To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Chapter 20: Serving Astarte
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
June 12, 199_
I am Pili.
I sit on a morning-lit bed, my lanky body naked, ropes tangled across my long legs and sex-resonating crotch. Sister (as I still call my dear Annie) has just untied me. I greet the day with my writing, my wrists scored with markings of love.
A long night. A perfect night. Last evening, Sister summoned me to her convent cell, an airy room overlooking the Port Mons harbor. She spoke not as she stripped away my habit and coif, looping up my wrists and ankles with soft cotton rope. I spoke not as I savored the sensation of her delicate tugs, the way the ropes snugged around my pulse-points. Then my dear laid me back across her wide warm bed, spooning close as the stars threw themselves across the indigo sky. Like spiders, her hands slowly roamed my body, pinching, stroking, rubbing. I shifted languidly, feeling the hiss of the passion-warmed sheets, the incessant tug of my bindings. I was hers and she used me the entire night. In the crotch of evening, in the darkest hour, she cradled me hard as we both shuddered through lingering, intertwined orgasms.
In the present, Sister coughs, now garbed in her severe habit, her coppery hair bundled up in her coif, her deep-set eyes dancing, her thin lips wryly set. She was a writer, this dairy was once hers. She understands my passion for it. But since I don't want to risk earning both her displeasure and a day bound to a chair (or worse), I quickly sponge-wash my body and dive into my black robes.
While I'm doing this, I can hardly fail to notice that she's at her dresser sorting through her bondage gear. The cords she's laying out in ready order are her binding cords, long and thin, usually used on girls new to the order, ones that need intense bondage because they might actually try to escape (before finding out how blissful it is to serve Astarte). I wonder who will be tightly trussed into her taunt web this night, the cords cutting, the knots unshiftable. I hope its me.
She places a harness gag next to her selections, a buckled, harsh, intense monstrosity. It is a gag perfect for keeping wails to a minimum.
I really hope its me.
With her ropes selected and my robes on, we are ready for the day. I take up my place a step behind her and to her right, diary in one hand, pencil in the other. It is my job to record all that happens at the Port Mons Convent of Astarte.
We proceed down the hall, stopping at a door just opening. Inside, Chespeake lays gloriously spread-tied to her iron-frame bed, her black flesh gleaming in sweat not all her own, groggy from her long night. Two young nuns, some of our first, are looping the cord-belts around their waists, so pleased with what they have done (and done and done) to the convent's slave over their long shared night. I can only imagine how they tag-teamed poor Chessie, exchanging goes at her long body. Such imaginations make it difficult to write - I force myself to focus.
Annie pauses long enough to issue the day's orders. “After you two untie and wash our dear friend, see she receives a gentle whipping for any falterings she might have suffered over your evening together.” Chespeake's hazy eyes come into focus on this order; she grunts into her gag and pulls at a bound wrist, but whipped she shall be, across her upturned lush bottom. Annie smiles. “After our slave has been disciplined, lock some chains on her and see that she works on the main temple. The festival of harvest is coming up and the pulley hooks have yet to be installed. Also, I think the cleats mounted on the edge of the alter are too small; some thicker ropes might not tie correctly around them.” The two girls bow their acceptance, Chespeake squirms in desperation but we move on.
A light breakfast, chatting about the needs of our new convent, so many things to do. Then I follow Sister out onto the street for we have business this day with El Falcone.
Port Mons is meeting the day as it always does, through the cries of its hawkers, the confusion of its market, the bleat of donkeys loaded with trade goods. Confusion and chaos, delightful! Women sweep past; black noblewomen with oval faces and colorful robes, their gold-chained servants shielding them with brilliant parasols. Their Arabic counterparts, their robes black, their noses hooked, their womanly eyes sharp, stroll with bold steps as if daring any to cross them. Giggling servant girls, earthen jugs balanced skillfully on their heads, share their girlish, smutty fantasies. Fisherwomen, lusty and pungent, ropes and nets hanging over their shoulders, lounge on corners, weighing up the passersby as if deciding who wouldn't be missed. And slinking mannis, their bodies hardly concealed by silken loincloths and harness strappings, fearfully grip their passes, hoping they will not be kidnapped (as, inevitably they always are).
