Chapter 7: Kate's out of the Frying Pan... again!
Ra'idah had it all figured out.
Years back, as a young headstrong witch, she'd been cast out of her Cairo coven; the others hadn't seen her natural superiority as a reason to lay in languishing bondage over long nights, to be tickled and pickled by the golden-eyed Arabic dominatrix. She was warned that, should she return, they'd bind her up and keep her that way, no longer a sister-witch but a thrall, to be passed from bed to bed and need to need.
So she'd found herself at Port Mons in Western Africa, back when the first strange disappearances were beginning. Women seized by tidal-pool tentacles, by snakes, by vines, even by packs of sexy monkeys, to be carried into the jungle for dark reasons and glittering diamonds.
After learning of the diamond export trade, Ra'idah had been quick to establish herself as a silent partner, so silent that major players such as El Falcone and Jumbe didn't know she was there. One only had to target involved underlings, get them bound and stripped in a quiet little room, then pinch and prod them over long hours. Nothing like a night or two lashed atop a high hard stool in a sweltering room, tawny flanks streaked with sweat, every inch of flesh exposed for invasive stimulation, with buttocks numb and pussies aching, to gain information and promises. And Ra'idah, with her glittering eyes and cruel laughter, always made sure by asking the same questions over and over. How easy to drape her long arms around bound shoulders, to whisper into a hooded ear, “Just tell me what I wish to know. Just tell me. No? Perhaps another hour with the feather then.” Of course, even through the poor girl was gagged and couldn't tell though she desperately desired to, the process of questioning was always so amusing.
Eventually she was skimming the diamond exports, gaining phenomenal wealth. At the same time she learned of the imported Goldwaith elixir, used as a sexual lubricant and sealant (specifically, that it both delayed and then magnified a woman's climax). While the vaginal secretions of those affected caused diamonds to recast pure, the true value came during her own idle toying with the solution – it nullified magic.
Now detouring a portion of elixir to herself, she could experiment. She established that it could be dried in pans to a powder and mixed with incense which when burned disarmed witches (and made them randy, too). Her wealth brought dominance over the desert tribe who, in return for gold and mannis, built her tower and kept it supplied.
And then she sought her vengeance, capturing the four women who'd turned her out (Tanya being one of them). These she installed in the base of her tower, trapped within bars and floating clouds of Goldwaith incense. The notion of checking such power appealed and she spread her wings, flying her carpet across Africa, Europe and Eurasia in search of witches to capture, to drug, to bundle and enslave.
It was like collecting stamps. Well, stamps that could be forced into flimsy costumes, bound to their stampbook pages, pinched with tweezers and licked until their glue turned tacky.
She hadn't been surprised since Cairo years ago which is why she was dumbfounded when she'd requested something in a leggy blonde from Malik and gotten that purple-haired English muffin instead. Even more offputting was when the girl had rolled over, smiled, then pulled her hands free of her lashings. But the biggest surprise was when Ra'idah's feet had gone out from under her and suddenly she was falling upwards, right towards the yawning rooftop aperture and the endless sky below her heels.
In desperation she managed to catch a chain she'd employed around so many unwilling guests, feeling the length pass through fingers until she managed to catch its last links, to check her fall. She gasped, looking down through a spill of dislodged black hair, to see a slipper come free and tumble away into the blue void.
“Don't think of teleporting me away,” Kate laughed, hunching over to untie ankles so lovingly knotted by Miriam. “I'm the only one here. If you shift me off someplace, you'll dangle until you fall.”
“But how did you...?”
“I used Carin as a blotter, climaxing all that elixir out of my system. Then I hung a waterpipe hose out the window so I'd not have to breathe that drugged incense. Clever, eh? Now, speaking of elixir, you've got to have a bottle of it somewhere around here. A meanie like you wouldn't be without it.”
Ra'idah didn't say anything, slowly rotating on the end of her inverted chain.
Kate smiled, jauntily crossing her arms, clearly illustrating she could wait.
“Very well. The bottle in the top shelf in that dresser. Hurry! My arms are being pulled from their sockets!”
Kate found the indicated jug. She confirmed its contents, not by sniffing (for to sniff would be to lose her magic), but by observation. A thick rag, perfect for clamping over a victim's face, sat next to it. She also found rope tucked to one side which she tossed over her shoulder. Then she strolled back to the dangling desert beauty, pouring a generous portion into the cloth, taking her time. “Focus on your grip, sweetie. This will only take a sec.”
