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Chapter 3: Priestess's Habits
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
April 13, 199_ (later, and sadder, that day)
Dear Diary;
I am sorry, my diary, for the harsh pen-strokes and blotting tear-stains. I am sitting at the small cabin desk, my gawky habit-draped frame bowed in despair, booted toes cocked down, knees together.
Chesapeake lies in still-roped spender, still cocooned save for the small section sheathing her moist delights which I removed with trembling expectation. Over her jaw-straining, lashed-in gag, her eyes regard me with watchful calmness.
How joyous I'd been when I'd found her on her narrow bunk, webbed up as if by some rope-spinning spider. With eager hands I'd rolled her over to find the keystone knot of her crotch-wrapping – there it was, tucked neatly between tension-bulged, rope-pinched buttocks. With a laugh, I gave her uplifted cheeks a friendly slap before slowly working the complex knot apart. With my breath tight in my somewhat-flat chest, my deep-set eyes wide with excitement, I rolled her back and unlooped the long sweaty rope. She was a well-wrapped Christmas present, under the tree and all for me. Once I got her steamy twat exposed, I'd see how many lush orgasms I could send to Astarte.
And then I rocked back, shocked and dismayed.
A dark leather chastity belt sweeps high over her hips and down between her thighs, locking away her sexual orchard from my plucking fingers, sealing her charms beneath thick, unshiftable banding.
Adara Burke! That journalist had done this, locking away our translator's non-verbal lips from tender tampering.
Cruel! Cruel!
So now I'm at the desk, snuffling to myself, listing my sorrows.
Chesapeake still looks at me, calm, too serene for a women crushed by ropes and twat-plugged to boot. The prisoner consoling the unfettered? How can this be?
I'd set down my pencil in puzzlement, but then how to write this? Compromise. Cross over to sit on her bedside, diary balanced on my thin thigh.
She's so hot. I can feel her passions burning though all that rope. Sorry, diary. I must set my pencil down to untie her gag-bindings and find out what this is about.
=< O >=
How serpentinely sensuous the tongue that pushed out its wadding. How coquettishly she sipped at the offered glass of water.
I am growing skilled at writing while conversing. Useful skill. Think of the confessions I could catalog back at the Temple while fingering my overnight guests. The things they say when passion-racked. I only need one hand to write.
But regarding Chesapeake:
“Why are you so sad, girl?” she asks with a voice like warm whiskey.
“I wanted to do you. Really do you. I mean, there you are, all roped up like a sacrifice, just the way Astarte likes, and then that damned sadomasochistic leather diaper...”
“Astarte?”
I can tell she's just trying to make me feel better and that's sweet. I mean, here she is, rope-cramped, limbs stiff, circulation compromised, unable to move an inch, and she's trying to engage me.
I find myself (naturally) lying down next to her, looping my arms around her trapped shoulders, easing a booted leg over her cross-roped thighs. The diary is poised on my hip. Outside, the cityscape slides away as we are borne down the Thames by tugs, tiny mistresses carrying their iron-maidened captive down the long passage to the sea.
“Astarte,” I explain and record, “is our fertility goddess. She draws energy from passion. While freely-given passion is fine, coerced passion is even better, just as an orderly, furrowed, fenced, and irrigated field returns greater harvests.” I like that thought and underline it. I can use it next time I am trying to talk an unsuspecting milkmaid into my ropes.
She seems truly interested in sexual slavery. Beneath my pinioning leg, she shifts slightly, a captive panther doing its best to stretch in an all-too-tight cage.
“And how do you coerce passion? Is there some huge ceremony?”
“Yes, sometimes there are services in the main temple, with feathers and clockwork dildos. But most of it is done overnight in the domestic cells of the sisters.”
“I've been in enough slave-pens and harems in my time. Was even held on a railroad work train by a dozen randy China-dolls. In every case, relationships, alliances, cabals, whatever, are formed. Favorites are picked. Jealousies rise. Then it's no longer fun; everyone suffers.”
