To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Chapter 1: Laundry Service
- With thanks to Brushslut
She stood in the doorway, the Pacific sun at her back, her black mop of hair swirling in the salt-hinted breeze, her tawny limbs shapely and strong. A step brought her into the shadowy lobby, the glare cut away to revel a strong sexual face, her lips wide and soft, her eyes dark and promising. With a trained eye, she scanned the vestibule as if seeking dust or disorder. Then her eyes stopped, taking in the thing that hung in the corner. As if unsure, she took a step closer, her high heels authoritative in the stillness. And she smiled.
It was a woman, a woman stripped to panties and pressed into a hanging cage, her eyes wide and pleading over the tongue-curb plate. The newcomer had to focus, to break down the words on the cage's hanging sign from English to French, her mother tongue.
'Towel Stealer'.
Barbette nodded, fully in agreement to the draconian punishment. After all, at Lady M___'s estate, she was responsible for such sundries and woe be to her if ever too many went missing. Perhaps she would have such an amusing device installed down in the servant's quarters. She coolly fantasied of a guest, nightie-clad and sleep-groggy, being carried through the secret passageways that honeycombed the estate, borne below-stairs to hang before the staff, fielding their bread crusts and insults with equal helplessness. Perhaps even Lady Petunia, always a troublesome visitor, might become an unwitting invitee. With her Ladyship's impressive rack, Barbette found herself wondering if they'd be able to get the cage door fully shut.
“Welcome to Hotel California. May I help you?” asked a woman standing behind the counter. Barbette turned and casually took her measure. She was a Chinese girl, as slender and flexible as the willows of her homeland. Her dark hair was bundled into a thick ponytail. Her eyes were a baffling mix of blue and green, as ever-shifting as ocean breakers.
“I am Mademoiselle Barbette. You haf, ow you say, a booking for me?”
“A reservation, yes. For one week. Please sign here.” After passing a pen across, she rang the desk bell. In moments, a slender young manni appeared, also Chinese, the deskkeeper's brother if his eyes were anything to judge by. But mostly he kept them downcast, looping up Barbette's luggage with wiry arms, bowing as he backed up the stairs. Barbette watched him go.
“He walks funny,” she observed. “Somezing is wrong with him, no?”
“I keep him in a cage, like that one the towel-stealer is in, but smaller. Much smaller, you know?” She cupped her hands as if to illustrate the young man's exact confinement, her movements revealing a small golden key flashing between her breasts. “I am Li-June. My brother is Li-Jack.”
“He for rent if you'd like,” a sharp-faced, oak-strengthed woman remarked, pushing though the bead curtain behind the desk. “Here is menu. Prices as listed.”
“Auntie, please. Our guest just arrived on the Transcontinental Flier. She's tired. Perhaps later.”
Barbette did get a glance at the menu. On one side were “restrictive services”: fondling, bed warming, twat-tonguing. On the other side was simply the word, “uncaged”. Pre-binding services were also listed, with various positionings. Toys were even included as options. Barbette didn't know what to make of it. At home she got a manni for free every couple of days. It was part of her room and board at Lady M___'s estate.
Barbette considered it. Her per diem could cover much of what was offered. And the thought of this little Chinese manni, roped up and pinned down to her bed, had its attractions. How she would like to sample the mystical Orient, even if it was trussed and gagged, begging for mercy with those water-cast eyes. She shivered at the thought.
But no, she was tired. Reluctantly she slid the card back. “Non. Perhaps later.”
“If you prefer, I substitute my niece,” the old woman opted. “No trouble. Quick rope, quick strip, she on her back on your bed, helpless, quick as flash.”
“Auntie,” Li-June cautioned. Barbette, doubly hampered by language and culture, could not tell if the older woman was joking. After all, she would be here all week. Perhaps she could sample both...
But she was tired, and gave a weary head-shake. Li-June fetched down a room key, pushed past her troublesome elder and led the way up the stairs, the Frenchwoman following. Auntie leaned against the desk, watching firm Gascony buttocks sway in their assent, her smile firm, her eyes bright.
“It zeems, ow you say, strange zat you're brozer still resides with you,” Barbette mentioned as they topped the stairs. “Most mannis, zey go out into ze world to engage in boundful employment.”
“Li-Jack has attended his finishing school. He's quite trained in providing female pleasure. However, we keep him mainly because of his technical abilities.” With that, Li-June opened the door. It was a small and tidy room that looked over the busy street. Barbette's luggage was already set out on the floor, Li-Jack come and gone.
