To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Chapter 2: All Aboard
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
April 13, 199_
Dear Diary;
The London Pool, dockside... Crowds, shipping, noise of all sorts... Airships tethered to the Tower Bridge, filling the sky like bulging penises... A stack of Chinese and Indian servant girls wrapped up in thick rugs, awaiting import inspection (and customs interrogation tickling)... Irish women emigrants, sturdy, rosy, cheerful, their belongings wrapped up in over-shoulder bindles, their mannis standing in simple domestication, head and torsos tightly wrapped in potato sacks and harsh farm rope... The lanes filled with omnibuses and steam lorries.... two sailorwomen fighting in the gutter, the ropes and harsh gag awaiting the loser... A passing aristocrat, her offspring and maids following like ducklings... a press-gang sorting their ropes... tough women convicts chained in a line, their hands lashed behind their back like chickens dressed for dinner, outbound for Australia... Over it all, the ironwork flank of the Lola Montez, vast with its dark funnels, ponderous paddle wheels, secondary masts and endless chrome...
These things I record surreptitiously, tugging my diary from my black priestess habit as I jostle through the dockside crowds, risking a quick note when fancy takes me. The Mother Superior has now pushed me against a set of crates (crates from which low muffled sounds emanate), and gone off looking for Adara Burke, my co-traveler in this journey to Africa.
I must admit I'm looking forward to this task, this search for diamonds and missing doctors in the dark hinterlands, more wild than even Scotland.
There is the Superior. There is Adara. They are gesturing! Must go!
=< O >=
Am aboard now, just myself and Ms. Burke. The Mother Superior bid me the love of the Goddess at the foot of the gangway and last minute advice on my missionary effort. “Bind your native lasses well, with lots of rope, Sister Annie,” she said with a face desperately devoid of emotion. “Show no mercy and make your knots fast, just as you were taught. Then lay them about the dusty floor of some communal hut, positioned so they can watch as you make your continuous circuit, molesting them in turn. Nothing brings about a solid climax than the spice of anticipation, and such an open demonstration will cut through any barriers of language.” She half turned, then added, “If you wish to keep a young nubile native girl for your own comfort, for... cuddling, you might do so. I am sure the Goddess would overlook such personal indulgences.” And with that she was gone, striding through the respectfully-parting crowds.
I ask Ms. Burke where Chespeake is. When I'd seen her yesterday, she'd been alluringly garbed in a white bikini with harness-strap accompaniment.
“I had her sent ahead,” Adara replies crispy. “She is no doubt secured in her cabin, as I instructed.”
The Montez is preparing to depart. Streamers are flying, horns are hooting. Luggage is coming aboard. One crane deposits a huge stack of matched steamer trucks – I cannot imagine how many outfits (and possible secured and suitcased maids) they contain. Oddly, they carry the seal of the London Scientific Community. They must pay their eggheads well.
A crowd has formed and we are edging closer to see the disturbance. Four, no, five women, young and beautiful, have marched into its center. They all wear a stylish derivation of the typical sailor suit, skirts very short, arms bare, bosoms barely concealed. Just seeing it makes me wish to castaway with one of them in a lifeboat, just the two of us with time to spend and rope to wend...
A shadow falls over us. I look up to see a cargo net swing overhead, carefully descending to where the five women wait in a loose ring. The net spills open to reveal...
Goddess!
Five comely lasses, all vibrantly young, all succulent nude, all of them bound head to toe in cruelly efficient roping. They flop about the deck like landed fish, desperately struggling, mewing into their gags. The five sailorwomen step up to leer over their catch.
I ask Adara what this is about.
“Orgasium,” she states over her shoulders, her sea-green eyes busy taking in the sight. I document her words with a trembling hand. “The Lola Montez's recombination boilers run on the extract, just like upgraded airships. She's got an extraction circuit series just forward the coal bunkers. Shortly, those five bound ladies will be placed into the machine, with its pinchers and feathers and probes. They'll produce the extract that fires the boilers with great efficiency.”
When I inquire if these five women will power the ship the entire journey, she replies in the negative, adding, “Once the ship reaches Sidney, they'll swap places with the five sailor-suited girls who 'managed' them on the trip out. There will no doubt be a certain degree of payback involved.”
“Goddess,” I respond, my limited bosom heaving. “That's... horrible... in a way.”
“Think about it. You kidnap your counterpart in her home in the middle of the night – oh, she knows you're coming but that's part of the game. You strip her, truss her, carry her off to this voyage. Once aboard, you strap her nice and tight into a mechanical molestation machine and watch with gleeful mockery as the process begins. Around they go, once every ten hours, with you whispering into her ear, laughing at her pleas, watching her degradation with hungry intent. And on it goes, hour by hour, day by day. Machines brushing, pinching, thrusting, seemingly an eternity of grunting sexual extraction. Then comes the day of mid-journey when you take her down, help her into a shower, see to her needs. When she is rested and readied, you turn your back and cross your own wrists, knowing that every fiber of her being now burns for sexual vengeance. Every hour she has suffered, she's thought of you. Every time you looked down between her upthrust, belted legs as she cried out in harnessed ecstasy, she thought of you. Every time she woke in her padded sleep coffin, her head pounding and fantasies flaring from Goldwaith Elixir, she thought of you. And now she has you. Imagine how tight her ropes will be, how she'll saw your gag between your teeth, how tight her grip will be as she half-drags you down that long corridor towards the waiting extractors...”
