the darkness cloaking him. Distantly he thought he caught a trace of the burble of engines hovering at high altitude, but could not be sure. He was far busier looking in every dark corner. It would only take a single mistake to have him bound up and used as by every member of the Amazon tribe for the remainder of his life. It was a daunting thought.
Fortunately, the hut containing the three captives was nearby, and even more fortunately, it was unguarded. Evidently the natives prided themselves on their knotsmanship and saw no reason to post a watch.
Lady Goldwaith, Captain Hoffsteder, and Constable Drummand hung in a row, bound fast to hard poles. Rough hemp cords looped around their naked torsos, firmly securing them to the stout shafts. Their legs had been pulled back behind them, a vertical hogtie that left their unshielded pussies exposed.
Further liberties had been taken upon them by their captors. Small clips, cunningly carved from hardwoods, had been set on their swollen nipples, forcing an erect and excited reaction. And their mouths had been plugged with carved balls tied in place by slender cords.
Bert51 could tell that the natives had used them for sport. Against the base of each of the women's poles leaned one of the ornately-carved dildos, gleaming with wetness. Clearly, each of the captives had hung helplessly in a ring of mocking native women, who'd been more than free with the trussed bodies before them.
Petunia seemed to be in a trance, her eyes closed in apparent weariness. Zana, looking so different with her midnight hair disheveled and her glasses long gone, listening for any sound from her airship. Only Constance still struggled, her naked shoulders pushing against the cords that looped around her shoulders, her thighs straining and hips thrusting. But there was nothing she could do; she'd been tied too tightly for any hope of escape.
At his entrance, her green eyes locking on him. She grunted, nodding to the many ropes that lined her slender torso. He ignored her, crossing to Lady Petunia. Easiest first.
At his efforts, the wooden gag slipped her lips, trailing a line of spittle. She moaned like a little girl, her ropes squeaking against the post as her body settled further into its inescapable bondage. With tenderness, he placed the canteen against her lips and poured a rough third of its contents into her mouth. A dribble of elixir spattered across her ample breasts. This done, he replaced the gag; it slipped in neatly, lubricated by the thick formula.
The airship pilot was next. She squinted at him as her worked the gag free. "Bert51? Is it you?" She shook her head as if to clear it. "You've got to untie us. We've got to get away. What are you doing. No, stop...glug glug glug."
Bert51 had no time for explanations, and further, the cooperation of the women was really not needed. So he firmly gripped her jet black hair with one hand and forced the second third of the canteen's contents down her gullet. As he shoved the gag back into place, her pale blue eyes flashed with confusion at his seeming betrayal.
Constance was as hard has he'd figured she'd be. When the gag had come out, she'd roared at him. Then she'd tried to bite his gagging hand. To distract her, he'd shoved a shoulder into a clipped nipple, distracting her with pain. The instant she gasped into his hand, he jammed home the canteen, upending it into her. Her green eyes flashed in anger at him, and re-gagging her had been like ball-gagging a cannon's muzzle. In the end, she hung in her suspension, glaring up through her red hair, panting in anger. If looks could kill...
He then took some time to scout the room. In the corner, some of the native girls had enjoyed some mangos while watching the captive's being sexually assaulted. This provided him with a bowl and knife-perfect. He dumped out the mango remnants and crossed back to the three girls. Standing before them, he surveyed them critically.
Constance still glared, her shoulders twisting like an animal in a trap. Zana squinted, trying to make him out with her near-sightedness, murmuring questions into her gag. Petunia had roused herself, looking at the manni with resignation. Clearly, she saw no gain in pointless struggles.
He continued studying them, putting his training at squiring women to the ultimate test. Their freedom lay in his ability to read them correctly. There was no time to waste.
Finally he stepped forward, moving first to Petunia. To her, he swirled his fingertips along her pinched tummy, teasing, tracing, and toying. She moaned in a painful admission of gratitude, trying to shift herself against her ropes to lean into his feathering touch. Her muted giggles were playful as he reached around the curves of her hips, to tickle her small, upturned feet.
With Zana, he cuddled in closer, wrapping his arms around her, another layer of bondage. She trembled in his arms, unsure of how to react at his attentions. He bushed aside the fall of black hair to expose a delicate ear, into which he whispered dark fantasies. She could not fail to mistake the brush of his erection against her heated mound.
