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Chapter 5: The Stowaway
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
April 16, 199_
We're out of the Channel and booming down the Spanish coast, the sun high and hot, the ship straining under its sails and pounding paddlewheels. We ladies, myself, Adara the journalist, Lady Goldwaith and Kate, her niece, are amusing ourselves at shuffleboard. I cannot help but notice the distinctive way her Ladyship thrusts her cue, launching it forward with an almost sensuous thrust.
Kate and I find ourselves standing together from time to time during the game but say little. What can I say to her? Two days ago, she magically levitated me in my stateroom, pulled away my clothing, then left me tied and open (and totally frustrated) in my bunk. Shortly after, some pussy-burglar slipped into my room and tongued me into a state of Goddess-induced bliss.
Chesapeake has been permitted out of her stateroom. She's sitting off to one side, her dark skin a pleasant constant to her white petticoat. You have to look closely to see the ribbons that pin her balled wrists behind her and her booted ankles together. Adara has permitted her the freedom of speech but our translator seems to prefer silence, turning her noble dark face up to meet the sunlight, letting the wind tangle and tussle her dark curly hair. The sight of her moves me; when the others are looking towards the clattering pucks, I rub the cue between my habited thighs, seeking to scratch that Goddess-sent itch.
Suddenly a disturbance breaks across our idleness; a gathering of sailors led by the voluminous Captain Barberis pile onto the deck. In their midst, held aloft by crew-mannis, struggles a naked female, arms bound fast to her side, kicking ankles trussed up tight. She is screaming bloody murder, literally 'bloody' as its every other word. I'm not really looking at her but beneath her to Milo, who helps hold her aloft.
He is as studly I remembered; broad shouldered, black haired, square-chinned. I find myself fantasizing that its his hands on my buttocks, holding my trussed body high against the Iberian sun. Without thinking, I find myself rubbing my cue between my legs again. A glance about; Chesapeake has seen this and is smiling ruefully. To distract myself, I pull out my trusty diary and record the above, writing frantically.
As I am in the process of capturing details, I glance at the stripped and roped woman the mannis have dumped upon the hot deck. My pencil stops. It is that sailor who accosted me the first day aboard, the one who rounded on me when I bumped into her. I'd know that mop of copper hair, that long errant strand, that button nose and that horrible language anywhere.
Curious, I take a trance-like step forward.
She's struggling and rolling, but her wrists are looped firmly to her thighs. She can only heave her sharp little shoulders and fling her hair about, looking quite the damsel.
It is Adara who speaks first, smiling around the words. “Teak Merrywell. Of all the places to find you.”
“You know this lubberly imposter?” the captain asks, planting a massive sandal against the bound woman's chest to hold her still.
“Yes. Did a piece on her once. She was London's most brazen criminal. She'd kidnap and steal, just about anything she could pull off. It was almost as if the money was secondary, that the thrill and challenge were the main interest.” Narrowed green eyes focused on the prone woman. “I'd heard you'd gotten caught sneaking into the pit and ended up the personal plaything of their head of security.”
“Bloody Kiyoko,” the lusty prisoner spits. “said I was too noisy. Beat my bloody butt red with a switch and tossed me topside.”
“I know you, as well,” Lady Petunia Goldwaith confirms, stepping up to Adara's side. Her eyes flash in merriment.
Teak squints up against the sun. Then she nods. “Yeah. You.”
“This woman,” Petunia details, “Took me prisoner. I believe it is known as 'purse snatching'. She jumped me on the street one evening, dragged me into an old warehouse, tied up up and removed every stitch of my clothing.” All around, the eyes of the scores of female witnesses widened at the image of shapely Petunia stripped down and rigged up. “Hogtied, bent back and openly exposed, I could not ward off her gross, familiar – and jolly – manipulations. I believe the goal of this was to molest me to the point of complete excitement, then hold out for payment before granting release – in all aspects.”
“Bloody randy bint!” Teak snarls, a ruddy lock of hair flopping down across her scrappy pug nose. “I pinched her nipples, rubbed her twat, tickled her feet. I did everything I could to her. And she's laying there on her side on burlap sacking, pink and heaving, wheezing like a leaky church organ, just soaking it up. I tried everything I could to break her will and leave her screaming for climax; tongue-to-twat, vibrator-up-the-ass, clips-to-tits, toe-ties, the rocking chair, the muffin smother, foot worship, fantasy whispering, stroking, coaxing, nibbling, licking. Everything! Bloody hell! She sucked it up like a sponge! My bloody fingers were going numb; I'd been at it half the night. Finally I just packed it in – sent a telegram to her maids where they could find her and decamped.”
