To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Continued from part 2
Chapter 3: Hang Out the Washing
- With thanks to Brushslut
She had been Barbette's senior by two years, a vast difference from a teenager's perspective. She was also a farm girl from the next valley over, strong and healthy. And when the young Barbette hunted truffles in the Gascony woods, she had, herself, been hunted!
How many afternoons had Barbette hung roped to some thick tree trunk, head hanging, while this laughing lusty girl had devised tickling torments for her reluctant amusement? How often had a teary Barbette pleaded (sometime with watery eyes over a cruel gag) for release. And never had it been granted.
Revenge was so sweet!
The girl lay on her back in Barbette's bed in Lady M___'s estate, trussed up like a little turkey, helplessly looking up at her. It didn't seem strange at all that her former tormentor hadn't aged a day while Barbette existed in her comfortable (and experienced) middle years. All that mattered was that Barbette had her feather duster, was off duty, and was looking forward to the long night of vengeful torment. Delicious! Delightful!
The bed trembled beneath her, its springs creaking. Barbette laughed at how her poor little guest strained against her pinioning ropes, how she could pull and pull but it would do her no good. But the bed shivered and shook even more, almost as if possessed by evil, sensuous spirits. Almost as if they were in an earthquake. Almost as if it were...
Moving?
Her dark eyes cracked open, her sleep evaporating. She was laying in her silk night gown, face down on her San Francisco bed. But the room around her was crazily tipped. How could this be? How could...?
Oh no no!
She felt herself begin to slide, felt the bedspread hiss past like surf around a boat hull. She tried to claw at it but a moment later her feet were off the far end, windmilling in space over the unseen gap. Like ill-fated quicksand-mired hiker, she gripped the bed with wide-thrown arms, trying to hold on. But the bed winched upwards a single degree more, her balance went, and into the shaft she plummeted with a high-pitched Gallic curse.
Her slide was quick, ending as she tumbled into a milling sea of womanflesh. She was back in the laundry cage she'd been in earlier that day but this time she had company. Every woman in the hotel, it would seem, had joined her. Some she'd seen before, nodding acquaintances in the lobby, others she hadn't. Some appeared friendly; a hand advantaged itself between her helpless buttocks, groping the opportunity. Boobs, hips, hot flesh pressed against her. And across from her...
Li-June!
The stern Oriental hotelier wore a white night shirt that was half torn away, revealing most of her pert little breasts and a key dangling between them. That key, Barbette knew, granted direct sexual access to her brother but the clever Gasconette had gotten around that restriction all the same.
“What ez the meaning of thees outrage,” Barbette blurted, yipping as someone's fingers pinched up a nipple.
“It's a momentary problem. We are in no danger.” Li-June replied. Then, tipping back her head, she called out, “Li-Jack! Li-Jack! Come here at once!”
If he was coming, Barbette reflected as half-naked, struggling women pushed up from all sides, he'd better hurry. Already the wash tub's water was heating, the paddle stirring its load of undergarments. Then glove-sheathed mechanical hands reached down and plucked up the wiry form of Auntie, lifting her high. With a sharp pull, she was divested of her nightgown, revealing her firm, compact body, still well maintained despite her age.
“Li-June,” she called down, struggling as she was arealy borne over the steaming laundry tub. “Stop this infernal device at once! I promise you punishments! I put you in lobby cage for all to see! I will hang a sign with 'disrespectful niece' on you! I will...”
But what she might further do was lost as she was dropped into the steaming underwear soup. But she would not face it alone. Already, another guest, a bookish woman, was being stripped of her night things and swung across. And still the hands reached and plucked. Sometimes they came up with clothing. Sometimes they came up with guests. But either way, Barbette realized they were all facing a severe washing.
“Li-jack!” Li-June shrieked. “Li-jack! Come now!”