Ra'idah grunted as the snowy white cloth clamped over her oval brown face, her long fingers desperately gripping the chain. Kate, in no way a medical professional, judged the correct dosage by watching the inverted girl's hardening nipples.
“That should be good,” she purred as she set the jug down and took up the rope. Kneeling, she looped it twice around the straining wrists, tugging them tautly, seating a first knot and then threading the line through a link followed by a second knot. Then she looked up at her suspended captive, enjoying the view down her cleavage and the tensioned effect on her hips. After a good long look, only then did she back down the altered gravity, taking the stress off but leaving her to dangle. Whistling, she sought out more rope.
“My body,” Ra'idah moaned. “It is on fire from the drug.”
“Then you need a fireline,” Kate laughed. “Let me help.”
The next set of ropes did nothing to secure Ra'idah further – they were for humiliation. Kate crossed them between her breasts, looping them above and below, tightening everything up. More ropes slid around the tiny belly, as neatly as string-corded meat in a butcher's shop. There was no sound save the hiss of ropes and the groan of the Arab.
“You seem pretty open-minded about this,” Kate laughed as she reached out to pinch the maddened nipples so thinly masked by the rope-lashed silk halter. They rolled beneath her fingertips like walnuts. Ra'idah cast her head back and cursed in flowing Arabic. “You seem to swing both ways; dominant and submissive.” Then she giggled at irony of the statement, the swinging of the rope-locked, chain-dangling dusky damsel.
“I don't care if you release my slaves! I don't care if you give me to Malik – oh, please do! I don't care if you topple my tower. Just do me, screw me, run your finger through me! Pleeeeease!”
Kate smiled, her own passions coming into play at the sight of the red-hot body dangling before her. “Well, maybe just a little...”
She stepped closer, fascinated by the dark crevasse between Ra'idah's thighs, pungent with musk. Suddenly the sexual hunger became nearly physical, making Kate wonder if she'd not gotten a whiff of elixir herself. Ever bolder she stepped closer, ripping the silken crotch out of Ra'idah's trousers, unmasking her charms. Then, like a hungry little piglet, she nuzzled in, her tongue an eager plowblade in Ra'idah's furrow.
The woman below gasped in total delight as Kate began to service her. She spread her unbound legs wide to give her assailant all the room she needed.
“By the fleshy lances of marauding mannis,” she groaned in delirium, “Deeper! Deeper!”
Kate was all too happy to obey, turning her head this way and that to push even deeper into the juicy honeycomb. The next happy grunt was hers as Ra'idah put her hooked nose to good use, artfully pushing down Kate's panties to gain access at the alluring snatch filling her senses. Her clever tongue rippled into Kate's vulva, making the purple-headed girl rise up on tip-toe. Ra'idah purred happily away, charmed and entranced by the purple pubic hair – so darling!
Without speaking, both girls sensed the imbalance, Kate could trough Ra'idah, but reciprocal servicing was difficult. To balance things out, Kate clambered up her swaying captive, looping her own long legs around the torso before her. Now they were locked in a ying-yang of flesh, suspended on Ra'idah's chain, rocking slowly, breathing heavily, the air filled with the low-tide smell of flustered women.
Kate came, finally and utterly. She gasped, her own tights nutcracking Ra'idah's sweat-moist head, screaming in delirium into the tacky vagina before her. She used her own hysteria to thrust deeper and deeper, nearly splitting the poor eastern girl in two. It was a fantastic orgasm, pure and simple without the complications of Goldwaith elixir. She found herself laughing and weeping at the pleasure flowing through her.
But it ended, as it always did. She slid down off her rocking partner, wiping her eyes clear of various fluids. Ra'idah, still helpless in her ropes and passions, gasped in the grips of frustration.
“No no no! You cannot leave me like this! I burn for you! I burn!”
“It's elixir-deprivation, darling. Nothing I can do. You won't be able to cum for hours and I can't hang around to work you. You'll just have to wait until it passes.”
“NO! NO! NO! I DEMAND YOU SERVICE ME! I CANNOT GLUG MRRPH MMPHH!”
Kate had foreseen this and had been ready to wrap poor Ra'idah's lips up in the remnants of her own pajama trousers, knotting them tightly behind her head, then giving the tip of her royal nose a sad little peck. She ran a hand through mad midnight hair.
“You'll be fine. Eventually you'll be able to use your magic again. Then you can teleport a tribeswoman or Malik or someone up here. They'll release you...” a whimsical smile “...one way or the other.”
