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Chapter 12: Foul Treachery!
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
April 23, 199_
Foul treachery!
I squat under bushes in the pre-dawn light, garbed in nothing save my habit, lacking boots and even underwear. Adara lays at my side in her nightie. We watch the clearing as Jumbe and her two turncoat underlings root about for us, then turn their frustrations on poor, helpless Chespeake.
What they do to her, I can hardly record.
It all happened so quickly. I'd been nudged from my sleep by Chespeake, who'd painfully rolled her way over to me. She was still in the tight and total bondage she'd been placed into the night before by Jumbe, Mosi and Pili, our bearers. Bound, looped, corded and subdivided, she instantly brought my blood to a boil. I'd only begun my grapple, a vine-pinched tit in one hand, a creeper-laced twat in the other. She shuddered then shook her head as if to clear it.
“Not now, Sister Annie,” she hissed low. “You must flee! Jumbe plots against you!”
I froze, my hands clinching involuntarily, causing Chespeake to arc beneath me.
“I heard them plotting late last night! Something terrible was going to happen to you and Adara at dawn!”
The fire had burned low – the bearers where just visible in the light opposite, sleeping. I took firm hold to Chespeake's shoulder and began to roll her over to free her.
“There is no time for that, Sister Annie,” she whispered fearfully over her vine-taunt shoulder. “Leave me. Wake Adara and slip away.”
I hated to do that but could see she was right. How amusing it had been to watch Jumbe and her girls tie our dark leggy companion the night before – literally and liberally tied head to toe, she'd looked good enough to eat. But now that complicated macrame of imprisonment worked again us. Her boxed arms were nearly lost in diving, clenching vines. A series of knots ran like buttons above her wrists, tracing her spine to the base of her neck. Vines looped over her shoulders, 'round her heaving flanks, and cinched down between her cheeks. Even with my pocket knife, it would take twenty minutes to saw her free, twenty minutes I didn't have.
“I'm sorry, darling,” I murmured, kissing her thick trembling lips, feeling her fear light my own misplaced passions. Goddess, her sacrifice was turning me on.
“Flee,” she croaked, pulling back from my hungry lips.
With wet eyes (and pussy), I shook Adara awake – how disheveled she looked, her black hair spilling over her rounded shoulders, her nightie doing little to mask the shape and curve of her body. Grabbing my own habit, I half-dragged her into the darkness. We'd gotten to the top of a ridge overlooking our camp when Jumbe's shout rolled over us. We hunched in the ferns. To channel my fears, I started scrabbling the events into my diary.
And now...
The natives have discovered we have decamped, leaving Chespeake behind. It is on her they center their displeasure. Mosi settles next to the prisoner's bound ankles, tucking them up in her thick arms, smiling at the pretty bound feet wiggling under her armpit, her leer visible even with the distance and poor lighting. Pili, skinny as a stick, her glasses dancing with starfire, kneels prettily before these feet, flexing her fingers, meeting Chespeake's eyes with a darkly meaningful leer. And Jumbe, tall noble Jumbe, slides in the prop up our poor companion, wrapping a pinning arm beneath the prisoner's breasts to hold her fast, her other hand stroking Chespeake's smoothly oval cheek, whispering dark secrets into her ear.
And then Pili begins her torments.
It is clear she is a girl who has been deviled in her own past, perhaps by cruel sisters or a domineering mother. True ticklers are made (through endless torment), not born.
We watch, journalist and nun, as the wiry black girl begins to run long spider-like fingers along the quivering flesh that makes up Chespeake's most sensitive vulnerability, the bottom of her feet. The fingers dance and swirl with demonic exactitude, following minute trembles and quivering flinches, following each nerve to its fast-fire cluster. Chespeake, bound from head to toe in her netting of vines, simply has no hope. She howls like a doomed soul in hell, tears running down her cheeks. She tries to shake off Jumbe's perverse embrace but the women holds her fast, bracing her screaming face between a cupping palm and her own silky cheek.
“Please! No! NoHoHoHo! Stop! Annie! Save me! Adara! OhHoHoPleaaase!”
I realize this torture is for our benefit, that these cruel girls know we are watching and listening, and so they are laying into these helpless soles. This is not playful in any way, this is industrial, a stripping, layer by layer, of Chespeake's psyche. Pili smiles as she works, a prim little smile at odds with the terrible torment she is inflicting.