Auntie was raised in cruel arms, soapy water streaming from her firm, inverted form. Strong hands gripped her tidy breasts and squeezed, compressing her agitated nipples with cruel molestation, making her eyes nearly pop from her head. Her companion in the tub was being stirred about. When her buttocks broached the sudsy water, a paddle would crack across them. A garnishing of loose nylons was added. And now a chubby blonde was in the air.
A bar of soap had been produced by the cruel devices. Upside down, Auntie screeched at her niece but it did no good. The soap began its thrust. Auntie hung like an unfortunate in some Oriental prison (or perhaps an Asian bawdy-house catering curious tastes). Already her crotch was a foamy, trembling mass. She hung, her arms dangling, her shuttered eyes off-focus as the processing continued. Then she moaned, a rippling moan like that of a contented old feline. In her rippling reaction, Barbette could see her as she had been in her day, exotically beautiful, sensuously-hungry, eager to experience things new and decadent. Below her, the paddle cracked against floating buttocks. The blonde was dunked in a geyser of water. And that did it for Auntie. She shuddered and thrust, riding out her inverted rapine, pulling her own hair with madly clawing fingers, wrapped up in the sexual stimuli assaulting her.
Up went the drizzling librarian, shaking her head and begging. She too was carefully positioned bottoms up as Auntie's limp form was repositioned. Already bristled wheels were coming into play. The older women tried to twist free but with arms held over her head and legs clamped firmly down, sttreached and suspended, she simply could not win clear.
A screaming farm girl, no doubt in town only to sell her crop, was lifted from the cage. Barbette watched her, looking forward to her coming deflowerment. She was so very cute.
But now Li-June was gripping her, pulling at her. “Save me,” she squealed, her dark eyes alight with fear. “Save me!”
Barbette looked down past her exposed breasts and rucked nightshirt, down the long tan leg to where the mechanical hand gripped her ankle. Already it was lifting, bending her knee. Inevitably Li-June would be drawn into the mashing maws of the runaway laundry machine.
“Please hang onto me,” the Oriental begged, hands gripping in panic. “Please save me! I reward you! I do anything you wish! I love you long time!”
Now her hips were as high as her head, her free leg arched back like some maniac ballerina. Her sea-eyes swirled in agitated fear.
“I let you tie me up! I kneel in ropes before you! I put my head into your lap, lick you up! I'll lick your feet! I let you put me into your suitcase and take me away. Just don't let go, please!”
As she rose, her nightshirt tumbled forward, revealing her trim buttocks. Maybe Barbette could have saved her, gripping tightly, overloading the mechanism, perhaps causing a failure. Instead, she peeled away the desperate fingers, letting Li-June float upwards.
“I think your brother is sweet,” she called after the on-high Asian. “You're too mean weeth heem.”
Li-June dangled by her gripped ankle, her nightshirt little more than a bandoleer now, her trim body swirling in rapt and tidy nudity. And even this last vestige of modesty was pulled away. Then away she was carried, towards the waiting tub and its cleansing discomforts.
“What's going to happen to us,” one of the trio of women still in the cage asked. She was a middle-aged lady with a quiet demeanor, some traveler from A to B who'd gotten snared in this gigantic snafu. She hunched in the corner, her tidy nightgown tenting her upraised knees, her hair still in curlers. “Will we be hurt?”
“Only if overstimulation hurts,” replied another, a heavyset woman who looked as if she'd been slumming below Nob Hill. Barbette wondered if she'd been in this boarding house to rendezvous with a lover. She held her robe tight around her. “The whole things seems rather... ribald.”
Barbette could only agree with that observation. Oh, they squealed and shrieked, but overall the victims seemed to be suffering the aquatic indignities with blushing grace and hoarse pantings. After all, MIs were programmed to never hurt humans. They might rape them silly, but hurt them, never.