Constance threw herself at the traitorous manni, her ropes hissing under pressure. He just smiled at her, stepped a quarter turn around, and delivered a crisp slap to her nice tight buttock. She grunted at the pain, twisting to glare at him. In response, he just gave her a wicked grin, reaching up to pinch her in the most cruel and familiar fashion. She grunted into her gag, her head going back, her eyes screwed shut. She could not prevent the abuse he bestowed against her helpless body.
And so it went, a never-ending round of teasing, promise, and punishment. The three captives were processed, over and over, as Lady Petunia's engineers were processed to provide the thrust to Zana Hoffsteder's airship. Each girl felt that she had only just recovered when Bert51 returned, to grant them the torment of his fingertips and the mockery of his smile. They shuddered against their bonds like helpless doves, their hearts racing, their anxiety apparent.
Meanwhile, the elixir had its way with them, forcing their womanhood to rise against them. Their irresolvable excitement built, racing through their bodies like fire through a tinder-dry forest. Every touch of Bert51's, every compression of cruel ropes, all of it served to inflame them all the more. Had it not been for the gags, clearly every native woman would have heard their distress.
Constance hung from Bert51's latest pass, both sets of cheeks red, one from embarrassment, the other from abuse. Her pussy throbbed like a hungry thing. Her nipples pulsed beneath clamps placed by the smiling native girls. A rasp came from her wood-bulb gag as her teeth ground into it. She tried to blank her mind but images flooded in: Petunia smiling sweetly as she settled onto the bed, her slim fingers flicking and tracing. Hoffsteder's tiny smile as she slipped in close, to practice her inexcusable trespasses against her strapped, vertical form. Bert51, bound, trapped against the wall as she leaned over him, the manni withering in her punishing grip.
Her eyes opened, her eyes wet with tears. A grunting sounded at her side. She turned her head to see the airship captain, her body so trim in its trappings of rope, struggling as the manni thrust one of the native totems into her, swirling it with practiced ease. Zana shuddered as if crying, her face a picture of despair as unanswerable passions roiled her blood. Bert51 finished with her and then tapped the rod into his bowl, where a small amount of liquid shimmered in the hut's torchlight. Constance tried to pull herself up her pole as the manni stepped before her and the evil head of the wooden joy-shaft pressed against her with relentless pressure. And then it was in, swirling and spinning. Her soul screamed in delight while her body was as inert as stone.
Bert51 made multiple passes along the line of captive femininity, thrusting the rod into them, then tapping it into the bowl, drilling their wells, a wild-catter of passion. The women begged, pleaded, and whined to him through their corking gags but it made no difference; he could not have released their sexual tensions had he tried. They were in the grips of Petunia's elixir and only time would deliver them.
Petunia, as he expected, was the first to cum, shuddering and squirming, her face radiant in delight. Bert51 watched her in amazement as she wobbled over the tip of the pole, his own erection growing before this icon of bliss.
Zana came shortly after that. While Petunia had erupted, the sky captain had watched with passion-dazed eyes. In that, she was completely primed when Bert51 serviced her next. When it was all over, some three shuddering minutes later, she wept softly into her gag as Bert51 dipped her fluids into his collective bowl. It was nearly half full at this point.
And Constance, high-strung and duty bound, was the most reluctant of all. It took the manni four minutes of butter churn action before her body finally surrendered to its passion. The explosion, when came, was enough to make Bert51 step back; she thrust against her ropes like a beast trying to get at him. In the end, she hung in a halo of scarlet hair while the manni dipped her fluids into his bowl.
He cast them all a last look before departing on the most dangerous part of his plan. The three drooped in their bonds like withering fruit, used up, spent, drained. Occasional afterthoughts pulsed through them, a convulsion of a limb, a wiggle of a toe. But for the most part, they looked like members of some sexual trinity; Petunia with her angelic smile, Zana with her tear-stained, relieved face, and Constance, as scarlet and tormented as Lucifer, moaning in her low pains.
Before leaving, he kissed them each on their cool mouth plugs, loving them for the souls he'd glimpsed within them. And then he was gone.
He crossed the village as carefully as before, the bowl with its heated contents in one hand, the slick wooden baton in the other. With a cat's grace, he skirted along the village's periphery until he found exactly what he was looking for.
