To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Chapter 16: Out of the Pot & Into the Fire
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
Twenty-six days beyond the season of rains
I am Pili, daughter of Milli, granddaughter of Vanilli.
I woke up this morning stiff, my wrists and ankles roped back under me, my hands and feet numb from my weight and the tight ropes. In my mouth, I still carry Sister's taste from the soup we made of her. It is overscored with the taste of my friends whom I was forced to lick and service though the crazed night. I can still remember them pressuring me to do things while they feverishly grappled each other, a whirl of black woman-flesh. Now my round friend Mosi lays face down in my crotch, snoring, her drool mixing with my dried woman-juice. Jumbe, tall and elegant, reclines nearby, regal even in her sexual disarray. I find myself looking over her body as best I can (how did my glasses end up on her nose?!?), enjoying the long sweeping curves of her torso, her perfect black skin, skin I tasted (that I was force-fed) overnight.
Finally she stirs, exciting me with her panther-like stretching, her breasts rising, her hips rotating. She looks to me where I lay in my ropes, my friend passed out in my lap, and gives me an imperial smile. After standing, tucking my glasses back onto my narrow nose and slipping into her robes, she nudges Mosi awake with a foot. Eventually I am rolled over and untied. We see to our morning cleaning. I am very stiff.
I find my clothing, put it on. I find my diary, write these things. We breakfast on cornmeal and water. Then we set off for the access door to the below-room. I will not detail where and how it is hidden lest this book fall into the wrong hands. By noon, we arrive and descend.
Our guests are waiting.
I know them, having listened to their conversations (how foolish that they assumed we wouldn't know English-tongue). There they sit in sulky captivity, locked up nice and pretty.
The sheaths that hold our seven guests are amazing. Constructed of black leather and ribbed with adjustable straps, they sheath the foreigners in skin-tight constriction from shoulders to hips – corsets, I believe they are called. Yet these corsets are for more than fashion – they hold each woman's arms firmly behind their backs, turning their torsos into limbless belt-looped trunks.
But immobility is not their only function. The below-god can control them, tightening the straps in cunning manipulations, forcing hips to jut, breasts to lift, shoulders to bow. The strap-pairs that subdivide woman-lips from thighs are lined with cunning cilia, designed to excite with every adjustment. Further, within the breast-cups, clever pockets capture their nipples, pockets that can automatically compress, kneed and pinch. And the hoses thrust between laced-up buttocks withdraw all wastes, meaning they can be kept in leather-wrapped captivity until they burn out.
But while their upper bodies are lost to them, our livestock cannot roam. In the center of the corset's back, a beam of solid metal links them to the wall, its clever wrist/lift action allowing the encased to be moved up and down, and rotated back and forth. Further, their shapely ankles have been banded in leather cuffs, a loose steel line linking each to the bottom edge of the corset. Its function will soon become apparent to our guests.
They sit on a padded bench, a line of black-sheathed maidens, fearfully watching us. From left to right, they are:
Doctor Stone, the matriarchal wise woman who came to our lands in search of the source of our diamonds, who sits like a queen on her throne. While she is mature and stern, she is also wiry and lusty; we've been using her for weeks and she shows no sign of flagging. Her silvered hair is growing shaggy yet the eyes looking down her long nose are coolly aloof.
Ladyship Petunia sits next, her amazingly shapely legs thrust out before her. She is flexing her feet, pointing her toes. This implies she has much experience with captivity and its stresses, and knows how to keep herself limber in her bondage. This seems at odds with her high rank. A noble such as herself should measure her wealth in bound harem maidens like Jumbe, and not permit herself to be bound, teased, used. Strange people, strange customs. As I ponder this, her golden hair spills over her creamy locked-up shoulders. I feel my breath halt as she shakes the kinks out of her elegant neck.
The purple-haired Kate sulks in her sheath, snarling and snapping, kicking like a zebra if we come too close. The below-god has cautioned us to keep her elixired, to prevent her magic. I, for one, would like to tie her with vines into a tight pink ball and take a switch to her round little bottom, to show her who is in charge. Or perhaps cook her on a rotating spit over a fire, marinating her with elixir juice. I'm sure she would sweat out a tangy sauce.
The next is Teak, the crafty one. She sulks in silence, but I can see her wandering eyes measure me as if fitting my body for ropes and a gag. She is deviled by a strand of hair that constantly tickles her pug-nose. I have learned a bloody great number of new words listening to her.
The woman who should be our sister, Chespeake, sits next. She remains quiet, shifting within her fist of leather, familiarizing herself with her bondage. Like Jumbe, she is perfect. But Jumbe is my superior and Chespeake is not. I remember how steamy my glasses became when we tied her up that night in camp. I remember how my fingers trembled as I pulled each knot hard on her perfect flesh. I remember how she rolled in her bondage, moaning, the firelight flashing along her dark curves. How I would love to have her for my own, my bound love-slave in some hidden little hut, passing away the sultry nights in sexual dalliance.