She rose, giving depravanian-Arabian a last look at her honeypot before pulling her panties back into place. She turned her back, hardening her heart against the sounds of bitter weeping, crossing the tower to the yawning portal. There sat the flying carpet, ready for use. She settled onto its center, felt her own magical abilities reach out and connect with it. Then, without so much as a backward glance (to avoid temptation more than anything else), she ordered the rug to lift and was away into the afternoon sky.
She flew north, crossing the brown coast in just over an hour, soaring across the bright Mediterranean. Midway across she came upon a huge paddlewheel steamship churning east, one she recognized. It was the Lola Montez on some sort of side-jaunt. She felt a tang of nostalgia at it, remembering it bearing her and Auntie Petunia to Africa at the beginning of this long adventure. She found herself thinking about Sister Annie Coldburne, wondering if the birdlike coppertop had ever organized her convent. She hoped she had, and had plenty of girls to bind and climax for the benevolent goddess Astarte.
And Chesapeake, leggy black Chesapeake, always in search of a slaveowner (to own her). Kate hoped the poor girl was cuffed and hooded in a cruelly small space, left to whimper and moan to her heart's content.
Soon enough she was across the rugged northern shore, blurring across France. As always, revolution gripped the land. She saw blue-coated royalists storming enclaves of peasants, sorting them out, binding them up for transport to the Bastille. She even considered levitating one of the conveniently trussed farmgirls up, to bring her aboard and carpet-wrap her as Ra'idah had her when she'd carried her off. How nice to have a living back support to lean against, one who's wiggling struggles could be felt and enjoyed through the tight rolls of magical wrappings. Tempting, yes, but she decided to refrain. First off, it was no fun when the person you tormented (perhaps by stroking their heels-up exposed soles with a dallying finger) rattled off their pleas in a foreign tongue. If you couldn't understand “No, no, not that! Oh please, not that!”, how would you know what to do next? Further, most of the Royalist musketeers carried bolomuskets – if one of them landed a shot, she'd be wrapped up in tight cabling like a foil-wrapped candy. She'd have to land and ask for mercy from some passer-by to release her, and dressed as she was in alluring harem silks, bound hard and helpless, advantage might possibly be taken. Over long hours, or days, or even weeks. Shared at length until her passions were finally exhausted, at which time she might be sold or hitched to a plow or something.
The sun was setting as she passed over revolt-racked Paris. In every street, troopettes fought peasants, citizen committees fought safety committees, constitutionalists fought free-masons, nobles fought servants. Even though peace had come to earth with the gai-shift, France had been in on-off revolt for decades. Most women spent their entire lives either gloating over their captives and they ran cruel fingers along blushing flesh as delicious plans were detailed OR whimpering in some hay-carpeted cell, listening the to clatter of the jailer's key and the whine of their clockwork vibrators. It was a very busy, very interesting place.
Even now, in a vast crowd-choked public space, the peidillotines were in use. Noble women sat on the hard benches, their arms belted to their sides, their bosoms straining under the cruel captivities. Their pretty bare feet were stock-locked and toe-clamped, the pink flesh so prettily displayed for the rabid crowd's amusement. And in the peidillotines high drop-tracks dangled, not blades, but vertical plates covered with whip-wired feathers. When the crowd's passions hit their crescendo and the prisoner's begging most shrill, black-hooded executioners would release the plates. They would thunk down just before the pinioned feet, the force of the sudden stop setting the feathers trembling for thirty minutes or more. How the woman would scream as their feet were basted with twirling feathertips. Their strapping had to be thick indeed to withstand the agitated wrenchings the merciless tickling provoked.
Of course, the crowd would be whipped into passionate female frenzy by the delicious pedal-molestations. When the mob finally dispersed, it would not be uncommon to witness hard-bound women being carried out of the park by nipple-jutting revolutionaries who wished to spend the next days tickle-torturing someone. Intensive interrogations of one's own party-members was a good way to discover spies. And it was grand fun, besides. Loop-trussed and hand-gagged, their pettycoats tight around their straining bodies like folded parasols, their booted feet kicking, these poor women went meet their fate in deep cellars and hard iron beds.