“Not in our temple. There is a stone coffer with chips in it, each chip bearing a room number. The Mother Superior can also add blank chips in – she does this during the high holy days when a lot of the girls are sexually spent. If you pull a chip with a room number on it, you report to that room for... coercion.”
Chesapeake thinks about it for a bit, shifting in her numbing blanket of ropes. “What if you pull a room number of a girl who's also pulled a room number.”
“Then the Goddess forgives you of your sins and your climax-debt for the night.”
More consideration. “So what's it like. To report to another girl's room?”
I find myself hugging the course bundle with my gawky limbs. “It's so frightening, to pull a chip and see a number. You return to your room and try to compose yourself but deep down you know that somewhere nearby, a sister is sorting her ropes, reflecting her training and her night's strategies. With a beating heart you peel off boots and underthings, slip into your coarse habit and glide down the dim halls, clutching your token in your sweaty palm. From doors on either side rise the first of the night's dissonance, the whimper of maidens bending beneath the initial bite of rope, the chuckling of pleased sisters, their own passions building as Astarte guides their fingertips and tongues.
“Then you are before the chip-matched door, your heart beating faster. Perhaps it is a new girl, one whose techniques are unknown. Or some girl you had trussed in panting, frantic desperation a few weeks ago – you showed her no mercy then so its unlikely she'll show any to you now.
“A knock. The door opens. A sister stands in a black habit, her skin visible in its plunging cut, her eyes smoldering, her glistening lips curled into a smile. With husky voice and firm grip, she pulls you into her little cell.
“Ropes lain out in yawning readiness, prepared to wrap and trap your limbs. Perhaps there is a chair placed 'just so' in the center of the cell. Perhaps the bed has been moved from the wall, to permit access from all quarters. A hanging hook. A portable pole. Or perhaps just blankets spread in the corner.
“ 'Turn', she'll instruct. Facing the wall, you allow her to help you remove your robe, the air smooth and cool against your prickling flesh. Then the pause as she visually absorbs your body, her own passions ramping. A gentle touch, you hands are collected behind you. A loose pass of ropes around your tender wrists, their gentle fall across your flesh. Then the brusk yank and suddenly you are helpless, owned, doomed...”
To my diary: Am somewhat ambidextrous – tweaking Chesapeake's perking, rope-gripped nipples while the writing catches up. I can smell her boiling musk locked beneath her chastity belt like a sealed jar of luscious fruit heating on the stove. She's shifting beneath me, her lanky body flexing in its tight encasement. There is no escape for her.
Astarte forgive me – it is a sin to work a girl to the brink and not gain divinity.
I must commit a personal indulgence – for sake of order – for Astarte.
=< O >=
I have you, dear diary, back on my hip. Your pencil is sticky in my grasp. My head is now clear, Astarte serviced. But poor Chesapeake – forced to lay in my grip as I plumed myself to wet, shuddering satisfaction. I slapped a free hand across her lips so her whining wouldn't distract me from my efforts.
All is at peace.
“You bitch,” she tells me. So sweet.
“What could I do, Chesapeake? Am I to suffer drought because you are deprived your womanly release? Blame Adara – she's the one who locked you into that monstrosity.”
“Yes,” she sulks, face flushed, “But you didn't have to lay across me while you slopped out an orgasm. Did you know you were licking my face during your climax?”
“Was I? Oh dear.”
“It's not fair. If you're going to keep a woman enslaved, you should at least use her right. I'm so tired of gels like you not knowing how to use slaves properly.”
“Wait, I remembered hearing about you now. Weren't you that abolitionist who vanished into the hands and ropes of a luscious Andes tribe a few years back?” I pause, wondering how to lightly criticize the woman bound so absolutely beneath my cooling body. “How can you support abolition, anyway? It goes against the natural Gai-Shift order.”