Case in point: Li-June, having swirled about the tub, had been fetched out of its waters, her breasts fondled as if straining water from them. The French head maid felt some pique at this; she'd been lifted by her thighs, dangling inverted while she'd been soapbarred to distraction. The cruel hotelier had been hauled up by her forearms, hardly a discomfort at all. A moment later, Barbette's anger vanished. Held in the machine's pinning clutches, the dangling Li-June could not escape. She could only watch, her blue/green eyes wide, as a new soap bar was lowered before her. Then her chin was gripped by another hand, her head forced back, her mouth locked wide by unfeeling fingers. With her now positioned, the soap was thrust into her rima oris, masking her stunned disbelief in a goatee of bubbles. Like a foul-mouthed little girl, the slender Oriental was having her mouth washed out, ruthlessly and thoroughly.
Barbette found herself drawn to the slats of her cage, unable to look away as the poor Asian was orally cleansed in brusk fashion, gluggling and spitting around the gagging piledriving. Her lower arms windmilled in helpless fashion, her feet splashing the water as she peddled but nothing could prevent her thorough disciplining. Then the slight girl ceased her floating run, arching her back, arms wide, her pussy thrusting once, twice, a third time. The skin of her pretty face blushed red, her colorful eyes screwing shut. While her tastes might be currently soapy, they seemed to run deeply masochistic as well. She moaned low and bubbly, the husky satisfaction evident. And while the French observer and the Chinese victim had little in common, the abuse brought their nipples to standing ovation. Barbette found herself gasping in escalating excitement. Li-June, her eyes tearing, could only foam in dangling arousal.
So fixated was Barbette that she quite missed the two shrieks, one after another. Nor did she notice when a nightgown and curlers, then a voluminous robe, tumble back into the cage. In breathless amazement she ignored everything around her, her eyes locked on the hapless Oriental, watching as Li-June's dangling limbs were caught up, as she was stretched out like a towel, as she was twisted one way, then another. And then...
Mon Dieu!
Her former cage-mates were in the cycle now, the mousy woman hanging upside down in near-swoon, her pussy a white mane, her hips shivering as involuntary orgasms wracked her. As for the uptown lady, the only evidence of her was a set of round buttocks bobbing about the tub like joined apples, the stirring paddles cracking at them with tireless abandon. With every strike, another series of bubbles popped to the surface, unheard cries of anguish, agony, or, perhaps, lust.
With a click, hands locked around Barbette's wrists, drawing them up. “So this ees it,” she said to herself as she dangled. “I am zee last.” With a playful pout, she watched as her night clothing was removed with mechanical tenderness. She wondered what she looked like, helplessly dangling by her wrists, her ample breasts unbarred, her hips grinding in anticipation, her long limbs pulled longer by suspension. She wished for a mirror so she could excite herself with her own helplessness. She knew girls back home you could tie in a chair before a mirror and before you knew it, they'd climax at their own suffering image. Barbette had never understood that until now. Now, she'd love to see herself in this state, suspended and extended, and about to be fed into a merciless machine.
She swayed like a leaf on a branch as she swung across the room, directly over the steaming tub. The mousy woman was now being raked across – good heavens! - a bristled washboard. Was this in her own future? And the heavyset dame Barbette observed from her less-complementary side, her elevated position allowing her to watch as the suddy bar agitated the inverted woman's hot sex. Her final glimpse was one of rounded hips shivering hard enough to throw suds from the gleaming buttocks. Then, without further ceremony, Barbette, head maid of Lady M___'s estate, was dropped into the heated broth of the washtub.
It was just like last time. She swirled through the stew of women's undergarments, her torso wrapped in whirlpooled nylons. Her cheeks, the ones she used to sit so demurely on, jutted into the cool air overhead. Then came the crack of the paddle, reverberating through the dense water, confirmed by the sharp sting that lanced her buttocks. She grunted, feeling bubbles tickling across her face. She found herself wondering if the heavyset woman, danging in her abuse, was watching her circulating spanking. Did it further excite her? Did it cause her to cum yet again?
It seemed like an eternity, her rear plastered with a dozen more swats, when suddenly metallic hands gripped her thighs and hauled her upwards. As other hands locked around her breasts, squeezing cruelly, making her gasp like the drowning victim she nearly was, she reflected on her position.