I can readily imagine that. The pencil I'm writing these words with sports fresh teeth-marks. I'd gnawed it half-through 'just imagining'.
“That's what POSH means, of course,” Adara laughs as the cruel handlers grip corded ankles and drag these living fuel enhancers away across the smooth teak deck. “'Perversion Out, Sextacular Home'. It refers to those return-leg girls who get the full benefit of erotic tension and outrageous payback. You can bet they're wetter than sponges right now, knowing what's waiting for them in a few short weeks.”
The thought of what is going on right now below deck haunts me as we press onward. Ms. Burke wishes to see the ship's captain and is pushing through the crowds. Difficult to follow and write but-
=< O >=
A very interesting encounter just now. Ran right into a crewmember of the Montez, a young girl with hair my match, thick and coppery. But while I keep mine in an orderly pageboy beneath my coif, her's is thick and unruly, a single strand tumbling down to flicker across her button nose.
“Bloody watch where you're bloody going,” she shoots over her shoulder. I'm a little shocked by this. One would think a first-rate ship like Montez would have more courteous help.
I catch up to Burke as she strides onto the bridge. It's a busy place, what with the lines being sorted out and the tugs below nearly running down the pilot boat. Burke steps over to talk to Captain Barberis, an economy-sized Greek woman with hips the size of her own mammaries, her black hair a midnight tangle around her sensuous, lively face. Burke confirms we'll be dropped at Port Mons, a small west-coast outpost situated near Amahagger territory. But I'm not listening to any of this. I'm looking at... him!
Goddess!
Priestesses are fairly poor; I've never been able to afford a manni. Besides, with all the women tied up for orgasm-extraction at the temple, there just isn't time. But I've seen mannis though. Plenty of times. In catalogs and such.
But unlike the English mannis (small) or the French mannis (wiry), the Mediterranean mannis are full-bodied. This one is built like a god, tall and chesty, his hair black and short, his chin so squared, you want to tuck it neatly into a box and carry it home.
He's wearing a cabin boy uniform, tight and revealing.
And I'm standing here like a farmgirl on fairday, in my skinny black habit, my narrow cheeks flushed, my knees knocked, writing these words furiously, trying to capture his essence. And-
looks at me-
smiles-
goddess-
=< O >=
I'm so stupid.
I'm standing with my back to him, facing the bridge window overlooking the docks, writing my secret little words, confessing my shame to my tiny little book. My reflected expression is beet-red. Behind me, Captain Barberis bellows, “Milo, go down the port-side ladder and fetch the pilot out of the water. Bring her up here. And don't let her grope you, mind!”
“Aye, captain,” he replies with a deep voice from the other side of the Gai Shift.
Now he's gone. And Adara has left, intent on capturing our departure for she still has stories to post to her paper. The bridge is a frantic place now, orders being shouted and countershouted, the ship's horn bellowing out its frustrated honk, the gangways going up. I drift from the room, my coarse black habit scraping over my Miloed nipples, my snatch steaming. I look up at the hovering airships and pant in heat.
Aimless wandering. I see the lines cast away, the tugs nestling in – the Montez is so large, she'll have to be backed down the Thames to Northfleet before turning. People yelling. People cheering. So much excitement and in the middle of it, a stricken little priestess.
If only I could get my ropes around Milo. I'd cuddle him but good. I'd squeeze him into paste!
=< O >=
Now at the door to my stateroom, 513 port side, just behind the great paddlewheel. I'll clean up my diary for the day and maybe erase Milo out of it. Perhaps for the best.
Wait-
I flipped back to the back page of my diary where I jot travel notes. I'm in 513. Adara is in 517.
515?
Hmmmm....
Deliverance!
It's silly; I know it. I'm standing in the open doorway of 515, pigeon-toed, flushed, furiously writing. Here before me on her tidy little bunk lays Chespeake, nearly mummified in glorious Goddess-blessed rope! She lays in long repose, unable to bend for all the cocooning cordage. Her face; wide-eyed, mouth packed with cloth and roped in place. More cords form a harness around her head, compressing her bushy hair, forcing her cheeks to bulge in darkening embarrassment. Her shoulders, dark and hankered back, straining against the endless loops. Her breasts gripped by claws of ropes. Her nipples pinched, living coal standing out so bold against the white lashings. Her hips straining, rolling field of ropes and counter-ropes. Her muffin all but lost beneath the diving bands of daring trusses, yanked and yanked again through the deep valley of her sex. Hips, knees, calves, all segregated, subdivided, cinched, knotted, and tightened, twin trunks of shapely flesh locked into immobility. Ropes even form sandals around her feet, pinioning her pink soles together and locking up her ten little piggies.
She can't move. She can hardly breathe.
Perfect.
I am going to cross to her. I'll unwrap the rope that fills the cavity between her strong dark thighs. Then I'll hook in my finger, worming it into her tight cavern, feeling my way into her wet place. Sitting at her side, I'll smile down as I flex within her, watching her eyes grow wider, her cheeks darker, her nipples harder. And from her I'll wrench a gift for my Goddess, a massive wet climax for Astarte's enjoyment.
And my own.
That's all for today. I am setting this book down now.
15.11.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 3: Priestess's Habits
o0o