To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Chapter 6: Full Service
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
the street of looking for missing held her down and tickled her until
weeping. “Five blocks down,” she readied their ropes and plugs
annot enter,” she screa pinned them thrust
--Goddess!--
I rip out the top two pages, wine-soaked to unreadability. Captain Barberis's expressive gesture knocked over a glass, and I'd been so careful to record every word of her lusty sea yard. With sorrow, I can only resume...
April 16, 199_ (The Captain's Table)
“Sorry about that, Sister. As I was saying,” Captain Barberis says, “so we stormed the opium den and there were our three missing crewmates, lashed down to bunks, surrounded by lanky Chinese wharflettes holding long clay pipes. The nipples of these pipes had been forced between the desperate lips of my women, their tender feet exposed, cruel feathers poised. Once the relentless ticking started, they would be forced to breathe in the aphrodisiac-laced drugs. This would turn them into sex-craving nymphomaniacs, of high value for the white-slave trade.”
“Goodness, whatever did you do?” Lady Petunia breathed, leaning forward in (and very nearly falling out of) her jade evening dress.
“Well, my girls are good at close-quarters work. In no time, we had those lanky Chinagals ship-shape tight in their own hemp rope – with those pajama costumes of theirs, it looked like someone's mother finally took charge of a slumber party.
“We couldn't stay long – tide was running and all. So we tied these rangy girls face to face and belly to belly, inserting an adjustable bi-headed belaying pin between each pair. Then we piled the opiate in the center of the room and set it alight. On the den's door, we chalked symbols of great evil to lessen the chance of an intervention. Ha Ha! I cannot image a greater evil than to be tied face to face against a lovely Chinese girl, roped so tight her flesh is molded against you, her tidy breasts pushing their twin hard-points into yours. And as your mind swells with fantasies of old loves, old torments, mannis and subconscious lusts, your partner begins to moan and shift, pressing your sex-slickening peg further into you. And how, no matter how many times you thrust, how many orgasms you shudder out, the smokey atmosphere will always find the next one. It must have taken hours, even a day, before they were discovered...”
Even with the loss of two pages of bondage and discipline on the high seas, I'm somewhat heartened by this. Astarte must have glowed over those poor Chinese girls withering in their hemp against each other, moaning into their coarse-cloth gags. Beneath my chair, I cross my trimly booted ankles as it to contain the furnace light that was now burning low between my thighs.
We are at the Captain's table, the open windows showing the Moroccan coast sliding past – we brushed the vagina of Gibraltar in late afternoon. As expected, Lady Petunia looks stunning, her dress vibrant, her bosoms heaving, her eyes asparkle. Beyond, Kate lurks, attempting to chameleon against the dim lighting in her goth/witch dress. We still haven't made up since that incident with the stripping, the rope, and the leaving in helpless agitation thing a few days back. Still, the way her shoulder-length purple hair brushes her narrow, exposed shoulders is stunning.
To the other side, Adara Burke wears a white dress that playfully hides her charms while hinting lustily of them, her Welsh eyes dancing in the candlelight, her lips ruby red. And beyond, in her own teal gown, a pouting Chespeake sits bound with ribbons, back primly erect, shoulders back, breasts forward. I'd heard the argument through my stateroom wall, Chespeake seeing her inclusion at dinner as a sign that Adara was getting 'soft' with her, not keeping her locked up in perpetual slavery, getting ready to go 'misty' on her. Adara borrowed Lady Goldwaith's maids to jam her into her ribbon-enforced finery. I'm sure our journalist has a ballgag tucked into a pocket, just in case. And that's not all things tucked into pockets – judging from the way Chespeake minced to the table on her high-heels, I think she's got some sort of concessionary dildo looped up into her. She does seem to be carefully sitting motionless.
Me, I'm plain in my black habit and coif, my copper hair page-boyed, my face narrow and unlovely. Nothing glamorous about me.
“You do know how to deal with captives,” Petunia smiles to the burly captain, reflecting on the sea-yarn. She enjoys a sip of wine and adds, “What of that thief you captured?”
“Oh, her. Well, after her afternoon of compression and sexession...” At this, she winks to me. I blush. My excess with the helplessly canvassed Teak Merrywell is the talk of the ship. “...we strapped her up in ship's surgery. A night of rest and she should be all fit. I plan to sell her to the Port Mons slavers when we arrive. Sooner the better.”
“Well, I'd like to buy her, Captain,” the Royal Scientist declares. “She and I have... unfinished business. I'll pay you twice what she's worth, and she's still off at Port Mons.”
I looked around her ample chest to Kate, who seems just as surprised by this as I. Adara is just nodding; perhaps she is realizing that a thief could be a very good addition for our party, for picking locks and such. Besides, keeping Teak close means we know where she is.