A number of huts stood in a tight cluster. Through their unlatched doors, Bert51 saw no sleeping natives or bound slaves, simply racks of ropes, stacks of wooden dildos, and supplies of natures he could hardly comprehend. But nobody was within. Perfect.
Looking around the side, he scoped out the nearby natives who kept watch for any sign of the invader's sky cloud. In the light of a covered blazer, close at hand to ignite their arrows, he saw a half-dozen lounging native lasses, their strong limbs shining in the low flicker, their voices soft. Three slaves lay bound up between them, their purpose little more than to provide sexual provisioning. As Bert51 watched, one of the bow-women reached out and rolled a trussed servant closer, her gentle coos echoed by the slave's gagged grunts.
Nodding to himself, Bert51 went to work. He moved about the selected hut, spattering the still-warm orgasium into the dry palm front walls with his wooden joy-toy. He continued to do this until each hut had a light scattering of drops and the bowl was nearly empty. Then, fetching a bow with accompanying arrows, as well as a flint, from one of the treated huts, he retreated the way he'd come until he could only just make out the huts, and was very close by the one holding the prisoners.
After a final cautious glance, he dipped the end of the arrow into the bowl, carefully wetting its tip. Then he struck at the flint, directing the sparks at the treated tip. On the second strike, it puffed to life as if it was a gas-light, burning with a strange blue glow.
Hoping that the archery lessons an older Hemp-House milkmaid had given him one day in a secluded glade were sound, he notched arrow into string, drew, and released. The arrow hissed like a comet across the distance, disappearing against the dark shape of the hut.
He watched silently for a span of hammering heartbeats, wondering if he'd failed. And then the night sky was lit with a rolling mushroom cloud of Prussian blue. One hut, then another and another went off, each sending its massive glowing cloud head sailing into the dark heavens. Women shouted in alarm. Dark figures rushed across the light of the flaming huts. But Bert51 was already pounding back to the prisoner's hut.
There, he used the dildo a final time, drawing a large "X" in the sand before the hut. A single flick of the flint flashed the icon into brilliant light, the sands turning to glass beneath the incandescent flames. Moving quickly, he rushed back into the hut, jamming the torches into the sand, dropping the interior of the hut into darkness. He hoped that the villagers would all be fighting the conflagration on the other side of the village, but should one wander by and see him inside, all his work, and the orgasms of his three mistresses, would be wasted.
He located the knife in the darkness and turned to freeing the women. He had to be careful lest he injure them, so he traced each rope against their naked flesh, making sure before he brought the knife into play. Each of them collapsed to the sand like puppet's whose strings had been cut.
He passed back to look out the door, checking to see that his marker was still burning (it was) and the decoy was still active (flames leapt a hundred feet into the air). There was a hiss of a footfall, the warmth of an arm drawing across his chest, and the prick of a knife against his neck.
"You tormented us while we are captives," Constance hissed. "The natives were right to fear the Sister with the Forward Tail. Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you for the deceitful manni you are."
"Oh Connie," Petunia drowsed as she pushed herself off the floor. "You can't waste good manflesh."
"Quiet," barked Captain Hoffsteder, squinting like a cute mole, cupping a rope-scored hand to her ear. "I heard the creak of girderwork overhead!"
The four fugitives grouped in the doorway. There was no sound, but Zana trembled in certainty. Then, in the light of the burning huts, they saw the huge form of the Unbound Pleasure drifting overhead. Something whistled down and a moment later an anchor chunked into the sand, six feet off the burning "X".
Zana had no doubt what had happened. Petra had lurked about, trying to figure out a way to save the captives, using her engines sparingly to hold an upwind position. Then came the column of flames rising from the black forest, as clear a marker as could be. Trusting her luck, Petra had let the airship drift downwind to cross over the encampment. And there was the "X", clear as day.
A moment later, four women came spooling down, supported by lines. They assembled quickly, casting about them with their chemical torches. It only took an instant for Zana and the others to rush out. Belts were passed around naked hips and made fast. Then, with two to a line, the members of the airship's company were reeled into the belly of their beast. The anchor was slipped, the command was given, and the passion-fueled engines roared. Their noise caught the distracted attention of the bucket-brigading natives, who could only watch in helpless frustration as the airship launched into the night sky.
And then there was no sound left save for the crackles of burning supply huts, the whimpering of bound slaves, and the snores of a sex-soaked queen.
11.04.09
story continues in Gai-Shift 12: Journey Home
o0o