Adara Burke, their storyteller, is next. She shakes her coils of black hair, still damp from the force-washing she received after she'd been sucked out the bottom of the quicksand pit. She is still dopy from the effects of elixir but her mind is clearing fast. Too bad, since soon enough her blood will burn from it once again.
And last is Sister (though I know from glancing at her book, her name is 'Annie'). She lulls in her upright captivity, still steam-pinked and groggy from the caldron. As I have said, outside of skin-color, she is very much like me. I feel great pity (love? No, I will not permit that) rise in my heart. I can still remember how desperate she looked in her heating water, her mouth apple-gagged, her hair lank with sweat, her small breasts fluttering before her quickening, lusting respiration. If it hadn't been for the others, I might well have dragged her from her stew and ravaged her in the sands, then and there.
They seem to be sorting themselves out, this pretty line of black-jacketed damsels. Adara leans forward as best she can, looking down the line to where our original captive stiffly sits. Recognition comes to her eyes.
“Dr. Stone?” she asks. Then, with more certainty, she declares, “Dr. Livy Stone, I presume?”
Stone half-turns her head. “Yes?”
“We've come to rescue you.”
“I see. Forgive me if I do not shrug with indifference. The straps locking us all into immobility do not lend themselves to such gestures.”
“JUMBE,” comes the below-god's voice from the wall. “EXPLAIN THE SITUATION TO THE PROCESSORS. IT WILL ADD TO THEIR AGITATION AND INCREASE OUTPUT.”
Jumbe nods to the cold, inflectionless voice. After a moment to fix the line of locked women with gemstone eyes, she begins to talk. I translate, noting the winces among our audience as they realize I know their tongue.
“You have come seeking our diamonds,” Jumbe drawls in husky domination. “Now you shall produce them. How long you remain depends on how long you last. You cannot shorten your time – we know how to wring every drop of lust from you. Your silver-haired friend has been here much longer than any native girl, yet she cannot escape us.”
“I've not tried to escape,” Stone says primly. “It's actually quite relaxing in a sexually-churning sort of way, much like a spa.”
“Bravo, Livy,” Petunia verbally applauds, her buckled up hands unable to do such, “I've always been enthralled by your capacities. Back when we were roomies at university, you used to be ever so much fun to keep bound up. We could while away an entire weekend and never come up for air. Do you remember that time I bound you upside down in that straightback chair, with your legs high and apart? And where I stuck that stick of butter? And how I got it out after it melted?”
Doctor stone yields the smallest of blushes. “Petunia, please.”
Meanwhile, I'm having a difficult time, verbally translating and writing simultaneously. Jumbe wishes to know specifically how the blonde lady got the butter out of the silver lady. I remind her of the below-god's tight schedule, how we really must proceed. With a flicker of raw concern, my mistress nods and continues.
“I was a minor noble at Port Mons,” Jumbe explains to our leather-locked captives through me. “earning moderate wealth by studding out my mannis and exporting the occasional slave. Curious of things European, I managed to procure a vial of Goldwaith Elixir. How enthusiastic it made my harem, how craven and groveling. Then, one day while pleasuring a randy little girl with a poorly made staff knobbled with inferior diamonds, I noticed that the explosive secretions of her agitated, exlixired loins had a strange effect on the stones. No longer were they yellow and milky – they were clear, unflawed, perfect. I removed the diamonds from the staff and sold them to sharp-eyed jewelers who paid me five times what I'd paid for them (and they sold them for five times that amount). Knowing I had discovered something wondrous, I converted my harem to a processing line, dousing them with elixir and thrusting diamond-holding shafts into them. Exhausting manual work for me, but satisfying in its way. My wealth increased.”
“So that's it,” Petunia explained, her excitement making her leather sheath creak before her agitated bosom, her legs curling beneath her. “How fascinating - orgasium corrects flaws in diamonds! Oh, Livy, we must get home and set up a laboratory at once! We must stringently test this hypothesis. And I'll need you, of course, with your extensive gemstone knowledge... and your extensive abilities. And I can assure you that the straps I use to fix you down will be padded and soft...”
“Unlike that weekend at your country place. That was a horse-harness, Petunia! How chafing!”
“But you still moaned and groaned and climaxed, didn't you?”
“But afterward, you left me suspended all night.”
“I made it up to you, didn't I,” Petunia asked sweetly. “Numerous times? All across your...”
“Aunty,” the purple-haired one named Kate interrupts prudishly. I inwardly curse the interruption, picturing this silver-haired, firm-limbed matron dangling from a pulley, the straps tight across her flesh, her head hanging in weariness over the long shadowy hours...
“Sorry,” Petunia smiles, a contrast of sweetness and limb-wrenched captivity, the sheath like a second skin around her sizable breasts and sweeping hips. “Pray continue.”