Some of our fellow passengers are rocking, even though the seas were as glassy as their eyes. There is quite a lot of frantic fanning going on.
Captain Barberis gestures to the woman under her foot. “Well, you can add being a stowaway to her list of crimes. She kidnapped one of our mates in London and stole her uniform. She's been sneaking around every since. Who knows what she's been up to and into.”
Standing well back, I see Lady Petunia and Adara Burke exchange glances. A known thief appears on the ship carrying explorers searching for diamonds? It is pretty obvious why Merrywell is aboard.
“What's to happen to her?” a woman passenger asks, eying the bronzed bundle struggling on the raw decking.
“We'll sell her to the slavers at Port Mons, and that will be the end of her,” the Captain pronounces. “But for now, she's got to face ship's punishment. Milo, fetch a spread of Sjefke canvas!”
I watch my manni-angel rush off, his butt set off so well in his shorts. I just want to pinch them but it would be beneath my station as a Sister of Astarte. He returns in short order, spreading the dunish canvas across the decks. From the spatters of water, it seems that it had been soaked.
The sailors know the drill. Teak is deposited on the sail's damp surface. Then, with methodical care, she is rolled up tighter than candy in a wrapper, from just beneath her button nose all the way down to her toes (which wiggle in frustration). Around and around she goes until she looks like a bannister support wrapped in cloth. Milo and the other mannis now knot ropes around her trembling form to keep her from unrolling herself, further looping anchor lines from her shoulders and ankles to cleats. I'm watching them do this, feeling my own passions rise, wishing I was in Teak's place for this base handling. In the end, the thief lies on the deck, eyes glaring, toes pointing, fully helpless.
“She'll feel the pressure soon enough,” Barberis says with a heavy chuckle. “As Sjefke canvas dries, it shrinks. She'll feel it, alright. Enough of this play. Back to your posts, you lubberly mannis!”
With the departure of the sailors, Teak is left facing her dire situation. Many women mill about, whispering to one another, savoring the discomfort of the purse snatcher. Some of them drift over quite close, to loiter in clusters around her head, even allowing their frosted drinks to drip condensation between her eyes, a torture most Chinese. Blinking, Teak curses them all but her ever-tightening gag makes her expletives unrecognizable, little more than background noise.
Some women, pretending distraction, actually stand over her head, their skirts flaring wide, giving the helpless thief an alluring look up the cavern of their dresses. The view must be frustrating for the bundled woman, long nyloned legs leading up to crotches pantied or perhaps immodestly unshielded.
I could tell the frustrations inflicted upon her by the amused passengers were taking their toll. Against the ever-cinching canvas, her nipples are now pronounced. In fact, it was almost as if her wrappings are spray painted on, her body totally exposed. Furthermore, the contraction causes her dainty toes to point and her head to cant back. It is as if she were in the coils of a python, nearly unable to breath. Her body trembles in distress, on vivid display.
Eventually the others grow bored with the sport and leave. Adara and Petunia had collected Chesapeake and departed, presumably to discuss the danger Teak might represent. But I loiter in a short distance off, watching the trembling woman. Only when we are both alone do I slip up to her, kneeling next to her head.
From her glaring eyes, I can see she thinks I am offering some sort of prayer for her predicament. But no, I lean forward, I sniff the sweat forming about her upper cheek and ear. I know that smell. It was ground into my face, and my memories.
“You were the one who snuck into my stateroom the other day and rifled an orgasm from me. Well, my brazen little thief, I think you owe a little something to Astarte!”
With that, I pull out my Prussian Army Knife, a handy little tool no girl should be without. There are ever so many things that can fold out of it; thumb-cuffs, toe-links, nipple-compresses and all sorts of clever French ticklers. But it's the knife I fold out. I skooch back until I am sitting next to her straining hips, my black-robed, bony knee cocked up, bending over Teak's midriff like a dark carrion bird. The lips of her pussy are clearly visibly, exaggerated by the compressing canvas. Carefully, I run the sharp edge along the line of her slit. The canvas separates, allowing her sex to blossom out like some sort of flower, the pressure forcing it to protrude. From the head-end of the bundle, Teak whines at the disturbing sensation.
I take time to write all this down, to let Teak shiver in her tight wrap, knowing that her sex is pouting so prettily under the sun.
“You seem terribly dry, dear,” I chide. “Let me help you.”