Beyond our refurbished convent stands the bay of Port Mons, and beyond that, rising above the blue horizon, an iron sliver trailing a wisp of smoke. It is the Lola Montez, returning from the Orient, her top decks teaming with posh passengers, her holds packed with spices, silks and somewhat reluctant slaves, the latter bound in every sense for the parlors of London and Paris. The steamer will lay off the coast this night, allowing well-guarded tour groups to come ashore. Oddly, Sister hardly gives the vessel which delivered her to us two months past scarcely a look.
There is a commotion ahead, the crowds part. It looks like a parade, elephants, mules, guards, a fanfare of flutes and cymbals. It is the diamond shipment, here to transfer its precious stones to the steamer. It looks as if Jumbe came through after all (pun intended). I wonder if her weary body has flagged or is she still locked in leather, her head rolling in groggy weariness from her constant climaxing.
“Oh look,” Sister chirps. “It's...!”
And it is – Lady Petunia Goldwaith and Doctor Livy Stone, garbed in flowing silk, regally reclining on silken howdows atop the rocking elephants. They look so glamorous, so gorgeous. That they lasted so long in the processing shows why the below-god has honored them thus, allowing them to return to their ship in style. Around them, the crowds bow before their sexual stamina. It is an achievement that the women of Port Mons respect.
“Well, look, it's our little nun,” calls down Petunia. “Nice to see you again. How is your convent doing?”
“We bought the building and are converting it. It's very nice. If you would like a tour, I'd be glad to show you later.”
“I would love to tour a convent filled with mischievous rope-bearing girls, all of whom hunger to lace guests up in their cells for private nocturnal prayer meetings. I really would. But for now I'm rather done in. It might be three or four days, possibly a week, before I'm ready to hop in the saddle again.” She looked around sadly at her women guards. “ And here we have all these cute escortlettes, and I've not tied up a single one as a souvenir. What's happening to me?”
“You're just tired,” Livy calls across from her elephant. “I think we'll tuck you into your cabin bunk with some cold compresses, one for your forehead, others for your wrists and ankles, and eventually you'll come around. I'm sure you'll be up and cumming by the time we reach London's pool.”
Annie grins. “Well, if you need somewhere to rest, there's an inn across from our convent. You'll find Adara Burke there – she's already at work on her story, sitting out on a sea-side table with her papers and pens and a glass of madeira. I don't think I've ever seen her so happy.” She further cautions, “If you take a nap there, make sure you hang out the 'do not disturb' sign. If the chambermaids don't see it, they go out of their way to disturb.”
The two older women call down their farewells and continue towards the wharf, their opulent procession trailing them. Annie presses on, moving though the crowds until we reach the low-walled villa belonging to the fearsome El Falcone.
Inside we are met by the opulence befitting one of Port Mons' most powerful sheikettes. Bubbling fountains, silk tapestries, marble columns, all paid for with smuggling, slavery and dark deeds involving ropes, gags, and tiny jeweled whips. I found myself drifting closer to Sister as we venture deeper into El Falcone's lair.
I don't want to be here. Here, a girl could find herself tied fast, rolled in an Indian rug, stuck in a cupboard awaiting moonfall and transport to a cutter bound for some distant slavepit. And this was just from the servants! Only a fragile promise protects us. But Sister Annie faces it boldly – she has to. For her to raise a convent amongst these nobles and sheiks requires her to deal with them, to play their games of alliances, truces and betrayals. One wrong word, one wrong step, could find her locked in a tickle-box, her bared soles awaiting the cruel feather of some sinister feathercutioner.
After numerous richly-decorated corridors, we are admitted into the audience room, a hexagonal space with walls filmy with silken tapestries, floors matted beneath colorful Persian rugs, high narrow windows and a roof open to the sky. El Falcone reclines on a mound of pillows situated before a wide low table. She is an older Arab woman, svelte as a javelin and every bit as sharp. Eyes as hard as accusations measure us from either side of her hooked nose. Her hair is raven-black save a fall of snowy white which graces her right temple. She nods to our bows and gestures to pillows set out for our use on the opposite side of the wide table.
