To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Chapter 2: Plotting of Witches
Tameran the witch knew what she was doing.
She crept through the pre-dawn darkness, her shoes off to lessen the sound of her rounded body slipping through the foliage, her hands laden with coils of strong white rope. The autumn-blonde girl wrinkled her pug nose in concentration, peering through the darkness, trying to make out Zelda's cottage. When she thought of that beanstalk glasses-perched-on-nose snooty-puss, she found her hands gripping the ropes in tight anticipation. All she had to do was sneak into her sister witch's cottage and carefully bind up her sleeping counterpart. Once she had the other's wrists corded up, the rest would be easy. She could take her time, trussing up the tall girl in a web of tight ropes, ropes around her ankles and knees, encasing her body, pinning her breasts, lacing up her dry little twat. And once she had her bundled, there might even be time to play. It was not like Zelda's nightgown would prevent eager pinchings and strokings.
She'd arranged everything. At sunup, a gypsy woman would bring her wagon up to the cottage and carry the bound Zelda off. The wandering woman, raven-haired and eagle-eyed, had expressed an interest in a traveling slave, one that could fetch her water by day and warm her narrow cot by night. Silver chains would provide minimum security, but there were thick ropes and leather belts at the ready for more strenuous moments. It would be a wonderful relationship.
As for the other girls, Tameran would figure out how to deal with them too. The magic staff would be hers alone. Megan was beneath her plottings, little more than an afterthought.
In the light of the falling moon, Tameran could now see the low form of the cottage. How easy this would be. She padded across the open ground, tucking in behind a wagonload of hay, readying a loop of line.
At first, she thought someone had tossed hay over her - it seemed to spill down as if pitchforked off the wagon. But then it began to tuck itself around her stocky legs, lacing her broad shoulders, looping around her limbs. She felt her arms drawn behind her back, her wrists pressed together, the long straws looping tightly into place. Her elbows were similarly locked behind her. Teetering on trussed legs, she tumbled over into a soft spill of hay which cushioned her fall. Before she could cry out, a thick bundle wedged itself between her pearl-like teeth, muffling her. Now she was little more than a trussed up bundle, wiggling on the ground.
A protection spell! Of course! It was a rudimentary spell, one used by ancient witches in darker pre-shifted times. And she'd walked right into it!
She tried to whimper for help, to try to make a deal with Zelda, but the slender form of her captor did not appear. Alone in the dark, she could only lay in the scratchy web, feeling the hay perfect its hold upon her. Straw hooked around her thumbs, her toes. It tucked tighter between her legs, pushing her black dress ever higher, frictioning her to distraction. And the straws that had fallen down her dress front, as straw has fallen down dressfront's throughout time, had found its own contribution. Individual strips had looped around her nipples, pinning tight her passions.
It was a long night for her, trussed so completely. Loose straws tickled her heels. Errant tassels played across her flanks. She tried not to giggle; shuddering made it worse. But she simply could find no comforting spot. The tickling went on, driving her mad with distraction. Deep in her crotch, the pinning hay grew very, very damp.
With the coming of dawn, she heard the creak of cartwheels. Desperately, she shook her head in denial, but the gypsy woman wasn't picky. Any slave would do.
=< O >=
Zelda the witch knew what she was doing.
She slipped through the darkness towards the farmhouse where the sultry Sasha resided. It was rumored that she'd removed the interior walls of the entire top floor, making it into some sort of 'love loft'. Further was it rumored that the scarlet-haired witch would roam the district by night, carrying off young girls for dark (and sweaty) rites in said loft. Zelda didn't know if it was true. All she knew was it was going to come to an end this night.
She paused to adjust her glasses, careful not to catch them in the coils of coarse rope she carried. How simple it would be to sneak inside, to ascend the stairs and take the lust-sated Sasha captive. Once the ropes were snug around her wrists, the rest would be child's-play. She fantasized about trussing up her rival into a straining hogtie, of surveying the bowed and naked flesh, of lingering a long finger along her flanks, around her nipples, through her over-eager sex. How she would enjoy instructing the hot-blooded nymphomaniac in the delights of lengthy foreplay and delayed orgasm. Of course, the thick cloth gag would prevent any interruptions for questions or throaty pleas.
She'd arranged everything. At sunup, a group of randy farmgirls from a distantly remote croft would arrive. Given the extent of their chores, they couldn't afford to keep each other bound up all day. But the thought of someone trussed to your bed, awaiting your return, made a day in the fields pass quickly. Oh yes, they would love the company. And yes, they'd keep her in careful captivity, their most precious belonging.
