Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 13: Stuck in the Mire

by Rohana

Email Feedback | Forum Feedback

© Copyright 2011 - Rohana - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/f; machine/f; bond; rope; tickle; tease; torment; capture; quicksand; engulf; mast; climax; cons/nc; X

(story continues from )

To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge

Chapter 13: Stuck in the Mire
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x

April 24, 199_

It's the day following the betrayal. Adara Burke, my shapely Welsh journalist, and I have been fleeing Jumbe, Mosi and Pili, three rope-bearing native girls who have had instigated the disappearance of every other woman in our party. We are all that is left.

Adara and I spent the night huddled together beneath ferns, snuggling for warmth and companionship. Actually, even with the terrible danger, the sight of her twig-ripped nightie set my divinical fires alight. So I cuddled close, content to squeeze and fondle, slap and tickle. But Adara, rotten little overachiever, eventually tied my hands behind my back, nice and snug, for her “protection”.

And still, in the middle of the night, I felt a hand slip down into my famished crotch, a hand that wiggled and explored. I looked to the sweet face so close in the darkness, unable to tell if she were quietly copping a feel or simply sleep-fondling. I didn't dare wake her (if it were the latter) and lay quite still, ve to cant my hips forward to facilitate her tender strokes. My orgasm was nice and sweet, just the way I like them. Sated, tucked into her arms, I fell into a restorative sleep.

The day was a continuation of the former. Once I'd been cut loose (Adara had taken possession of my Prussian Army knife), we cut down and ate bananas (an image of Chespeake, jammed into the sands, rising up as bananas mushed home). Then we found our pace, heading east, deeper in-country, with hopes that we might eventually loop around our pursuers and strike for Port Mons.

=< O >=

Watching from a low tree. A short distance off, Pili steps into the snare trap Adara had lain, her skinny legs whipping together and wrenching over her head. Doing! She dangles, her glasses askew, looking more like a plucked chicken with every bob. Her native dress spills down to reveal her tight little snatch.

“How'd you know how to do that?” I ask, looking at the curvy, nearly naked brunette at my side with new respect – I wished she'd do it to me, truthfully.

“Journalism school.”

Stocky Mosi finds her dangling friend. She licks the thick lips beneath her glimmering nose ring, takes the tight little buttocks in her large hands and pushes her face into the chocolate triangle. Pili, who'd been waving her hands in desperation, docilely loops her own arms around the stocky legs before her, nuzzling close.

All too soon, Jumbe storms up and drives Mosi off with a whiplike vine. She cuts Pili down, who rises sulkily to her feet, agitated but not concluded. Mosi sullenly pouts lips perfect for the task. We've slowed them down.

“Let's go,” Adara says. Must sign off.

=< O >=

(Shaky handwriting, tear-stained page)

ADARA IS IN GREAT PERIL! I CANNOT HELP HER!

I CAN'T-

I-

=< O >=

Calmer now.

But Adara still in danger.

She has ordered me to keep writing – she says she's a journalist and wants it that way.

She's in the middle of a clearing, her legs swallowed by the boggy ground, the mud gurgling slowly upwards around her shapely hips.

Quicksand. She ran into quicksand.

I would have been crazed with fear but she calmly told me she felt a panel slide beneath her feet. This bog is artificial, as artificial as the snake, the octopus, the vines, the ants. As soon as the weight of a woman traipsed over it, it triggered. And now she is slowly sinking.

“Keep writing,” she instructs, thoughtfully watching the oozing mud sludging over her crotch. With a sigh, she pulls off her ragged nightie and tosses it away. She'll not need it, not where she's going, not amongst the machines.

A series of oily bubbles roll up her legs, caressing as they coil upwards, setting her to shivering. They pop between her buttocks and against her navel, bringing a flush to her face. Her button nose twitches.

“Elixir,” she laughs humorlessly. “They're pumping elixir-treated gas up. It smells...” a deep inhale that lifts her breasts, “...heavenly.”

“Keep your arms out,” I call from the bank.

“You think that will make a difference, Sweety-pie?” she laughs, already feeling the effects. “The longer I'm here, the longer you wait and the closer Jumbe gets. To that end...” With a sunny smile, she tucks her arms to her sides, allowing the glop to slide up over her wrists.

“Adara, please...”

She's buried up to her elbows now, the muddy terminator creeping up along her flat belly, bubbles popping about her flesh like a lover's caress. Her head is back now, catching the sun, her dark curly locks spilling over her naked back.