Adara and I cannot take our eyes away. It is horrible, yes, but also very, very erotic.
The sun is breaking over the unhappy clearing now, turning Chespeake's feet into oblongs of gold, lengthening the shadows of the fingers dancing across them. I wonder if perhaps they will damage her, even kill her, given the stress they are placing her under. But suddenly chubby Mosi is saying something and the three suddenly stand, leaving our beautiful, fully-bound captive sobbing in the dust. Grabbing a few needed things, the black girls slip away into the jungle.
Everything is still save for the prone, pinioned girl gasping against her cordage.
At first I think it is a small animal, a squirrel or something, that enters opposing. It is small and articulated and glimmers in the fresh sunlight. Then I realize it is an ant, an ant as large as my hand. It's silver carapace denotes its artificiality. Another mechanical device!
Another enters, and another, their heads tracking back and forth, sensing something. More enter. They are getting closer and closer to Chespeake, who, bound hand and foot and elbow and knee and breast and twat, simple cannot shift away.
“Look,” Adara hisses. “Beyond the foliage.”
I follow her finger, back from where the ants came from. There stands a great mound, one we'd not seen when we set up camp late the evening before, blocked by high brush we can now see over. Clearly Jumbe and her tickle-maidens had known it was there. Yet they'd encamped us at its very base, knowing the ants would swarm out at sunrise. All three of us would have met the fate now facing Chespeake.
An ant senses her and suddenly, with an unheard signal, they swarm over her. Beneath their churning legs and snapping mandibles she screams and for a moment my blood runs cold, thinking these girls have committed a crime unknown in our Gai World. But then I realize it is only bikini fabric and vines that being cut, not flesh. Finished, the ants fold out in neat formation, Chespeake supine across their backs, steel mandibles locking arms and legs down as if she were on some inquisitor's table. She struggles, her exposed breasts shifting, her naked hips rolling, but they grip her with mechanized strength, their bodies as interlocked as chainmail. As one, they carry her off, across the clearing through the brush, towards their ominous mound. And Chespeake can only watch where she is being taken over her milling toes, as helpless a witness as a reluctant patent strapped to a gurney.
“God,” Adara breaths at my side, “She's so hot like that. I wish I'd strapped her down to her bunk on the Montez and coaxed her with tickling into such a frenzy.”
“How can you say that?” I sputter, masking my own unpolitical desires. In answer, Adara reaches across and finds a boob beneath my loose habit. I drop my pencil and gasp (this is catch-up writing, of course). Then she smiles.
“You're pretty perky about this yourself.” Her thumb had found my rock-hard nipple. I blush but know now is not the time to comfort one another. More interesting things are happening to Chespeake.
Our poor companion is being carried up the steep slope of the huge ant mound feet first, her black hair crazing behind her, her deep voice begging for mercy. But this tiny mechanical army does not compute such a mercy. Instead, she is slowly fed feet-first into their mound, tucked and tugged and prodded until only her head juts from its summit. I am reminded by the countless girls buried thus on every beach in the world. But unlike them, with their concerns of friendly mockery (or perhaps a forced genital kiss through a captor's bathing suit), Chespeake is now imbedded in this cruel structure, hands at her sides, legs together, her flinging struggles gaining not an inch of freedom. What next?
Her wild eyes fly open in shock. I follow the line of her desperate gaze...
Four ants proceed towards her, each carrying a fruit on their backs (and given that they are robotic, I doubt a use as mundane as consumption). One has a large blue melon, two carry bananas, the last one, an apple.
“That blue thing,” Adara moans, wiggling lower into the ground as if settling onto a lover. “Those are the melons we were sprayed with. The elixir fruit!”
Sure enough, the blue bulb is positioned before Chespeake's desperate face. She's pleading now, her coffee shoulders straining against the earth that holds her fast. Without reservation, the ant divides the fruit up with its mandibles, placing each section equidistant around the struggling head. No doubt the melon's fumes are effecting the buried amazon . He head rolls about, her eyes fluttering. Unexpectedly and comically, she sneezes. Now her head is rocking back and forth, her eyes closed, her generous lips pouting.
“Oh no,” she moans. “Oh mama, mama, save me. Oh... oh...”
