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Chapter 14: Pili's Story
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
Twenty-five days beyond the season of rains
I am Pili, daughter of Milli, granddaughter of Vanilli.
I of am the Amahagger tribe. I speak their tongue. I speak, too, the tongue of the English.
This little book, this diary, I hold. I determine at a glance that it details the past. I shall continue this effort lest bad magic befalls us.
The little nun, this Sister, we hold. She sits snuffling against a tree at our rest camp, her hands bound before her, her ankles corded together.
We found her in a clearing the day after the mud pit took her black-haired friend. She was sitting on a rock, crying, lost, forlorn. We took away her things, threw away her dress – slaves do not wear clothing – tied her hands and feet, and pole-carried her west. She just hung in her bonds, swaying, crying.
I was holding the pole Sister's feet were tied to, looking down at her as she wept. She is much like me. I am thin. She is thin. I am flat-chested. She is flat-chested. Her face is narrow, her nose long, as are mine. We are sisters, black and white. I shall honor her book with words. Perhaps later, when there is time, I shall read her earlier entries.
Jumbe, tall beautiful Jumbe, has gone to a talk-tree, to tell the below-god we have captured the last trespasser, to receive commandments.
Mosi, my rotund clan sister, wished to take advantage of our captive, to put fingers into her place, to slobber her with kisses, to grope her trembling body. Ordinarily I would have watched in amusement but something in Sister's plight changed my passions into thoughts (as elixir changes thoughts into passions) and I found myself standing my ground between them, hissing. For a moment I thought Mosi might throw me down, tie me up and use us both, side by side. Her appetite is such that not even two girls are enough. It was probably the chance of Jumbe's displeasure (we'd been ordered not to agitate the nun, to save her juices for latter) and not my resistance that turned her. Mosi sulked off, perhaps seeking a private place to pleasure her private place. So now it is Sister and I in this glade.
She watches me. She tells me the book is hers. I slap a sticky-leaf over her face, gagging her. Then I sit down to put my words in this book
I am Pili. I grew up in a small village to the east. I did know the world was not a blurry place until the old nun arrived to tell me so, to give me the spectacles. She was one of the old-world nuns, the ones who confuse us by telling us pleasure is bad, slaves should be free, mannis should rule. We nodded and smiled, hoping the new ways would remain.
She gave me the spectacles. She gave me her tongue. In time, she returned to her people for she was old. Perhaps she convinced them. She failed with us.
Eventually I came of age. No longer did I play with dolls but games with the other village girls, games of vines and sticky-leaves, slavery and endurance. My mother taught me the things a woman must know, how to keep a house, how to tie and to torment, the places of pleasure, how to decide to have a child and choose its gender.
Mosi is of my village and is my friend. I remember when I first met her.
“I am Mosi” She stood over me where I sat with one of the old nun's books, round and strong, her nose ring gleaming.
“I am Pili.”
And then I was face down in the dust, Mosi's weight bearing across my back. My arms were wrenched behind me. I felt vines tighten around my wrists. My feet were gathered and trussed. Mosi knew how to tie.
Then her fingers were patting my cheeks, smoothing the sticky-leaf into place. Her hands were so soft and warm. I buzzed like a little bee, tugging my my wrists, rocking impotently. She laughed at me.
Once she had made me her prisoner, she lifted me over her broad warm shoulder, her groping fingers tight on my dress-rucked ass. Dangling head-down against her back, I could only look at her rounded buttocks, wishing I could return her kneading caresses but my bindings prevented it.
Then, with a comfortable gait, she trod through the village's center, calling greetings to all the women, making sure everyone saw me. It was clear she was carrying me off someplace to feast on my sexual delights and force-feed me hers. Everyone saw it. Everyone grinned. Even my mother, sewing a new dress in the sunshine of our hut entrance, smiled warmly as I was carried past, gag humming, fingers twirling.
She found a little nest for us outside our village, a nice mossy niche between boulders and tree-trunks where none would intervene. Leering openly, she lay me on my back and fumbled my dress off, exposing my skinny charms. I became her living gameboard, one she could touch and tickle and tongue in pursuit of her own rules, striving towards her own wins, her victory confirmed when I screamed into my gag, my back arching, my glasses steaming up.
I found her to be very adept at this game, having played it with many other girls. We played it over and over the long night and the day to follow. In the end, she had to carry me, unbound this time, to my mother. I had to be nursed back to health.
We became best friends after that.
She showed me how to raid the manni kraals where the Port Mons noblewomen keep their stock. At Mosi's direction, we rigged harnesses out of vines before slipping into the pens, the moon silvering our sweaty flesh. The mannis, blacks and whites and even yellows, all shifted about, fearful of us. Through the eye-holes of their leather head-sheaths, their eyes rolled but the gags kept them from crying out and alerting the guards.
Mosi and I piled onto one large fellow, looping him up with one pre-assembled harness. Thick cords formed a belt around his naked waist. His hands we bound to this, hard against his belly. His ankles we hobbled. In the end, he lay on his back on the dust, elbows flapping like a chicken, worried about what we two lustful trespassers might intend. Mosi's smile hinted that his concerns were valid.