At least I am right side down. Unlike Li-June, I shall not be forced to eat soap. I am a lucky lady!
At her side, the pudgy highborn was screaming hysterical laughter. What could she find funny in all this? Barbette tipped her head back, her arms dangling in acceptance as the punch-card intellects levered her thighs apart, readying her for what was to cum. She'd heard that crazed laughter earlier but with the dim lighting and surrounding distractions, had been unable to see what it was about. She supposed soon she would travel beyond the point Li-June and Auntie had interrupted the day before to find out.
“I am ready for you, you crool mechanical. Do what you weel to me. I ham not afraid.”
But what Barbette did not know what that the MI's bead-like visual sensors had locked on an opening she'd not anticipated, one puckered as tight as lover's lips. And into this it slid its long shaft of soap, slowly, for it sensed the opening was not that wide.
Below, Barbette's eyes flashed open. “Merci! Merde! Oh non! Non! Not zere!”
But the machine was fully intent on soaping up 'zere' and like the pistons of a steam engine, it was gathering itself with every thrust. The suspended Frenchwoman could only gasp in time to the outrageous penetrations, her legs coming up like railroad semaphores, her hands clapped over her eyes in embarrassed chastisement over the ruthless ill usage. It was not that she didn't know of such things – she'd inflicted this same abuse once or twice to women tied up for punishment in the estate's barn. But this was the first time the activity was being conducted to her (or, more correctly, inside her) and from that point-of-sensation, it lost much of its charm.
Thank goodness it uses a new bar of soap each time, she found herself thinking in the section of her brain reserved for housekeeping details. I would hate to be forced to open my mouth for a bar of soap that had been so ill-used.
Oddly enough, it was actually pleasant in a distracting sort of way, an eye-widening aesthesis that was actually erotic once you added in the suspension, the humiliation, and the helplessness. Unbidden, Barbette's hands left her eyes and fell across her breasts, fingering her unexpectedly hard nipples.
“Do your worst,” she softly commanded the surrounding mechanisms with throaty defiance.
Pok-pok-pok-pok...
It didn't take long, once she found acceptance for the base abusement, for her legs to drop back to the horizontal. As before, she levered her thighs further apart, permitting herself to rise upwards. Then the machine paused, pivoted the bar ninety degrees to promote cleansing friction, and thrust again. At that Barbette went limp, her hands falling away, her hips vibrating, her mouth dropping open to exhale a moan of total satisfaction.
“Magnifique...”
Now the hands that had humiliated her were moving the soap away. With little-girl eyes, she watched its removal.
“Non, non. Again...”
But the MIs had their job to do. She had time to collect a breath before she was dunked once, twice, and again into the tub. When she was raised upwards, she was soaked but clean.
She found herself being rotated back to right side up, her wrists gripped high overhead, her ankles locked in an uncompromising grasp below. Then, as if wringing out a towel, the grasping hands rotated her upper and lower body in different directions, forcing her hips to swivel, tensioning her back. She imagined how she looked, her curves exaggerated, her slender body taunt, her long limbs coiling. Hanging her head, she heaved a shuddering exhale as her lanky body was stressed one way, then the other.
More hands took hold of her, a soft pressure against her shoulder blades, a cupping support beneath her buttocks, a gentle guidance behind her knees. With firm insistence, she was folded up like a shirt into fetal position, her arms pressed beneath her breasts, her head forced down to just between her knees, her balled body pressed into place by a dozen gloved hands. She tried to straighten up but found no flex in the machine's grip. She could tell she was being rotated, positioned.
Down in the darkness, she could smell the odor of her excitement. Oh, yes, she was being cruelly machine-handled, but it was making her hotter and hotter.
Through the narrow crevice between knees, breasts and twat, she suddenly saw the washboard that was being swung into place, a cruel sheet of irregular bristles. Around she went, the floor exchanging places with ceiling as the machines easily positioned her about. With her head forced down betwixt her knees, she simply couldn't see.