Jumbe goes on, explaining how she was eventually contacted by some woman named Pitinna, how machines were sent, how this subterranean extraction center was set up.
Livy and Petunia exchange glances.
“Petty, do you think...?”
“Of course,” Petunia spouts in excitement. “Petinna Pitt, the MS in charge of the London pit. She must have gone into business with this noblewoman to expand the diamond trade.”
“So you think there is a second MS here in Africa?” Livy looks uneasy as she voices this question.
“I don't think so,” Petunia considers. “The fact that the natives are doing the talking instead of the mechanical leads me to believe it only has rudimentary processing power. Not really sentient, no.”
“What are they saying,” Jumbe demands.
“I'm not sure. Something about 'cent and ants' or something.” So many bloody new words.
“Make them stop,” my mistress orders, her arms crossed before her, “or I shall invert them and take a switch to their bottoms until they cry.”
I translate the threat which Petunia seems to actually consider, but Kate pleads with her for silence. With this, Jumbe is able to complete her story, describing how she, Mosi and myself utilize the many woman-traps to gather processors (i.e. native girls) for our production use. And how they are churned day after day after day until they droop like flowers beneath the harsh sun.
There are always local woman, herders, hunters, flower-pickers, to be trapped, but how wonderful we captured an entire parcel of outsiders. With them, there will be no sympathy. With them, Jumbe will run the extractors full out. She is quite interested to see if each girl will reach Livy Stone's autoerotic benchmark.
“You can't keep us forever,” Kate puffs, wiggling in her tight wrap as if that will help.
“Not forever,” Jumbe purrs, laying a finger along the girl's chin. “Just until you've been racked to the point of ruination. Just until you simple cannot find another orgasm between your legs. Then, perhaps, I shall sell you to the noblewomen of Port Mons. Certainly they will have some use of your perpetually flickering tongue.”
Even untranslated, the purple-haired scold understands, her mouth fearfully clicking shut.
“And now,” Jumbe exclaims, “it is time to see to your needs. And create some needs as well. Some smoldering, unfulfillable needs.”
At her gesture, Mosi fetches a huge bowl of steaming soup and a large wooden spoon. She begins to work the line, Dr Stone to Petunia to Kate and on down to Sister, forcing the aromatic mixture into their mouths, their lips and cheeks distorted by the wide wooden spoon. They girls are forced to guzzle it down, nothing but little babies before Mosi's domineering motherhood.
As for me, I provide entertainment. Cracking open a book from Lady Jumbe's ever-expanding erotic library, I began to read stores of women bound taunt, teased, and eventually climaxed following a great deal of hysterical molestation.
“That's my book,” the one named Adara shouts, throwing herself against her strappy encasement. “Eroticism I was forced to write while in the Pit! How dare you use my own book to excite my passions. You can't... GLUG!” For suddenly Mosi is there, looming over her, forcing her great spoon into Burke's indignant mouth. When the poor girl sputters, another spoonful is thrust in. Mosi grins as she ladles in the stew, knowing the effect it will have on the poor writer. Already I can see her eyes dilating, her cheeks flushing. “You can't... you can't...” But we can. I read on, molesting them with these saucy tales, filling their unprotected ears with tales of kidnap, of bondage, of base and endless usury, watching as the strap-locked women begin to react.
“This is delightful soup,” Petunia smacks. “My I have some more? You must give me the recipe.” Down the line, Sister winces for she recognizes this as the soup we made from her, spiced with her passion, flavored with her lusts. It had been collected when she was flushed from the caldron and would be fed to her companions, day in and day out, until the supply was exhausted. Of no matter – when it is gone, Mosi and I will kidnap some Port Mons maiden and boil the sexual sauces off her, enhanced with sliced chucks of passion fruit.
The girls locked up before us are not the only ones so affected; a whimsical aroma floats around us all. Jumbe splays against a wall, her fingers seductively playing with an upthrust lever that will begin the processing. The captives seem to know this, watching her teasing moment with shallow-breathed expectation. Mosi forces the stimulating broth into them, craning the spoon-head past reluctant lips, inducing the elixir into their systems. Within their leathery sheaths, their agitated bodies begin to react, flushing and sweating, their pulses quickening, their pussies moistening. They can't move nor ward off their force feeding.
“...Justine twisted in furious passion but the scratchy ropes pinning her to her bedstand were far too tight.” I loved this story and read it with gusto. “Over her stood the begrimed chimney sweep, her bristle-brush feverishly gripped in sooty hands. 'Now, love, let's see to your chute. I'll have you raw and ready in short order'. And with her trembling legs tied so widely apart, there was nothing poor Justine could do as the brush head advanced on her salivating pussy...”
“It is time,” Jumbe said, fingering her own nipples through her thin gown. “Stand clear.” Down goes the lever.
Around the girls, behind the walls, machines begin to rumble...
15.07.11
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 17: Diamonds are a Girls best friend...
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