Pleasantries are exchanged over mint tea, nothing more than setting out the pieces to a verbal game of chess. Sister is dignified, poised, such a woman of power that I take pride at the thought of being her bound and bundled plaything the night before.
At a summoning clap of her mother's hands, El Falcone's daughter enters, as silent, nervous and innocent as a young gazelle. She is garbed in colorful silks, her face erotically veiled, her slender midriff bared, perched in the tips of her tiny little toes. With a silent bow, she settles at her mother's side, head downcast. Looking carefully, I could see a tremble dance across her demurely crossed hands. Looking even closer, I could see the breath flashing though her slender windpipe, the stand of her nipples. This girl is frightened, but she is also very aroused. She suspects something I don't.
So precious!
And now the main meal is served. Four servants bear in a massive gold tray loaded with salads, fish, cold meats, strawberries. Sister stiffens beside me. I look over the spread of meats and greens, seeing nothing amiss. What can-
Goddess!
There is a woman spread spread across the huge platter, naked, hot, her limbs locked down with golden shackles. Half buried in her bed of greenery, silenced with a bright red apple, I'd not noticed her at first. Some poor Caucasian, somehow fallen into slavery in this cruel coastal town. Lithe strong limbs, a roll of an angry eye, the fall of a long strand of auburn hair across the rounded tip of her nose-
Bloody goodness! Teak Merrywell - the little thief who'd picked her locks, bound Mosi like a pig and tickled her mercilessly, then slipped into the jungle with pockets filled with diamonds! Somehow El Falcone has captured her and had decided to present her to us thus, literally on a platter.
The poor girl strains and pulls, gaining little leeway from the golden shackles that hold her nimble body in place.
El Falcone smiles a long, dirk-like smile and awaits our reaction.
Sister simply picks a strawberry from their place amid the poor girl's fleshy purse and nibbles it, A grunt from Teak at this sensation, her back arcs. Sister then selects a long stick of celery, dragging it across the trembling belly. El Falcone, with her own smile, plunks a sweetmeat from its perch atop a rounded thigh. Her poor daughter flinches her meal from as far from the chained-down girl as she can manage, not daring to touch the presentation of humiliated flesh.
I find some grapes, eating them one-handed as I write.
Sister and El Falcone continue their meaningless little chat, the nun showing she is not moved in the least by this vulgar (yet succulent) display. A point to her. Meanwhile, I cannot take my eyes off the locked down captive laying before me, her bare, so-pretty foot nearly in my lap. I remember wishing I was Mosi back when Teak had captured her, binding her into a tight, deliberate arch. In my room, I'd thought of her caustic expression as she tied my friend so tight and tickled her so cruelly. And now she lay before me in abject humiliation.
Without meaning to, I find myself reaching forward to draw my pencil across her trembling instep, to see her eyes flare, her leg tremble, her hips shift. She bleats against her apple. As I whirl my pencil point in deliberate torment, I know from her impotent glare I've made an enemy for life. Should she ever catch me, she'll tie me tightly with yards of ropes so tight tears will come to my eyes. And she'll use her purse-snatching skills to molest me until I am crying, nay, screaming for release, release she'd deny with an easy laugh as she uses me over and over and over again.
Which is something to look forward to.
So taken am I in tickling this supine woman, I loose track of time. Looking up, I see El Falcone's daughter watching with fascination, her eyes twinkling in hunger. I meet her eye, hold it, then pull my pencil-tip along the flushed instep before me. The young Arab trembles at the sight, her moist lips parting upon a heated exhale. She nods. Do it again, her expression seems to say. Make her writhe in blissful agony!
“And now to business,” El Falcone announces, snapping her fingertips. Servant girls instantly appear to carry off the platter.
“What are we to do with the leftovers, Mistress,” one asks.
“I believe in charity and compassion,” the renown smuggler/slaver declares. “Food should not be wasted. Take it down to the river where the washer woman labor. Permit them to enjoy our feast.”
“But mistress, the brush sluts of the river are renown for their cruel natures. With their clothespins, their stiff brushes, their strong fingers and pinching ways, they have driven many a poor girl into sobbing hysterics.”