Win-win for everyone.
As for the other girls, Zelda would figure out how to deal with them too. The magic staff would be hers alone. Megan was beneath her plottings, little more than an afterthought.
She paused a final moment, checking the slipknot of that first critical loop, remembering all the lessons her older sister had taught her. A final nervous breath and then she was drifting across the backyard, moving towards the gently swaying sheets that hung from a clothesline, a perfect cover. She slowed, looked up to the darkened window, eased through the sheeting...
Suddenly it was like being embraced by a ghost, one with a fresh, soft fragrance. She tried to wiggle against the sheet, thinking a wind had suddenly gusted up. Yet the folds slipped effortlessly around her, drawing ever tighter. In an instant, she found herself mummified, her booted feet sticking out one end, her twisting head the other. Overbalanced, she toppled off her high heels, plopping down against a soft folded pile of linen. Before she had time to cry out, an apron whirled around her lower face, jamming itself between her teeth, the leads looping into a neat bow behind her neck. She peered down the length of her trussed body, completely encased, unable to shift as much as an inch.
A protection spell! Of course! It was a rudimentary spell, one used by ancient witches in darker pre-shifted times. And she'd walked right into it!
She lay helplessly, cursing her idiocy. She had to get away before Sasha found her. For if Sasha found her, she'd drag her up to her loft and use Zelda as her personal toy, perhaps for days. The indignity of it! She wouldn't allow it! But the sheets shifted ever tighter, holding her in their warm, tender, and absolute embrace.
Witches' spells were always personalized, and Sasha's were no different. Through her wireframes, Zelda watched in horror as two clothespins marched like animated toy soldiers along her pinioned body. They stopped on her belly as if in consideration, then shifted to slide over the nubs that marked the locations of her nipples. Zelda shook her head, murfing her protests, but it made no difference. The clothespins were secure in their seatings, happy to keep her company across the long night. Her eyes rolled in checked exasperation.
She looked over in dazed confusion as the eastern sky lightened. From the opened gate came a nervous whisper. A head peeked over the fence. "I can see her," someone hissed. "All done in with a sheet, right over there, ready for stealing."
Zelda shook her head, trying to convince the girls they had the wrong witch.
It didn't matter to them at all.
=< O >=
Sasha the witch knew what she was doing.
She slipped across the darkened croplands, catching the faintest sea-scent. She could only smile, realizing that this was her favorite thing in the whole world. Not spell casting, not do-gooding, not even entertaining her captive guests. No, it was slaving. How she adored sneaking across dark fields, her green eyes flashing, her red hair glowing the starlight. How she thrilled for that moment when she leapt over a wall or drove through a hedge, tossing a lariat with skillful deliberation. And when the line snapped tight, she'd have her prey. Perhaps a startled milkmaid, slipping home after a tryst. Or a stodgy businesswoman, clumping to bed after a night in the pub. Once she'd caught a fugitive manni - what a delight that had been. But this time she was not after her usual prey. This time she was after a witch.
Madam Johnston, to be specific. The grand dame of witchery would be hers shortly, trussed up in ropes, glaring over her gag. How fetching she'd look, her strong rope-jacketed bosom rising in indignation, her proud cheeks pinking. Sasha remembered all the times she'd lain in her mentor's ropes, suffering the ticklings and tongueings of her then middle-aged mentor. Even quaking in orgasmic bliss, she'd fantasized of turning the tables on the older woman, seeing how much she could stand when the tracing finger would play but not grant, when the orgasm hung just out of reach. How delicious that would be.
She would have loved to carry the trussed and humbled woman over the lonely fields, back to her loft. There awaited straps and encasing suits of leather, with all manner of provocative stimulators sewn into their linings. How many days could her former teacher have endured before begging for mercy, promising anything. But, alas, she could not afford such a pleasure.
She'd arranged everything. At sunup would come the tide, and on that tide, smugglers would land their whaleboat in a nearby secluded cove. The sinister women, fashion-runners and lust-pirates who deviled the seven seas, would come ashore and make their way to Johnston's cottage, to find her ready for transport. She would be carried off for a life of sexual servitude, never to be seen in these lands again.
As for the other girls, Sasha would figure out how to deal with them too. The magic staff would be hers alone. Megan was beneath her plottings, little more than an afterthought.