But she could feel. In concert, the dozen hands that gripped her began sweeping her back and forth across the brush-faced board, the bristles hissing across her taunt back. Barbette moaned at the sensuous comfort of it. It was nothing short of a massage, a relaxing and soothing buffing that made the French woman moan, wiggling her toes in contentment. Rocked and rubbed, she actually began drifting into a protected sleep, cradled in the machine's multi-grip. As far as she was concerned, it could go on forever.
Then she was being nimbly pivoted. Again she was physically moved back and forth, but this time the stiff bristles played across her taunt yet tender buttocks. What made it worse was the sharp paddling she'd received while bobbing inverted in the tub. So focused had she been in holding her breath, so distracted by the butt-thrusting soaping she'd received, that she'd quite overlooked the pasting her cheeks had taken. Now it was all too clear that her ruddy female orbs were tender, and the buffing wasn't helping at all. She yelped and tried to pull away but the machines maintained their insisting grip, swiping her back and forth across the prickly plane.
“Please, no! Stop. Ouch ouch ouch. Oh my, no!”
It spoke volumes on the Frenchwoman's demeanor that while suffering such abuse, she actually found mental bandwidth to consider this for her next domination at home. Given her post as head maid, it was not uncommon for errant girls to find themselves doubled over her bed's footboard, trussed in place, their skirts flipped up. Ordinarily Barbette would rather employ her duster; her tastes ran that way. But this did have merit. Perhaps next time she had to paddle a maid, perhaps she would take a stiff brush to the glowing cheeks, to teach them a further lesson.
“Oh, it hurts! Oh, please stop! S'il te plait!”
How their bottoms would glow. How amusing it would be. Suffering as she was, she wanted to share it with another, to be on the bestowing end.
“Non. Ohhh. Ouch ouch. Ohhh.”
Why the machine eventually stopped was unknown to her. It wasn't out of some sense of mercy, nor had her pleas swayed its cold punch-card heart. Likely it had simply completed this step of its series. She almost sobbed in relief when she felt the board moved away, sensed herself being turned, turned....
Then, in the darkness of her folded prison, Barbette's eyes flashed open.
“Oh, mon Diue!”
She'd been repositioned all right. Now the unsympathetic bristles gently touched her soles. Sensing the desperate flapping of her feet, the thoughtless machine automatically looped a spare set of fingers around her big toes, drawing taunt this surface to be cleaned.
“No no no! NO! LET ME GO! I AM NOT TO BE TIC...”
But she was, of course.
With a synchronizing click like that of an orchestra's director tapping his baton on the top of his sheet holder, the hands began sweeping their struggling pink burden back and forth, doing exactly what they'd been programmed to do. Hiss hiss hiss went the bristles across the agitated French flesh. Locked in the womb of the automation's enforcing grips, Barbette wailed as her helpless feet came under cruel assault.
She'd been tickled in her youth, mercilessly tickled by that older farm girl. It had shaped her into who she was, making her an enthusiastic tickler in her own rights. As countless maids and mannis could attest, falling into her bonds was literally nerve-racking. Screams and shrieks egged her on. Flushed cheeks and tears enthused her. She would continue, on and on and on, until her toy was nearly dead. Only then, when her victim was used, mostly unresponsive, nearly comatose, would she stop.
She'd spent many, many years learning to weild her powerful feather duster. But in that time, she'd never been tickled herself.
And now she was being tickled by a thing that could not be begged, charmed, sexually distracted or swayed by sympathy. It took no joy in what it was doing to her.
But had her legion of victims had been there to witness her downfall, they would have stood in rapt attention below, craning up at this erotic display. With her limber body so cruelly folded, her her long limbs wedged so tightly in place, her her broad pink feet bowed back, she was a huge portion of vengeance served most satisfyingly hot. Her passionate deep-throated screams were magnificent, a perfect combination of pre-orgasmic distress. Humiliated by position, manhandled by inhuman devices, tormented to the limits of endurance and beyond, she was clearly a sight to behold.