“Of course I know this. Why do you inquire about my wishes?”
“I am not questioning you, Mistress. I merely ask so that the meal itself will realize the fate it is being borne to.”
With wide eyes and straining limbs, Teak blurts in desperate protest.
“Very good,” El Falcone smiles. “Carry her off.” As Teak is lofted from the room, the cruel Arab muses, “We found her wandering, lost, alone. We've provided her with sanctuary.” If possible, the wiry woman's smirk deepens. “She has been a very spirited guest.” Our last view of the poor helpless girl is of her pinned in her bed of greenery, breasts swaying, apple bobbing, hips churning in desperate struggle. And then she is gone, carried shoulder high to her horrible (yet interesting) fate.
A quick glance between Sister and myself. No mention of Teak's fortune in diamonds. No doubt these beautiful carbon-aligned stones now lay atop gaudy, glimmering heaps in our hostesses' treasure room.
“You mentioned business,” Sister prompts, nonplussed by the buffeting buffet our ex-comrade provided.
“Of course. And you mentioned the deal with our client could be arranged with two girls, correct?”
Sister nods as if purchasing fruit in the market. I look at her.
Two girls? What is this about?
El Falcone claps her hands again. Her female guards enter, propelling two beautiful women before them. One is Japanese, her hair swept back, her face doll-like. The other is Indian, as delicate and poised as a flower at dawn. They wear robes but it is clear they are naked beneath. I try not to imagine that.
“Place them in the light, so we may better review them,” the corsair commands. The two shapely women are shoved into the patch of light cast by the high narrow windows. With brusque yanks, their robes are pulled free, exposing their shapely bodies for our pleasurable inspection. The sun plays across their shoulders, turning them into living statues. I hope I don't leave a wet spot on my pillow.
“The Japanese woman was trained as a geisha,” our host explains. “However, her appetites overcame her. She ended up binding up every geisha in her house, every night, forcing them to engage in diverse, degenerate acts. In desperation, the others pooled their money and arranged her transportation. Through several unknown yet groping hands, she found her way to me.
“The Indian was trained a servant, but like the geisha, had appetites far beyond that of most women. She ended up taking over the household she'd taken a position in, holding the mother, her grown daughters, their trained manni, the other servants, all in bondage. For a month she used them in round-robin fashion, grinding them until they were little more than sexual wreckage. Quite the scandal when it came out – she was deemed the 'Second Black Hole of Calcutta'.
“As you can see, they both have tremendous appetites. Exactly what our client requested.”
The two women stand in their twin shafts of sunlight like off-tone Venuses, their cool eyes appraising us. I can tell I wouldn't last a moment alone with either one of them. Indian or Japanese, it wouldn't make a difference. I know I would be bound, stripped and used over long, long days of carnivorous cavorting. My breath comes quickly, in fear and other things. I'm most certain I'm leaving a pillow-spot now!
“They will meet the below-god's needs,” Sister approves, her eyes flashing in the shadow of her coif. With that, she lifts two fingers to her lips and gives an unladylike whistle.
I'm not sure- wait! Two snakes thrust through the high windows- Wait! Not snakes! Trunks! Elephant trunks!
The trunks snap down as if guided by internal senses, looping around the two naked offerings, lifting them squealing into the air. Seeing them suspended, their arms locked to their sides, their eyes rolling in alarm, I am reminded of the below-god's cave and feel a stab of homesickness.
The Japanese woman is silent as the trunk loops further coils over her, wrenching her slender body and girlish breasts in close. She shivers with helplessness as the coils firm their hold on her. The Indian babbles in Hindi, kicking her legs, fighting the unwelcome assault. She clearly has no desire to be looped up in such a base fashion before onlookers, but still she hangs, twisting, in compressing bands.
I'm quickly realizing that these clever trunks (and the elephants they are attached to) are not natural – the trunks extend their length, adding coil after tight coil. Given what Sister said about a deal with the below-god, I can only assume the elephants beyond the window are constructs, made specifically to loop girls up can transport them to the extraction complex. I've no doubt that these are the same two elephants that had carried Stone and Goldwaith into town. But what is this capture about? What sort of a deal has Sister and El Falcone made with the MIs?