Sasha hunched, her hunting instincts trembling. There was the cottage, painted by the descending moon. Her ropes hissed into readiness. She slipped across the final field, green eyes hard on the building, fingers nervously playing with the loop of rope. Once the wrists were locked down, it was all over. She could take her time, sneering and tying alternatively...
Unexpectedly, her foot caught a vine and she tripped, falling face forward into the soft warm soil. Some hunter, she chided. But when she tried to shift her foot away, she found it inexplicitly tangled up in a long vine.
She tried to kick it away but a sudden loop opened up, snaring the other foot. She didn't have time for this. Rolling up onto her shapely and often-kissed buttocks, she propped herself up and tried to kick away the snare. If anything, the vines seemed to tighten around her ankles. Just then, a second vine looped around her wrists, drawing them quickly together behind her back. She was still thinking it was some sort of inexplicit clumsiness on her part when realization hit that it was all too pat and perfect. The vines were tightening around her, drawing her feet out, pressing her arms into the small of her back and making them fast. More vines hissed around her knees and elbows. With a flicker, tendrils flashed across her shapely chest, drawing tighter, forcing her assets to bulge in the most complementary manner. And to every side, tendrils reached out to grip and anchor her down, to hold her face up, unable to move.
A protection spell! Of course! It was a rudimentary spell, one used by ancient witches in darker pre-shifted times. And she'd walked right into it!
Before she could cry out, to ask for pardon and forgiveness from Madam Johnston, a hard fruit was pressed between her teeth, followed by a thick leaf that sealed it in. More leaves slapped over her, blocking sight and hearing, isolating her in their grip. She couldn't shift. She could only feel as tiny ivies tightened around her hardening nipples like desperate grapevines, as a phallic-shaped vegetable was gradually pressed up her dress and between her legs, to slowly force its way into her moist private place. Beneath the sight-sealing leaves, her eyes flickered as the plants had their way with her. They gained moisture, salt and nutrients. And she got what she really wanted, a really good lay.
Sightless, she did not see the stars fade overhead. Deaf, she did not hear the grind of distant ore locks. Nor did she sense the pad of numerous feet as the pirates came out of the darkness, to surround their prize.
"Daggers out, ladies," said their leader. "Let's cut her out of these lubberly vines and place her into some nice tidy rigging, and have her away with the tide.
And so they did.
=< O >=
Madam Johnston the witch knew what she was doing.
She'd had the cab drop her off along a deserted hedgerow. The woman from the high seat looked down in confusion at dropping so dignified a lady in the middle of such nocturnal ruralism, but the Madam had glared her to silence. With a haughty flick, she'd lifted a note to the coachwoman.
"Take this to Salisbury Convent, at once."
"Aye, my Lady."
Madam Johnston watched the coach rattle away, waited until its clip-clop faded completely, before lowering her large travel bag and glancing within. The starlight relived orderly loops of ropes lain out in practiced readiness. In a neat side pocket nestled a French ballgag and a leather blindfold, all valuable in the pacification of captives. Madam Johnston knew this well, having tied up a good many girls, some students and some not, in her time.
She remembered Tameran well. She'd been such a kittenish butterball when she'd come for training all those years ago. How nice it had been to truss her up into a squirming pink ball before the fire, so sit back and knit, comfortably uninterested in the muffled protests of her warm footstool.
There would be no need to sneak in and tie Tameran to her bed. She would simply rap on the girl's door, demanding entrance, compliance and her wrists in quick order.
Of course, once she had the girl bound, there would be time for acquaintance. She could take her time trussing up the pink flesh, looping the coils ever tighter, making the younger woman grimace over the top of her gag as the ropes snugged ever bolder. And there would be time before they came for her, time to sit Tameran upright in a chair and make her fast, to fondle and provoke her until she'd shudder out one of her delightfully wet orgasms. Oh, yes, she missed Tameran. How jolly it would be to sit up with her, all the way till dawn.
She'd arranged everything. The note to the convent would bring the sisters post-haste. They would come out of the darkness, their black robes perfect camouflage for their dark mission. With the coming of the Gai-shift, the old religions had fallen. Others had come back, better fits for the female-dominated world. Salisbury Convent had converted into the Temple of Astarte, worshipping the female orgasm as a holy covenant. The sisters were all experts at granting and receiving such blessings, but their order always needed new members, girls to be trussed up in their tiny cells, to await the creak of the door and the hiss of sandals on the flags as a nun entered, a devilish glimmer in her eye. And those robes; one could conceal so many toys within them.