But Kate sped on, racing the setting sun. There would be no moon tonight and the high clouds might mask the stars. She broke over the channel in falling gloom, leaning forward, looking for the white Dover cliffs. Almost too late, she realized that an easterly breeze was edging her off course; she only caught a suggestion of the Thames estuary in the darkness to port. Banking, she was riding hard, thinking of Megan and how that little minx could be surprised, set-upon, elixir-dosed and bound tight as a drum – Kate's passions, having observed the wet-tension turmoils of France, were at fever-pitch.
Thus distracted, she didn't realize that the rug was out of magic until it flopped out from under her, pitching her into free-fall.
She screamed as she fell, wondering what sort of a controlling force would leave someone to such a fate – it was like she was in a snuff story. As she fell, her life flashed before her eyes, every episode of bondage relived.
She remembered the maid who'd kept her bound to a chair when mother was out, in fear of her purple hair and demonic power. She remembered her mouth being packed, her lower face bound up with an apron, of ropes around her wrists and ankles, of being told to “just sit in your little chair, love, and think about kittens” as the door was closed on her little cell. And how she'd listen to the maid cleaning the house below, wondering what thoughts when through that simple mind as she worked her chores, wondering if she was fantasizing about her mistress so stringently tied upstairs, perhaps considering new positions, new humiliations.
She remember the girls at school constantly picking on her because she was different – not a day went by without her finding her arms tied fast to a post or tree, with pinching fingertips and laughing voices tormenting her. Sometimes she was kept in the school cellar for days, tied and suspended and humiliated by girls newly curious about the workings (and sensitivities) of womanly flesh. To dangle with a clockwork vibrator stolen from a mother's dresser humming in her cunt while a ring of schoolgirls sat in a gossiping ring below could still bring a blush.
Auntie Petunia had been a bright patch of her life, a period of sunny days and soft gentle bindings and loving captivity. She could still remember lying on her side the first day of holiday, her suitcases still unpacked, laying on a huge bed with limbs ribbon-bound, her clothing in indecent disarray yet artfully so. And there was Auntie, patting her clothing-stripped, ribbon-lashed shoulder with a kind hand. “Michelle will be up shortly to comfort you. She's one of my best maids, very gentle and loving. I told her to spend the entire afternoon with you, seeing to your needs. All your needs.”
Then came Megan, who was so good and pure it just pissed Kate off – she wanted to see the goody-two shoes out of her shoes (and ever other bit of clothing) bound tight and carefully positioned to perform the most humbling acts (of course, Megan would have done so gladly if not for her curse). Other than the time they'd gotten their high witch bound and shipped to London, she'd never topped the chipper girl. No, Megan's gentle hands had bound up Kate more often than she'd cared to admit. Even when Kate had been trussed over a spanking pony, her pert bottom upraised, unshielded, and ready for the paddle's kiss, Megan had been kind. “This might sting a bit.” Of course, bound and gagged and positioned, there was nothing she could do to prevent it. And it did sting. A lot.
She even refantasized about the African pit, of Carin and Miriam and the nights of elixir-churning lust she'd undergone. In her last seconds, she couldn't imagine why she'd left.
Even doomed, Kate found that her lifetime of humilations didn't fill her with poignant regret. It just turned her on. She would die horribly horny.
She sensed the ground. She closed her eyes. She caught a whiff of pungent river mud. Then came a soft gooshy impact like a manni rod thrusting into a tight vagina. Feet first, the full length of her body was driven into the muddy bank of the Thames.
There was a moment of silence. Kate realized in wonderment that she was still alive. This sort of thing only happened in horribly-written stories, she reflected.
She tried to shift free, to dig herself up, but the gooey perverse mud seemed to have a clutching mind of its own, packing itself around her arms, sucking her in, projecting into her twat, gooshing between her toes. She shook her head and tried to shift her shoulders but every movement just seated her even tighter in her mud-locked entrapment. The mud flowed into place around her nipples like inquisitive fingers, cupping her buttocks with its soft riverbottom palms, sucking her toes like wide wet lips. No matter what Kate did, nothing worked. In the end, she could only pass a long night in topsoil captivity, moaning through the long hours, unable to find a way to position her head that wasn't an uncomfortable strain.
Dawn. She was beginning to wonder if anyone would find her, if there was any escape for her. But the sound of waves and gulls was interrupted by the steady grind of approaching feet. A shadow fell over her. To each side, long mudstained feet framed her captured shoulders, their slender legs ascending into the folds of a rough skirt . The head considering her was haloed by the rising sun in wavering folds of gold.
“Can you help me,” Kate gritted, rolling her shoulders, trying to get free. The woman standing over her considered...
The End.
14.05.12