I lay a long finger along the line of her twat, pressing forward with the knuckle, feeling the hardpoint of her pearl. A little wiggle, forcing an echoing moan from her cocked-back head. I can watch her nipples visibly swell against the canvas. I press and wiggle my finger some more, pillowing it between her puffing, pubic-hair lips I'd savored days before. Lips I am savoring now.
It's like sticking my finger into a warm glass of water. She's heating up nicely.
I can see she's shaking her head back and forth, the unexpected sensations conflicting with the grinding pressures. But the canvas holds her fast; she cannot move. Now my finger is wet; I bring it up beneath my narrow nose and sniff. Oh, she's quite excited now.
Sorry, Diary, but I have accidentally stained you with a blot of her erotic essence. A souvenir!
I can see that Teak is quaking now from my molestings. In all her incarcerations, never has she been bound so tightly. And in all her opened, exposed punishments, never has she been used so deeply. We only connect through a single touch-point, my finger to her vulva, yet it is the focus point of sunlight through the magnifying glass, a white-hot point of smoldering eroticism. She shudders, a mighty heave reduced to little more than a ripple, and now my hand is wet. I raise my finger to my narrow lips and lick. Head back, she's panting like a bellows through her nose, heels drumming on the deck before growing still.
“That's one,” I tell her.
I don't know how I know, but I can feel her disbelief as I work her without any respite. Its path lubricated, I can now work my finger deep inside her (it takes a bit of wiggling to do this, but its all to the good – Teak screams against her gag). I rummage around inside her, getting the feel for this new sex-glove of mine, working her just as I would any first-time sister bound in my cell back in the Temple. And since Teak has no say, no defense, she cannot stop me as I slosh about inside her, causing her to arc creakingly in the tightening canvas. She hovers, butt off the deck, for a long moment. Then she collapses back and is still.
“Two.”
I give her time to rest while reading over my dairy's last entries, editing it down a little, pencil poised beneath my sharp chin. Then I lean over her like some black-shrouded death-reaper, but it's climaxes I'm reaping, not mortality. Just for fun, I play it this time with the pencil, a sensation she finds both new and disturbing. Still, I think the change does her good. Whatever defenses she aligned against my third assault collapse. I have to wipe my writing implement against my skirt; it's too slick to hold onto.
I begin to think of Milo as I work over my dear captive, fantasizing for one orgasm that it's him in these wrappings, that I'm milking his shaft as he trembles beneath me. For another, I dream that I am flat on my back and a skillful Milo is pleasuring me with his hoary sailor hands, frictional me to white-hot eruptions.
Forgive me, diary. I must set you down in order to relief myself. I'll still do Teak with my other hand. After all, temple business must not be neglected.
=< O >=
Teak lays in tight ruins at my knees, not moaning, hardly moving. I wipe her juices from my chin, tasting her last feeble climax. I'm proud of myself for coaxing it out of her. I could tell she was floundering like an overworked mount. She lays on the hot deck, as stiff and motionless as a mummy.
Leaning back to snap a crick out of my back, I look around. Shock and surprise! The entire deck, as well as the railing above, are lined with my fellow female passengers. Up in the swelling canvas, women sailors perch like monkeys, their telescopes trained upon me. Dozens and dozens of faces, all wide-eyed, all flushed. There is a pop as a photographer's gunpowder alights, a picture for posterity; myself, as skinny and black as a crow, hunched over the wrapped, dazed Merrywell. To one side, Adara pulls out a wad of bills, no doubt intending to purchase the picture, a suitable accompaniment for her journalistic series.
And there, on the upper deck, stand Lady Petunia and Kate, the former's face glowing with unabashed amusement, the latter's wide-eyed in nervous realization. Yes, little Kate now realizes that in tying me up in solitary punishment, she risks the wrath and skills of a Sister of Astarte. Sleep well, little Kate.
Suddenly a shadow falls over me. Milo, big and broad, looks down. Other sailor-mannis stand at his back, faces blank. I must look a sight; sweaty and juiced and gaunt.
“We've got to get this woman to the infirmary,” he notes, stooping past me. Tenderly, the semiconscious Teak is lifted to their shoulders like a stiff plank, a dreamily lingering moan issuing from her compressing canvas gag.
He turns to go. I recover my diary.
He looks back.
“Captain Barberis' complements. You and your party are invited to sit at the captain's table tonight for dinner.”
I watch him go, sitting on my knees, my black habit flapping around my stick-woman figure, my sunken eyes on his nice tight ass. Behind me, the crowd begins to clap.
11.12.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 6: Full Service
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