There is no doubt that, had the room been filled to capacity by her many, many victims, they would have quickly fallen upon one another in a furious orgy, fueled by the fantastic and total torment of cruel Barbette.
Her thighs were slick from tears and pussy-sauce for the soul-tearing laughter was having an effect on the poor maid. She would never have imagined that the humiliating tickling she'd received all those years ago was a total subconscious turn-on for her, and her efforts to keep herself untickled were actually a checked desire to be tickled. She never suspected this to be true, that this agonized sweeping across her maidenly feet would cause such a climatic response, but there it was. In nights to follow, Barbette would lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking very long and very hard about what had happened. And often her nighties would need laundrying the following morning.
But that would be then. In the now, she was rocked and spun until she could barely breathe, until she was near blacking out, until her overloaded sex shuddered in confused bliss. And then, like the calm following the storm, it stopped.
Her body, limp and spent, was once again stretched out. Jets of hot water were played across her, a final rinse that played across twat and tits, agitating a last pop of orgasm from her smoldering loins. Her head hung back between her upthrust shoulderblades; she lacked the strength to keep it upright.
This device... is worse... than Lady Petunia...
With something close to tenderness, the hands holding her shifted her to the horizontal, moving her forward, feet leading. She managed to get her head up, to see what the cruel device's intention would be.
“Oh, please, no.... I do not weesh to be squeezed...”
Two large rubber rollers awaited her, rotating like massive black logs. She tied to struggle but, weak as a waterlogged kitten, it was hopeless. Numbly she watched as a gloved hand pushed her trembling toes down. Then she felt the cold compression press around her feet, squeezing. It was as if some vast beast was devouring her, drawing her between its huge puckered lips. Now her ankles bore the pressure. Around her, the hands where letting go of her; ironically, she tried to grip them in return as if that would prevent the fate that was even now rolling up her shins.
“No... no...” Supporting hands held her her up by the buttocks and back. She tried to grab something, anything, but there was nothing within reach.
Up along her curved body rolled the hard rubber rollers, numbing her with their insistence. As it drew in her hips, she trembled. As it passed over her stomach, she gasped. Like toothpaste, air was forced out of her body. She tried to push against the rollers, to fend them off as they slowly pressed upward beneath her breasts, but all this achieved was for her hands to be captured and drawn in. Feeling the hard-points of her nipples pressed into her chest, ground beneath the machine's traction, she moaned, a moan of forced exhale.
“Please...” she shuddered, head back, trying to cran to look away. “Don't squeeze me. Please”
With a tiny shriek (she had only wind for that) her head was drawn within. The last to vanish was her hair, scrolled in after her. Here, the machine achieved its purpose, slowly wringing out water.
And on the other side...
It was as if Barbette fell into Heaven. Her body, tingling from tickling, abrasion and pressure, dropped onto a wide white sheet. All around her were nylons, garters, panties and such. Groggily, she even recognized one of her bras by its little black ribbons. She lay on her back, looking up into the bright lights, as a few more articles of clothing came through the wringers and dropped over her naked form, a disorientating yet erotic image.
She simply couldn't move. She'd been through too much. One moment she'd been safe in her little bed, dreaming her wicked dreams. The next, she'd dropped through the rabbit hole to be stripped and washed, paddled, brushed and squeezed. Perhaps the Barbette who'd gone to bed this evening could have easily jumped up and stepped clear of this lazy lingerie pile. But the woozy maid simply couldn't move, paralyzed as she was with overstimulation.
Around her, the machines rumbled to life.
“No... No more... I beg you...”
Hands came down, gloved hands that took up the four corners of the sheet upon which she lay, lifting them. One wing, the shorter end, was tossed over her and tucked in, collecting her into a neat bundle with the moist womanly garments. These same hands then reached beneath her and slowly rolled her over, over and over. In the end she lay in a huddled wrap, her bare feet jutting out the far end, her head (exposed from the nose upwards) out the other. The wrap lay tight across her mouth, forming a taunt gag she could not shift. Within the wrap, the garments pressed into her hot flesh.