Truth be told, Madam Johnston had considered sending Megan to the order, if only to cut short the shared disappointment of her training. But with an inability to bind her up for servicing, it felt as if something would be lost. Oh, the sisters could keep her chained with welded manacles, perhaps, but it wouldn't be the same. The Madam was a traditionalist, and there was just nothing better for a girl than a well-placed loop of rough hempline.
But Tameran; she would do nicely in the order; she'd probably get along with them like a cathedral on fire. But once she passed into the hands of the nuns, she would effectively pass from this world, one less witch with which to share the staff with.
The Madam allowed herself a smile at her clever wordings, then thought further.
As for the other girls, Madam Johnston would figure out how to deal with them too. The magic staff would be hers alone. Megan was beneath her plottings, little more than an afterthought.
She was halfway across the yard when her skirt seemed to catch on something. It was wrapped around her legs, tight as a windblown sail around a mast. She tried to pull it free but it seemed caught, perhaps on a bootlace. She reached down with one hand but failed to unfoul it. Setting aside her bondage bag, she reached down with her other hand. Perhaps something was knotted behind her knees? She struggled with both hands behind herself, then felt further restriction. Somehow, her sleeve buttons had found their ways into the buttonholes of the opposite sleeves. Her hands were now hung up behind her back.
What a pickle she'd put herself in. Better to retire to the darkness of the hedgerow to deal with this wardrobe malfunction. But when she took her first step, she found herself teetering. Somehow, her bootlaces had come adrift, lacing across from one boot to the other. She toppled, fortunately coming down on her bag which, filled with ropes intended for Tameran, provided a soft landing.
She struggled a little more, trying to wiggle free but found that her hands were now as securely locked behind her as if they'd been tied. Worse, her sweater, originally looped around her shoulder in case the evening air proved chilly, had slipped down to a point just beneath her breasts where it seemed to have inexplicably tightened up, pinning her elbows to her flanks. And her feet, shod in those slender French boots, were equally laced up. Within the folds of her tangled dress, her legs were locked fast.
Realization came to her. She opened her lips to call out a command, to have Tameran come out and stop this foolishness, to release her and accept her own captivity. Yet before the order could be given, her wide collar unbuttoned, flopped over her mouth, and rebuttoned to opposite shoulders. Effectively gagged, she could only mutter her seething emotions at this ill handling.
A protection spell! Of course! It was a rudimentary spell, one used by ancient witches in darker pre-shifted times. And she'd walked right into it!
She lay in the darkness, pillowed by a spill of expectant ropes, as trussed as if done up by the masterful Lady Goldwaith. Her hands were locked behind her back, her feet together. She couldn't move. She couldn't shift. And then her gray eyes flickered opened in alarm. Oh no. That wicked Tameran! She wouldn't...
Within Madam Johnston's literal 'turncoat' clothing, something shifted. She felt her corset stir, tightening in the most explicit way. And her bra, hardly required, grew ever tighter. Her nipples, perked up by her situation, somehow found themselves pinned between the straps of elastic, a constant pressure, disturbing in the extreme. And if that wasn't enough, her panties were in a literal uproar, rubbing back and forth with knowing exactitude across her most delicate area. She grunted into the gag, demanding this stop, that she at least be held in dignity, not molested by her unmentionables. But her fashion had its own sense, intent it seemed in teasing her in the cruelest way possible.
It was a long night for the senior witch, bound into helplessness and toyed through wet squall lines of bliss. And she could only mew in weak protest during the brief respites before everything would tighten up and she'd fall into spin-cycle again.
She cracked her weary eyes open to see a flock of nuns standing around her in the light of the early dawn, looking down at her with firm compliance.
"This must be the one we were ordered to pick up."
"But this is..."
"Never mind that. She'll do. She's quite experienced. Now, lets get her out of those wet clothes..."
And a short distance away, laying like a kitten in her warm bed, Megan slept with a dreamy smile, her mind playing images of beautiful women playing baccarat for the right of ownership over her. She sat in a side alcove, trussed competently to a chair, her negligee outlandishly enhanced by the criss-cross of white cordage. Behind her, a French maid stood with gloved hands lightly resting on the captive's shoulders, leaning forward to whisper what was to become of her.
Megan moaned like a frustrated angel.
16.08.09
story continues in Gai-Shift - Magic 3: Let Good Things come to All
o0o