“As I mentioned,” Li-June noted as she stood in the doorway, preparing to leave, “Half of my brother's value is technical. He keeps our laundry MIs in perfect working order. If you have any clothing you need cleaned, simply leave it on the bed when you go out. It will be seen to.” She closed the door half-way, her long fingers playing with the key between her breasts. “His other value, Auntie already mentioned. Ring downstairs and we'll carry him up to you. Remember, unlocking him is extra.” Then, with a small smile, the slender Eastern girl closed the door.
With a tired sigh, Barbette stripped away her tight black dress, tossing it after a little thought onto the foot of the bed. After many miles of travel, it could use the laundering Li-June had promised. Then, comfortable in her black bra and panties, she kicked off her pumps and lay on the bed with a sigh, her nyloned legs crossed, her feet resting on her balled-up dress. Basking in the warm breeze that rippled the light curtains, she fell asleep in no time at all, her broad mouth unconsciously smiling as she fell into her favorite dream.
As usual, she was in the tight confines of the estate passages, kneeling on the cool flags. Baroness Manchester hung in a crushing array of belts, pinned to the wall. Her artificial manni-tool, the clever pump device with the feedback sheath, was deployed through the wall and into the room beyond. And faintly through that wall, Barbette could hear Lady Petunia's delighted exclamations as she examined the interesting strap-on. With every touch and envelopment shifting back into the hilt that anchored the strap-on into Manchester's sexual holster, the poor woman could only moan into her ballgag, rocking her head back and forth as the sensations multiplied.
And if those sensations were multiplying now, they were about to be exponentialized. Before the kneeling Barbette, the Baroness's bare feet, extended like a ballerina's and toe-linked to the floor, wiggled in futile helplessness. So pink. So soft. Barbette studied them with her head cocked in amusement, her feather duster propped under her strong chin. It was time to begin.
She began with a gentle stroke of greeting, a lingering drag of the feathers down the length of the poor Baroness's blushing feet. A muffled shriek came from above, the proud little soles trying to wiggle away. But, no, she wasn't going anywhere – the creaking straps ensured that.
And this was one of Barbette's favorite moments, when the helpless victim realized both their powerlessness and their fate.
Humming a popular stage melody to herself, the long-limbed Frenchwoman swirled her feather duster back and forth, tormenting her victim with spackling thrusts, vexing her with spinning sweeps, agonizing her with bold slashes. Overhead, the poor noblewoman shook and shuddered, torn between the nerve-charging tickling playing across her helpless feet and the orgasmic thrusts shivering within her strap-on's chilliaed shaft. The tickling she might have enjoyed in exhileration. The pussy pummeling would have knocked orgasms out of her in quick order. But between the two competing sensations, she hadn't a chance. She could only tremble in the grip of the wide belts, wishing she'd never come to Lady M___'s estate, wishing she'd never abused that leggy Barbette with her clever plug-in, and really regretting falling under the twin dominations of the royal scientist and the head maid. And then all thoughts were erased as Barbette discovered a particularity tender fold of tissue and bore in with her merciless feathers. Grunting like a base animal, tears streaming down over her ballgag's straps, the poor Baroness shivered in anguish as the sensations ripped her very soul away.
Barbette was rising towards her own sleep-orgasm at the dreamy memories, building towards a waking climax that never failed to put her in the best of moods. But then something shook her. Groaning in frustration, her long-lashed eyes fluttered open. In disorientation, she saw that the entire room was leaning over her, tilted as if on end.
It took a moment longer to conclude that it wasn't the room that was tilting, it was her bed, jacked upwards forty-five degrees and going even higher. She raised her feet in alarm, allowing the discarded dress beneath them to fall into the black yawning hole that seemed to have opened up on the floor at the foot of her bed. “Mon Dieu,” she cried as her pantied posterior begin to slide along the bed. She tried to spread her arms to check her fall but suddenly she was tumbling over the edge, squealing as she shot feet-first down an aluminum shaft.
She landed in a pile of laundry; female things, dresses and skirts and panties and hose, her impact forcing a wafting discharge from the soft mass, filling the air with the aroma of sweaty womanflesh. Shaking her head, she looked around in the dim lighting.
She was in a wooden catch-cage in the hotel's basement, one too high to climb out of. On the floor just outside the cage's slats squatted a huge vat of steaming, bubbly water, a set of mechanical hands slowly stirring it with a broad wooden panel. As she watched, another set of hands reached, pulled a thick wet skirt form the swirling water and squeezed. Water streamed from the pressured fabric.
She was in the mechanical laundry!
“Help! Au secours! Save me! Do not allow me to be fed into the mecanisme!”
But nobody seemed to hear her. A moment later, a set of latex-gloved hands reached in and located the largest article of clothing to be washed – her – and lifted her by her shoulders. Held aloft, other hands skillfully “untangled” her from her remaining clothing, unclipping her bra, tugging away her hose and panties. And now, pinkly naked, her long limbs spiraling in helplessness, she was wafted over the steaming pit and, without ceremony, dunked in.