Ants are ducking in and out of nearly holes and from the black girl's struggles I can only imagine their tunnels run down the length of her embedded body. She yips like a little dog as spider-like legs walk down her ribs, between her legs, between her breasts. She's flushed – we can see it from here – and desperate.
“No more,” she begs, her voice breaking. “No more...”
Further pleas are cut short as the apple-bearer steps forward and thrusts its load deep between her teeth, wedging her jaws open, plugging her squalls. Mute, her head can only rock as the super-sensations worry her buried flesh, driving her to total distraction.
“Where do these fruit come from?” I ask in confusion. “Goldwaith Elixir is not...”
“Natural? No, it's not,” Adara whispers back. “But whoever controls these clockwork things seems to have an underground network. It would be no trouble to run pipes up that would fill the soil beneath susceptible plants with elixir. The plants concentrate it in their fruit and then the MIs use it on their captives. Its a very elegant dispersal system.”
I shrug. It makes sense in a way. But I was being pulled from the hypothetical back to the physical. Or perhaps the sexual.
For now the final two loaded ants, the ones with the bananas, force their way down a tunnel. I fearfully consider what their dark mission might be.
“I interviewed Captain Hoffsteder and her crew once, a travel piece,” Adara murmurs at my side, unable to tear her eyes away from the tormented Chespeake. “Her XO, Petra, told me that Russian Cossacks use such fruit for very unsavory purposes.”
I actually cannot write for a moment. “Oh my,” I manage, blushing.
Chespeake confirms their trespass a moment later. Suddenly her eyelids flicker up like window sashes rattling around their dowels. Her head goes back, her lusty exclamation nearly blowing her plugging apple clear. Her shoulders mill as she rises slightly in her hole, trembling, shivering. I can only image, down in the dark earth, ants pushing aside her soft flesh, exposing her tenderest areas, positioning the bananas end-on, shoving slowly and methodically with unliving tenacity. Perhaps the fruit maintains its peel, pressed into her, fore and aft, like a double manni assault. Perhaps they mush into a uncomfortable paste that packs her orifices, the embarrassment of such base usage an erotic feedback that winds her even tighter. Either way, she's being used, nastily, cruelly, a terrible debasement that we can only watch with checked breath. Poor Chespeake...
“Uhh... uhh... uhhhh.”
She's rocking, her eyes dulled by the chemicals coursing through her glands, stunting her sexual response into a prolonged dangle above the flames of all-consuming passion. Gagged, wedged, stuffed and plugged, her flesh trembling as unseen legs mill across her flesh.
Suddenly the tempo of her reaction changes. She begins to scream behind her apple, eyes screwed shut, shifting so hard sand actually trickles down the sides of the mound. I realize that, with every other sensation churning at her, it seems the ants have now focused on those elegant feet of hers. Probably one locked up her big toes with its metallic mandibles, drawing her feet downward in ballerinic tension, bringing her stress-wrinkling flesh in full play of countless milling legs. Like devious fingers, they are likely playing across her soles, putting every square centimeter into contact with slender implements. It is like being tickled by the long-nailed hands of a dozen devious women. Chespeake goes hoarse behind her apple-cork, screaming and screaming until she is wrung out. With her contracting muscles mushing the fruit buried inside her, she can only weep and gusting, muffled gales, tears streaming down her dun cheeks, a total surrender to the screaming, creaming stimulation that sets every limb and nerve a-quiver.
It goes on for a while, until our poor friend's head is lulling forward, shuddering automatically at the unseen provocations. As always, the goal of the MI's has been met, the reduction of their captives through elixir and molestation until they are too dazed to offer any resistance to transportation.
And so it is that the ants shift their activities. Wide-eyed, we can only watch as Chespeake, once so gracefully beautiful in her ribbon-wristed finery, exotic in her bikini and vines, is slowly drawn into the mound, her head vanishing. Somewhere deep in the earth below us, restraints were being applied to her limp limbs, preparing her to the move to whatever central location our other companions, Petunia, Kate and Teak, had already been carried to.
“Those former bearers of ours are looking for us,” Burke whispered at my side. Sure enough, I looked down to see the three dark girls collecting vines suitable for bondage, their eyes playing across the ground for tracks while their fingers automatically coiled their cordage. It was Adara and myself they sought, to bind and gag and deliver into degrading and absolute sexual servitude.
The hunt was on!
19.03.11
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 13: Stuck in the Mire
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