To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Twas Winter Solstice in the world Gai Shifted, a time of good cheer and merriment. Across the planet, peace, sensitivity and restriction found its way into every corner of the happy globe (even though globes do not technically have corners). This was so true in so many places, specifically...
In Willie Hall, standing warm and joyful against the icy English night, where the fire roars and candles twinkle. Here the chambermaids and servant girls giggle as they play festive party games involving ribbons and silken scarves, games like blindwoman's buff and add a loop, and every cupboard and closet contains a loser twisting in shapely distress against her bonds, chewing at her restricting gag with pearl-like teeth. And in her high chair before the fire, Lady Goldwaith watches the merriment with a happy glow, her thoughts drifting towards bed, and which servant she will tow to it at the end of a leash...
In the Central London Precinct house, where Chief Officer Constance Drummand shares a toast of spiced eggnog with Routing Officer Samantha. In the background, strapped and stripped prisoners swing in silenced discipline, their titties smarting from holiday clips. The girls smile and wish each other health and happiness, each awaiting the effects of the drugs each has placed in the other's grog, and so together their unconscious bodies will be charged with submissiveness on duty and hung in moaning, pinkish nudity to awake alongside the other prisoners...
To the warm subsurface Pit beneath the snow-swept streets, where the sentience Pitinna Pitt swaps out her girls in a grand replacement, putting them all into processing cycles they had not expected and could not initially comprehend, so deviant the situations were, and to which these victims would find screaming, hip-heaving bliss, their bodies worked and minds thrilled in elixir-laced frustrations. Many new fetishes would be born that very night...
To Lady M___'s estate, where the manni holes in every room stand empty, for the manni's have been given out, one to each maid. And so Barbette finds a blushing young stud locked up in her ropes, heating her bed and tossing her sheets as she lays about him with her favorite feather duster. And his torment will last until the morning next, when finally she will settled upon his chimney like Saint Nichole herself...
To a cottage standing apart from the village of Sheepish, where Woody II has wrapped Megan in its magical ropes, bound in her cutest blue jumper with her bare feet lashed to her bed's footplate slats. And thus she will be discovered by Elsa the wayward milkmaid, who will realize that she adores tickling from the fingertip side too, and will bring great cheer and hysterics to the little witch...
To the airship Unbound Pleasure, floating high above the North Atlantic, gleaming in the frosty starlight. Aboard, every crewwoman lays bound in their bunks, even the extractor girls. In her stateroom, and specifically, in her gleaming black suit of rubber, Captain Hoffsteder opens a teak wood box containing a massive steam-charged dildo, which she will visit upon each and every silenced, stilled, and expectant mate, a tradition aboard this vessel. Cook, rosy, saucy and bound on her chopping block, will be the first visited, for she has work to do while the others scream in vibrated bliss, painting the balltied manni they shanghaied from Dublin with carmel apple sauce for the licking feast to follow...
To the high Andean forests, where frowning Queen Chespeake finds herself ankle-deep in mewing, gagged, struggling brown flesh. She looks in her royal cupboard and realizes that her primitive palace is nearly out of rope, and so she finds herself dreaming of happier days in strict, tight-laced subservience...
To a cozy apartment in Ecuador's Quito (where its also night, because the author wishes it to be), where sultry, leggy Alina cuddles Bert51, who struggles against white cotton ropes and her cruelly toying touch. Through his gag, he begs to be used like the juicy, seed-bursting man-fruit he is, but she only chuckles and torments him further. He dosn't know she is saving him for the dawn, when robed priestesses will arrive to carry him to the summit of the high pyramid, and conduct manipulative sacrifices involving his body's juices, a high honor that will last the entire holy day, a service Sister Annie of the temple of Astarte a half-world away would find interestingly similar, and very, very illuminating...
To San Francisco (still night), where Li-June sits alone at the front desk of the Hotel California, wishing she had her brother to tie up and punish, a simple amusement to while away the long hours. Then her sultry Oriental eyes fall upon the row of key hooks behind the desk and she thinks of the MI machines in the basement, machines that could wash and brush, scrub and scour. And then her wicked mind considers the women guests in the rooms above, women in their nighties, their lingerie, their nudity, women sleeping on beds that could so easily tip them into a processed soaping hell that will end with them all wrapped neatly in drying sheets and hung heels-up beneath the moon. And with a wicked smile and private laugh, she reaches up to loop a finger around the first hook. Even Auntie will be included in her holiday cleansing. Once it begins, she shall have to dash downstairs and watch the fun. She is becoming quite taken by the sight of soapy struggling womanflesh...