Clearly Sister is tougher than I'd originally thought – she's firewalking between the machines and the nobles, and she's succeeding.
But what do these brokering women get in return for surrendering two nymphomaniacs to the below-god?
In the present, the gray coils now wrap the two dangling girls from breasts to hips, pinning them in fleshy fists. Pinioned and suspended, there is no way they can avoid the trunk's nostrilled tip as it locks in sensuous suction against their lower faces, given them the appearance of air-masked airshipwomen. They kick, they twist, but I can see their nipples building, their snatches gleaming, their eyes dilating. Elixir! They are being drugged as all pit captives are drugged, in preparation for their transportation and usury. Once they are rendered helpless by their pounding arousals, the two are withdrawn through the windows, lofted outside. I've no doubt their bearing elephants will carry them down the streets and through the gate, out into the jungle. And those townswomen who see it will not intervene. This is Port Mons. Nobody interferes with the bondage, the gaggery, and the molestation of others. These Eastern girls are as good as mounted on their diamond stands now.
El Falcone leans back, a hand languidly laying across an upraised hip, her smile easy. “That takes care of that part of our deal. Soon the below-god will grant us our requests.”
“Indeed it shall,” Sister nodded. “Yet a second deal remains, that between you and I.”
“Yes, our arrangement. Here is my daughter. She is yours to take.”
El Falcone's daughter looks up in startled concerned, a doe surprised by a sharp noise. Already Sister Annie is rising in her black habit, accepting the thick coils of rope a guard brings her. I cannot stand, my legs are made of rubber. I cannot speak, my throat is too dry. The svelte Arabic girl shares my disbelief, unable to move as Sister steps to her, unspooling the first long line.
“Stand, my sweetmeat,” Sister coos as she draws the young lady to her feet. “Your mother wishes you to gain skills that will serve you in this world. In that, she asked me to accept you into our order for a year, to teach you our ways, to magnify your lusts. You shall worship Astarte. You shall learn what it means to be devout.”
Sometimes my English is not so good. If 'devout' means to lay in a moon-painted bed, your hands lashed at your back, your legs bound back tightly, a thick gag rammed into your mouth, while a nun with wicked eyes and a toothy grin leers down at you, well, then I understand. I am very, very devout.
But for now I watch in pulse-pounding numbness as my beloved nun carefully puts this silk-swathed Arabian beauty beneath the rope. Her hands are boxed behind her back, Sister snugging ropes around them from elbow to wrist. More ropes capture those perfect forearms, cinching up beneath pert breasts. Around her tummy a rope is passed; the little girl rises up on tip-toe as the nun's devious fingers passes the rope down between dusky thighs and up through the warm valley of her buttocks, pulling it tight so that the single well-seated knot chafes her tender sex-flesh.
“Mother, please, I beg of you. I am not rea-” A scarf seals off her words. Sister's smile is firm as she knots the gagging scarf in place. Then she kneels and El Falcone's daughter can only watch in glum reluctance as her ankles are hobbled together. Last, the dark-clad dominator loops a loose lead around that slender neck and – a thrill! - passes the other end to me.
“She is your responsibility,” my beloved nun tells me. “Tonight you will lead her on her first hobbled step towards the bliss that is Astarte's reward. Bind her tight, hold her firmly, use her over and over until her throat and pussy are equally raw from agitation.”
“With pleasure, mistress,” I manage, hardly able to speak around my excitement. At my side, this beautiful silk-clad (but not for long) desert rose looks at me with wide, wondering eyes. Her trembling is so endearing. It is making me hot!
“And that is my gift to you,” Sister tells El Falcone. “I shall teach your daughter the ways of our order.”
“And when she returns, she will know the ways of womanly domination,” the corsair nods. “Very good. And now here is my part of our deal.” She passes my mistress a slip of paper. “I have contacts aboard the Montez. I am confident this information is sound. Heels will be winched to the ceiling if it is otherwise.”