She sighs, her rope-cradled bosoms rising so wonderfully beneath me. “You daft girls always get it wrong. Look, Love-buns, I'm a professional slave. I was born to be roped, shackled, used, abused, suspended, fondled, and totally taken advantage of. But every time I am sold to a new mistress, a month or so goes by and suddenly she's leaving my ropes loose, hoping for 'slave revolt'. Or legally freeing me, hoping I'll revenge myself upon her with her own ropes and sex-toys. Or – ugh – she'll fall in love with me. Is it too much to ask for the dignity of absolute usury? And that is why I'm an abolitionist – I wish to abolish all rights of slaves, and make slavery absolute, a fully binding relationship between mistress and chattel.”
She shudders in her agitation, a living mattress. I find myself agitating as well.
“That's why I was in Ecuador in the first place, to convince that queen of theirs to take away my rights, as well as the rights of all slaves, and make our lives safe for full bondage and humiliating ownership. Somehow, and I think it was that Constance Drummand bird who arranged it, I was dumped off with a randy band of indigenous hill-girls, ones who knew how to keep a girl tied. Captives had to endure five years of being a communal plaything before gaining tribal status. Five years of absolute slavery sounded fine to me.”
It sounded fine to me too, I have to admit. Her passions are infectious. I'm growing wet again. Astarte will be pleased.
“Wha happen then...,” I croak.
“What do you think happened? They all got soft in the head, just like every other mistress I've had. 'I command you tie me up,' they would say. 'Use me, slave, use me basely'. One by one, the whole lot of them grew sweet on me and started fighting over me. When the queen tried to take control of me (for her own shuddering uses), they deposed her. What a joke – she got to be tied up and passed around like a Venus-treat, just what I wanted, and there I was ruling in her place. I couldn't take a step without tripping over some hopefully bound sycophant.
“Then came the night I had to discipline my sub-chieftains for their whiny submissiveness. I was so cross with the five of them that I had them bound across a horizontal palm trunk. Then I worked my way up and down the line with a paddle, whacking their brown bottoms until they glowed beet-red. I swatted them until they wept, spanking them just as I wished to be spanked, hoping to give them a hint. Then I left them to hang in their bonds overnight as their battered buns cooled.
“But when I got to my room, there were ten more girls who'd had themselves bound up by friends and snuck into my chamber. Ridiculous. I couldn't discipline the entire tribe! I was only one full-bodied woman!”
“So what did you do,” I husk into her ear.
“I gave them all the taste they desired; I bound them in pairs, 69'ed together. Lots of ropes, pulled as tightly as I could manage. There they lay on my bed chamber floor-pelts, five pairs of girls roped into some obscene waltz, moaning into each other's crotches, lapping and lunging for all they were worth.”
I moan in response. Harder to write now. Harder to listen. So hot...
“And then I abdicated. Slipped over the palisade, vanished into the night. Dropped out of the jungle into some dusty northern Colombian town. Found the local slavers, an unsavory bunch of South American lady-brutes. Turned my back on them and crossed my wrists. Before I could say 'orgasmic rush' I was hanging in slave harness, suspended with dozens of other swaying, naked slave-sisters in the hull of some freighter, bound for the slave pens of America.”
“And then you were intercepted by that English air-patrol,” I murmured, pencil faltering. “who freed you.”
“Interfering limeys.”
Admission: I can't keep this up. She's trussed and tawny, and I'm draped over her like a throw rug. The ropes looping her thighs are pressing into my crotch, and I'm finding great satisfaction rubbing against them. Harder to write. Harder to think. Ches knows this. She's trying to babble about her early life – to distract – telling about her mom, agreement to get degree in Amahagger language – family tongue before enslaved 1840s – who cares??? Slap one hand over those full lips – she glares – who cares??? Grinding against her thighs, hips, the ropes rippling though my crotch. Ches screaming against my palm, her chastity belt denying her – arching my back. Hard to hold diary – more to... cum...
15.11.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 4: A Tricky Witch
o0o