And around the world, passing Polynesian islands where women not hampered by restrictive sexual morals bondage each other up with long vines in their cozy little huts, to smile with happy anticipation as they giggle and pinch and stroke and lick, savoring the cooing of their brown bundled captives...
And the Home Islands of Greater Japan, where Empress Nabuki sighs as she flips through her books of photographs containing images of darling Ambassador Olivia, images of her tied, suspended, bed-bound, bent-over, hogtied, frogtied, spread-eagled, cross-looped, roped and racked through a thousand demeaning positions. In every shot, the poor victim looks longingly at the camera, her gun-metal eyes begging. Nabuki sighs, wondering if she could have done more to pleasure the dignified yet disheveled diplomat. And outside the palace, Orchids black and white commence in their ritualistic bondage combats, carrying each other off to place their prizes in strenuous Nipponese captivities, with jeweled clips and cunning cunt-packers...
To the windy steppess of Russia, where the exotically wolfish Velika sits atop her pony in the chilly night, Cossack raiders at her back, her saddlebags packed with ropes and ballgags. Beneath them, a village of haymowers echoes with holiday cheer. Shortly, the inhabitants will find themselves bound, most will be stripped, many molested and woman-handled, and some will be rolled into blankets and tossed over the rumps of the war ponies, to be carried to Anna Oblonsky's estate where long beams stand ready for the captives to be bound across. High their rumps shall jut for the Contessa's pleasure. The paddles all gleam from their hooks, oiled and ready...
To the iron Goliath that is the Lola Montez, her paddles churning as she rounds the African cape. Inside her sizable stateroom, Captain Barberis primps herself before her mirror, bringing a saucy beauty to her darkly generous Italian features. Behind her, cabin-manni Milo lays on her bed, roped up in ship-shape fashion, hands and feet roped neatly behind him, clear for action. And watching the shapely woman that will soon have her many ways upon his hapless fresh, he finds his singular gun rolling out, ready for discharge...
To the high-walled Port Mons, huddled on the west African coast between the strangely cruel jungle and the empty ocean. On their parapets, guards watch for any strange creatures, spiders and snakes and nimble-trunked elephants which might carry away woman for indignities best left undescribed. In their villas, Arabic traders and native merchants, all beneficiaries of the carbon-aligned diamond trade, recline on their broad pillows in their scanty silks, bemusing themselves with their harems who hang in their bindings so prettily...
And across the entire world, countless women lay that night in bondage, their shapely forms and rounded breasts illuminated by the moonlight, their gags so strict, their ropes so tight. They hunch and shift, seeking freedom (they would be secretly disappointed if they found it). And past their trim bound ankles and wiggling toes stands the closed door beyond which their lovers, partners and/or tormentors loiter, allowing the suspense of their rope-wrapped guests to work as a subtle preparation to jack them to fever-pitch. To pass the time, they sort through feathers, oils, creams, paddles and clockwork appliances, gathering tools for the activities to follow.
In that same world, yet in a shadowed version more hidden, lay countless mannis likewise bound in bedrooms, stalls, alters and harems, awaiting their own mistresses with a lapdog's fearful eagerness. They only wish to please, yet know how to steal their own pleasure in return. They, too, are a part of the world-spirit.
The world contains its children, of course, every one of them sleeping innocently in bedrooms and finishing school dormitories. In this world, not one of them have a sexual thought or encounter until they reach whatever age-of-consent the local authoritative deem appropriate. That should be noted.
And in this world, in a non-corporal sense, exist the readers, enjoying the passionate play and lusty adventures that occur to the women of our stories. One hopes you find happiness in these words. If possible, I would drop each of you into the plotline, to encounter your favorite lass and to be taken and cruelly tied as part of this growing story set. Petunia, Constance, Megan, all of these girls love you and would jump at the chance to knot up your wrists and ankles, stuff their knickers into your mouth and tie them fast, then get to know you in the most carnal manner possible. They would hug your rope-locked form as the moon arced across the solstice sky, drowsily telling you how your old life (with its strife and troubles) is over. And how your new life, a life spent largely bound and humiliatingly tended, has begun.
To all of you, from all of us, Happy Holidays and a joyful new year!
24.12.10