My mistress nods acceptance, folding away her paper. Our business is done and we depart. My charge makes one last muffled attempt to remain, bleating pitifully into her gag, planting her feet. I smile – in service to the convent, I have dragged many bound women to beds awaiting them. She is but one more. A sharp tug and she's following, moaning into her silk.
Tonight, I shall give her plenty to moan about.
We step out onto the street. Down past the quay and convent, standing out to sea, lays the huge Lola Montez, small craft plying the water between ship and shore. We start back but I find myself wondering about the deals that were made. El Falcone and Sister both will get something in return from the below-god; what could my mistress possibly wish? And what was on that paper Sister traded in return for agreeing to train the noblewoman's daughter?
So many questions.
We aren't quite home when Sister looks to me. “I've some business to attend to, Pili. Take our new plaything home and give her time to meditate. I suggest placing her in that wicker basket in the study for now. A few hours of thoughtful yet prickly solitude will get her juices flowing.” A hug and she leaves, moving into an alley.
Curious.
I look to my charge, all knock-knees and rising bosom, an agitated desert bloom. Then I pull off my own scarf (much of my robe is festooned with scarves – nothing worse than taking possession of a set of wrists with nothing to tie them with) and use it to tie a gag over my captive's gag, doubly muting her. I can't risk a whimper giving me away, and I certainly cannot leave the daughter of El Falcone bound and alone on a Port Mons' street. Now that her pretty face is half-bundled in bright silk, I take full grip of her lead, place a fingertip to my lips, then lead her into the darkness after my darling Annie.
At the end of the alley I hear murmurs, a tense instruction. Sneaking closer, my captive bumping into my bony butt, we find a position amongst broken crates.
There is my nun, her habit flaring around her form, her coif framing her narrow face so prettily, backlit in the gloomy lighting. And there facing her is – not a human – a great serpent! The serpent/servant of the below god!
And in Sister's long fingers, the slip of paper El Falcone had given her.
“...so here is where he will be, in a cabin eleven portholes back and just above the waterline, port side. He should be sleeping before dinner shift so you shouldn't have any troubles with him. Black hair, broad shoulders, dreamy smile, tight ass – there's no mistaking this guy. Anyway, wrap him up, squeeze him good and tight because the elixir in your belly won't work on him. Swallow him and swim him over to my room in the convent where you'll regurgitate him. I'll be there with ropes waiting. Are we clear on this?”
The snake nods.
“Good. This is my part of the deal with your MI master. I helped arranged for those two nymphomaniacs for your diamond production. In return, you give me Milo.”
The snake nods a second time then slithers away, heading down a womanhole into the sewers. From there, it will be a short swim out to the anchored steamer.
Sister Annie strides towards us, her high heels clicking on the cobbles. I slap a hand over twice-gagged lips, looping an arm around my charge, holding her heated flesh close in the darkness. My mistress does not see us and continues on her way. A final image of her, in her long habit and coif against the hustle of the Port Mon's marketplace, and she is gone.
I swear I can smell her musk in the air. I'd read her words. I know what Milo did to her.
And I know what she will do, once she had that manni helplessly bound hand and foot in her wide bed.
I knew what she was capable of.
Poor Milo.
My snatch was so hot.
I've no idea what the convent will be like in days to come, what with a manni underfoot (or underpelvis) and a princess to deal with. One thing I do know, I'm hotter than a tin roof at midday. And cuddled against my side is a bound, gagged Arabic beauty, a streamer of jet hair falling over wide copper-hue eyes, her breath coming quickly. I reach over and gently locate a nipple beneath the thin silk – it's hard and ready. Smiling whimsically, I decide one should always honor the Goddess in word and deed. Well, there's nobody ungagged nearby to talk to, so no words. But deeds? I can think of a great number of deeds I can perform. With tenderness, I settle into the soft paper refuse, pulling my dark beauty down over me. She moans once as my thin thigh presses up into her crotch, grinding home the knotted cord. I can feel her wetness. Good girl. She will make a welcome addition to the convent, a wondrous disciple of Astarte.
Moaning deep in my throat, I grip my diary tightly behind her back and pull her tight against me.
No time for writing.
Bless the Goddess...
The End.
12.08.11