It only took three dozen excited heartbeats for us to bring down and secure another, a wiry fellow for me, binding him up just like the first. I found myself staring at his crotch, mesmerized, as his wand swelled in biological magic. While Mosi and I had played our womanly games together and had shared village girls we'd playfully kidnapped, I'd never had a manni. They were scarce, monopolized by the Port Mons nobility. He would be my first. This fact dazed me and I found myself reaching down to squeeze him, delighting as I felt him stiffen in my grasp. Mosi, giggling, slapped my hand away. “We must be gone,” she told me. “If the guards catch us, they will string us from a tree and coat us with honey, to bring forth the flies.”
And so we mounted, climbing onto the mannis' backs, our legs looping through the stirrups of their elbows. My manni's back was hot against my crotch, hotter than sun-baked stone. With a directing finger through his helmet loop-ring, Mosi steered her mount out of the kraal, my mount close behind.
What a sensation that was, to be carried on a strong manni back, to feel his muscles ripple beneath my buttocks, to feel our sweat (and my agitating juices) slicken his flesh. I found myself leaning forward, pushing my nipples into his skin, looping my arms around his shoulders, whispering promises and endearments into his sheathed ears, nibbling his leather in eager anticipation. I cupped my feet down into his crotch, finding his swaying member, capturing it within my insteps. My mount shuddered at the touch and began to sway, running blind. Taking hold of his ring, locking my toes together, I took firm control of him. The poor fellow ran on and on, eyes closed, my slight weight easily borne, my muffin lathering him, my arms locking him up, my whispers driving him deeper into sexual madness.
And suddenly we were at the place we'd chosen, a little cluster of rocks with all manner of lichened pits and holes. Often we brought our captive girls here, to ply with pointless interrogations, seeking not information but reactions. It was a happy place for us.
Mosi moved a short distance off with her mount, a move I welcomed as I did not wish to be distracted by her erotic hysterics. As soon as I found my favorite little concavity, I slid off my fellow, my vulva leaving a long wet streak down his back and over his buttocks. Without fanfare, I kicked his legs out from under him, dropping him onto the soft moss. Then I stepped onto him, one narrow foot pinning his chest, one atop his thighs, forcing him open like a clam. And there I stood for the longest time, looking down at him, nearly dripping in my excitement, my glasses misting from my excitement, silvered in moonlight.
I wanted that fleshy member so bad!
In the nearby darkness, I heard Mosi hooting, her manni's muffled gasps.
It was time.
Neatly, I slipped through a quarter turn, letting my legs slide out from me into a full split, retarding my descent just enough to not injure myself or my manni. But still I came down on him like a brown, wet hammer, slamming crotch to crotch, driving him deep within me, deep into a place I'd hardly known existed.
A bliss exploded through me, a bliss incomparable to any Mosi or the other girls had given me. Oh, I loved the sisterhood of their ropes and playful caresses, but this was fundamental, the fulfillment of an appetite I'd craved in my deepest dreams. His meaty rod packed my cavern, a solid mast mooring my womanly cravings. I tipped my head back and echoed Mosi's cries; we bayed like wolves.
My poor manni. I used him so thoroughly that night, squeezing every drop out of him. I'd nestle in against his helpless body, pinching, stroking, coaxing. His hands, still bound up to his belly, flexed helplessly. Behind his mask, his eyes rolled in silent frustration.
“Another ride, darling,” I'd whisper as I threw a lanky leg over him. “Another ride...”
Mosi and I raided kralls thrice more, always returning what was left of the mannis the next day (we'd bring them as close as we could under cover, then slap their asses to bolt them into sight of the guards). We had many other adventures as well, too many to list here.
Then came the morning I work up with wrists bound and tethered. My mother sat near my bed, sorting ropes, and when she saw I was awake, she completed my bondage, tying me from head to foot, a tidy little bundle. I tried to heave against my shoulder-ropes, to thrust against my crotch lines, but to no avail. Shortly afterward, Mosi arrived, tossed over her mother's shoulder (if anything, her mother was bigger than her). She'd been bound as tightly and completely as I. We were placed together, helpless and gagged and confused.
Eventually a beautiful woman swept in with swirling dress, a noble yet passionate face, tall and regal. It was Jumbe, a minor noblewoman from Port Mons who was involved in the diamond trade. At first I thought our mothers had sold us to her (for we were hearing rumors of how girls were bring used in the production of these diamonds). But no, Jumbe had contacts with the outside world, with parties wishing not only to purchase these diamonds but to ramp up their production to meet the ever-increasing demands.
It was explained to us that soon crates would arrive, crates loaded with clever machine that would dig the tunnels and build the below-god, a thinking machine. Using mechanized traps and pit-falls, we would capture the needed girls, enough girls to produce many, many diamonds.
All Jumbe knew of this western 'provider' was her name - Pitinna. All our ebony noblewoman cared about was that part of this wealth stream would be directed into her coffers.
And that was the offer presented to us – assist Jumbe or be carried away to romance the next set of diamonds. Tempting, but Mosi and I chose to help.
A year has gone by. The traps are set. Maidens are captured as needed. We even captured a westerner, a silver-haired women explorer. How capable she proved at romancing the stones – her endurance and enthusiasm were amazing. But then a message from our hidden benefactor, warning of trespassers. With the information provided, we were ready for them, capturing them one by one. And now the last of them lay supporting my crossed feet, watching me fearfully from her bonds.
Jumbe and Mosi have returned. It is time to go. Sister must be carried a short distance to her delicious fate. My mouth - and other places - water at the thought...
24.04.11
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 15: Simply Savored
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