Then came small straps which nimble metallic fingers looped around her, banding her mouth, her collarbone, her breasts, her tummy, her hips, her thighs, her knees, her ankles. She was now most thoroughly pinioned, unable to move or roll, super-padded by the lingerie that shared her envelopment. She tried to call out but raised little more than a muffled grunt. She tried to bend at waist and knees but was folded far too tightly for that. She could only lay on her back, breathing slowly, wondering what further indignities would come.
It didn't take long for this to be revealed. Almost at once, hands clamped around her ankles and lifted her bodily up, hooking her to a horizontal line running overhead. Then these same hands took a parallel line and began to haul on it. With jerky motions she moved, hapless and inert, through a rubberized slit in the wall, pushing through. What met her weary eyes next went beyond anything she'd ever seen in the hidden halls of Lady M___'s estate.
Two rows of maidens hung in the moonlight, two rows wrapped as she and suspended as she, sad eyes peering over their banded gags, toes up to the stars.
Laundry. We are nothing but drying laundry.
And so it was. In the open and randy Gai Shift world, certain things still remained prudishly concealed. One of these was hotel laundry. Inexplicably, women would might blush slightly at being paraded bound and pantied in public balked at their laundry being openly displayed without them. It made no sense, but cultures rarely do. Given this, most hotels and boarding houses bundled the drying underthings in sheets to preserve the owner's modesty.
But the sheets should contain the lingerie only, Barbette thought, not the girls as well!
But there they were, two ranks of ladies hanging in mute inversion in a narrow moonlit garden behind the hotel.
Barbette slowly pivoted around to find herself facing Li-June. The oriental girl returned her gaze with teary almond eyes. Barbette wondered if her tears were due to embarrassment, worry over the guest's reaction, or perhaps in gratitude towards some titanic orgasm she'd suffered during processing. Barbette felt her heart go out to her small dangling counterpart. Maybe she'd still get a chance to entertain the lithe girl during her stay. She'd love to see if she could make the little girl cry every bit as much.
Further down the line, Auntie hung with Zen composure, her narrow feet upraised. She was another Barbette would like to take charge of. She wondered how ticklish the old woman was. It would be fun to find out.
In fact, it would be amusing to take ownership of both Chinese woman, to work them simultaneously, a family affair.
The garments pressed up against Barbette's crotch would now have to be re-laundered tomorrow. There was no helping that.
As for her report to Lady M___ concerning her intentions to stay in such a madcap establishment, Barbette's mind was solid; she would report most favorably on the hotel's amenities. After all, her Ladyship had been unsuccessful at winning the Pit lottery back home. To that, it would take little more than a tug on her Ladyship's key loop after the older woman had gone to bed to give her a most interesting experience with automated manipulation and processing. Once her ladyship had been removed from the clothesline and unrolled from her sheets the next morning, Barbette was most certain she'd be pleased.
The thought of sending her mistress into this watery experience excited the leggy French maid as well. Perhaps she would sit on the basement steps and watch as the load was agitated.
She looked past her distant toes. Her own window was not that far away. One might well be able to reach down with a feather duster and amuse oneself during the night. After all, it was unlikely she'd be called for any service while Lady M___ was so indisposed. Maybe her Ladyship wouldn't recognize her tormentor. And if she did, ah well. Whatever the worst was that could happen, it just excited her all the more.
Now the laundry shoved against her twat was very wet. Barbette's excitement concerning future events was heating her right up. But dangling in this white cocoon, she could only suffer it yet not resolve it. And to her urbane continental tastes, that was even better.
With her sensuous lip curling up into a private smile, she shuttered her expressive eyes and absorbed the discomfort of her degrading situation. So many hours to endure.
Mon Dieu...
To be concluded. Really. I just ran long.
26.09.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Hotel California Chapter 4: Escape to a New Life
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