“Non!” she sputtered as she came up for air. “Non! Sil vous plait! Non!” But down came the paddle and an instant later she was being stirred in the hot laundry water like a cube of sugar in a cup of tea, bouncing and swirling, face down amid the soggy detritus of womanly things. Bras and undergarments tangled about her in humiliating embraces while her rounded buttocks projected from the soapy surface like a channel buoy. Worse, it confused the MIs into thinking these were some sort of air-filled pink pillowcases. Acting on programed instinct, it swatted these round targets with its paddle, doing their best to deflate them. Below the surface, bubbles burst from Barbette's clenched lips at every painful swat.
Lights were beginning to flash in her eyes when suddenly she felt someone grip her thighs and haul upwards. Sputtering and spiting, she was raised on widely-splayed legs, water streaming down her shapely curves. Suddenly gloved hands reached around to cup her breasts and squeeze, pinching her nipples and working her heated flesh. She gasped in shock at the rude wringing, her gasp becoming one of reluctant pleasure and the fingers worked over her, kneading and groping. Still streaming water, she let her head dangle, sighing lustily.
Too soon, the molesting hands judged her to be wrung dry and were withdrawn. Another hand appeared, one clutching a white lump. Still hanging by her gripped thighs like a wet bat, she squinted, recognizing the irregular bar of soap.
She tried to ward off the rubbing sudding but since she was still inverted, her legs gripped like competing fingers on a turkey wishbone, she was largely defenseless. With quick strokes, she was lathered up, the suds popping and smacking against her agitated flesh like pixy-kisses. And then the MI's did something to her, something so rude that Barbette, with all her worldly experience, was simply not ready for. With a thrust, the oblong soap bar was shoved in and out of her tender love-pocket. In the machine's cold judgment, this was the most likely crevice for dirt to hide.
“Oh dear,” the waterlogged French maid yodeled. “Oh my. Ohhh. Ohhh! OHHHH!”
With the poc-poc-poc noise of a suction pump, the soap was rammed repeatedly into the poor woman's flesh-purse. Barbette wiggled and swayed, still inverted in the ruthless grip, struggling as her passions built from the limestick rapine. No mattered how she struggled, no matter how she twisted, her legs remained pinned opened, the soap worked in and out, up and down, with all the methodical patience a MI could provide.
She'd heard of these things, how urbane women in London owned mechanical devices that could grab them, strip them, truss them, and... do other things. Barbette had never understood the need for such things, surrounded as she was by strapped mannis and discipline-prone chambermaids. Many nights, her bed was shared with a partner (often reluctantly, usually coerced, and generally roped). But she'd heard of these mechanical aids as well as the living machine below the London streets, that Pit thing. Often, as she daydreamed while playing her duster across wiggling feet or throbbing manni-rod, she'd think of these things and wonder what they would be like.
Now she knew. Her flesh seemed ready to combust, she was so aroused. She was being pummeled as she never had before. Knotting her outturned hands into fists, she tipped her head downwards towards the frothed water and felt herself swell towards a titanic orgasm.
“Oh, take me! Take me now!” she shrieked, abandoning herself to her frenzied passions. She elevated herself against the machine's grip, thrusting herself into its assault.
“Oh no!” came a cry from the stairs. “Oh, look what has happened! Auntie, come quick! Come quick!”
Barbette thought she'd come quicker, but with a cruelly heartless click the lusty machine was shut off. Literally left hanging, the frustrated woman let her arms dangle into the soapy water, her moan rippling with frustration.
Long legs strode over to where she hung. “I am ever so sorry,” Li-June gushed. “It shouldn't have activated without your key being at the front desk. Something must not be working right. Oh, Auntie, get our guest down off that infernal device. I'm going to find Li-Jack and teach him a lesson! He must be punished! He must!” With that, her trim sandals clattered up the stairs.
Soap-stained, flushed from inversion and perversion, her thick hair a confused wet tangle, her proud breasts swelling from her agitation, the lanky-limbed Barbette watched her go. Machine-handled and half-assaulted, she'd still not recovered her wits.
The hard-faced Asian woman considered the controls before her. “Let's see now. It appears I have to complete the processing cycle before it will release you. And for that, I need a cycle reset.” She looked up to the water-bedraggled French maiden who was only now realizing that the rape would continue until both the machine, and she, were complete. “There might be some discomfort. I apologize in advance.” Auntie pushed the reset button, her shiny eyes lifting to watch the show.
Poc-poc-poc-poc-poc!
“Mon Dieu!”
04.09.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Hotel California Chapter 2: Complimentary Package
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