“You could join me, Annie... Just come out here and hold me close as we sink... I'd love to feel your hot body next to mine in the mud.”

I shiver, feeling my own tits rise against my ragged habit. Maybe the gas is wafting my way. I only know I'm very, very tempted. I watch as she rolls her shoulders, her arms now mired fast. She's trapped now. Trapped good.

“...I remember my very first interview, whatzitbeen, ten years?” She's groggy from the elixir's influence. “I was a cub reporter, just off the moors... Some politician, stories that her underlings were vanishing, one after the other... Showed up prepared for the interview, notepad, paper, prepared questions, but also ropes in my bag... Evening in her office, late, nobody around... She at her desk, me walking around asking my ignored questions... Got behind her... Dropped a loop over her shoulders, hauled it tight under her breasts, clamping her to her chair... More and more ropes, wrists to her sides, over her shoulders, across her tight tummy, her knees and ankles – tied those back to the cross-brace. I was so nervous...” a giggle “...I might have used too much rope...”

She smiles a sleepy smile at the memory, her nipples standing in silent ovation. Her breasts are floating in the muck now. A large bubble builds in her fleshy crevice, swells, them pops with a rude noise.

“Forgot the gag, had to use my panties... she was mad as a hornet, but I just told her, 'I'm Welsh, and me and my girl friends went barefoot for years. Lots of ticking out in the wild fields. I'll work you over a bit, then we'll try the questions again.'”

I watch her nipples slide under the sludge, leaving twin notches in the mud that slowly fill. She can't move now. She can only sink.

“She had the prettiest feet, cute stubby toes, manicured nails, a deep arch... I let her wiggle her feet, 'sallways better when they struggle... So, with the tip of my pen, I slowly drew it along the curve of her feet, first one, then the other...

Chair, ropes creaking, her doing those 'UMMMMMMF!' noises against her gag. You know that sound, don't you Annie? You've forced it out of dozens and dozens of girls...”

I had.

Her breasts slide under; I'm sorry to see them go. The mud is creeping slowly up to her trembling shoulders. She breaths deep, shudders even more. Down in the muck, her pussy must be smoldering.

“Just wrote lines up and down her feet, through her arch, across her pads, around her heels, looping around the sides... how her toes wiggled... I can remember her fists clenched, nearly purple for her desperate pressure... Between her toes and up across her feet, a nice little cross-hatch. Tick-tack-toe...” another giggle, the mud tracing seductively along that long neck of hers. “I even wrote headlines for my story, using her soles as my stylus... Oh, she hated explanation points, the long, long bar, the short little period. She'd yip so cutely... When she was hanging in her bonds, her head dangling, tears plopping into her lap, her feet black with ink, only then did I fish out her wet gag, sit on her desk, cross my long legs and start repeating my questions...

“The girls we found at her estate, locked into maid costumes, one for each day of the week... Funny thing, they didn't press charges... Oh, the politician still went to jail but her captives still visited her on their assigned days... congenial visits...”

Her head is tipped back now, a small pink hillock surrounded by black mud. She closes her eyes as if she's laying in some soft brown bed.

“I should have taken you then, Annie... Back in The Quivering Quill, that first day... Should have jumped you then and there, tied you up in a tight little ball... Should have left Chespeake strapped up – the staff would know what to do with her – should have dragged you to Paddington, onto the Welsh Rabbit... We'd have made it to Wales, and my mum's old cottage, by nightfall... Should have tied you to the little cot in that tiny little room, all pink and spread and gagged and fearful... You'd look at me over your gag with those wide, sad eyes... Then I should have questioned you, asked you things you could not answer... all night long... and in the morning I'd slip over you, flesh to flesh, tit to tit, pussy to pussy, and-”

And she is gone.

I'm hunching on a muddy bank in the middle of Africa, my travel-worn diary on my scuffed knees, alone.

I wondered what's happening to Adara this very moment. She was muddy, no doubt. Were there machines below, cruel cleaning machines? Petunia had told us of the things her associate, Lady M___, had been inflicted with on her visit to a San Francisco hotel, of being washed and scrubbed and paddled and tickled. Were these things happening now to Adara?

She is gone.

I am alone. I have my tattered habit, no underwear, no boots. I have my diary. I have a stub of pencil I dare not break. My knife Adara carried into the mire. I've no compass, no provisions.

I have three African women on my trail, their shoulders burdened with the vines. Vines for my limbs. Vines for me.

Distant crashing in the brush.

Must go-

 

19.03.11

story continues in

o0o