There is some haggling going on; Captain Barberis is not one to let go the swollen shaft of profit without a good hard squeeze. I push sadly at the wadded, wine-soaked pages torn from my diary – they would have made good bedtime reading; I would have been able to send my evening blessing to Astarte quite easily after their review. It is then I notice women occasionally entering into (and leaving with cat-like smiles) small curtained alcoves. Leaning over, I hiss a question about them to Adara.
“Those? This is the high-dinning room of the illustrious Lola Montez. They provide full service. Full service.”
I'm not sure I follow-
Goddess!
Through a revealing curtain, I catch a glimpse of a naked manni strapped vertically spread-eagle, back to a marble pillar, feet just clear of the floor. The alcove walls about him are adorned by tiny whips and feathers and plugs. The poor fellow's head is lolling in grogginess. My hand is shaking over my recorded words as another woman enters and the curtain are drawn briskly shut.
I look to Adara (who is smiling broadly) then back around. There must be two dozen sets of curtains. The manni complement of the crew must be all stripped down, oiled over, and strapped up, servicing whatever bawdy female passengers choose to dally with them.
Full service indeed!
I'm watching each alcove, seeking a glance during the comings and goings of each visitor. Beneath my slight bosum, my heart pounds.
Milo!
Over the head of a tottering, smirky brunette, I see him locked as wide as Prometheus, waiting for the next lusty female eagle to devourer his organ. A bright red ballgag plugs his mouth and his top-heavy torso glimmers in the table candlelight.
“Someone's ogling out the mannis,” Kate sing-songs at my expense. I sit quickly erect. “Just... capturing the details,” I mutter.
“Which reminds me,” Petunia smiles, glancing to both myself and Kate before returning mischievous eyes to Barberis, “Will your mannis be... ship-shape for tomorrow's amusing tradition?”
The captain smiles broadly, but then everything about her is broad. “Of course, of course. Tonight the ship's cook will prepare huge plates of oysters for them. And the ship's surgeon will give them restorative medications and vitamin boosts. Why, have you pollywogs among your party?”
I've no idea what Petunia is going on about and quite miss the rest of the discussion. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch a woman exit Milo's alcove (as bowlegged and stumbling as a drunken American cowgirl) and feel a hot flush of something. Jealously? This is a new thing in my life.
We work through the next course – I'm hardly eating, thinking of bronzed, gleaming Milo locked in helpless suspension, being used, used, and used again. Adara, feeding Chespeake, takes note.
“You shouldn't bother,” she smiles. “It's beyond sloppy-seconds now. Most of them are fallen flags at this point.”
I'm writing this, not understanding-
Now I do.
I feel anger at myself. Hot anger. There was Milo, strapped up for my delights and I hadn't noticed. Missed opportunity! And now Adara is laughing her husky little laugh, knowing its too late, that Milo's been visited a dozen times, been pinched and prodded, whipped and tickled, licked and lusted over until he's dead meat.
Suddenly the table feels close. Petunia and her rolling bosom, glowering Kate, know-it-all Adara and the ribboned-up Chespeake. I excuse myself (nose in my diary) and slip away as if seeking the bathroom. Near its door I slink into the shadows. One good thing about my black habit – it makes slinking easy.
Not many women are going into the alcoves now. One leaves Milo's curtain, shrugging at her friends in an oh well manner. I look down to see I'm pushing too hard on my pencil. Breath is coming fast. Okay, calm down, Annie.
I drift across the room, watching Milo's limp curtain as there is a monster contained within. All around me the women diners are focusing on the band. On the dance floor, Petunia and Captain Barberis are high-stepping through a brisk, sensuous tango. The scientist/noble is finding herself being groped onstage, trapped in the Captain's burly arms. I put my skinny butt to the wall, slide along it. Milo's curtains are at my elbow. Nobody is looking. Here we go.
=< O >=
I think I write these things to drag out the moment, to bask in them, to make them last longer.
The alcove is small, not more than a yard wide. As noted, all sorts of little helpers hang along the wall, things that pinch, that tickle, that extend, that plug, that irritate, that excite. I find myself fighting the urge to categorize this collection - it is so impressive.
But the main thing is Milo. He seems to fill the alcove, stretching above me in his straps like some huge pre-Gai-shift male god, rising up as if to smite. But there will be no smiting from him – thick straps pin his wrists, ankles and tight belly hard to the sweat-slick marble post. His mouth is sealed with an enormous ballgag. And there, just before me, is his wonderful cock, his crank, his wang, his shaft, sadly flaccid from the overuse it has suffered. In wonderment (and writing as I do) I run my fingers along its limp length, cradling it like a newborn puppy. So cute. So warm.
The air is hot in our enclosure. Sweat stands along his manly torso, mixing with the rubbed-in oils. I'm perspiring too, my wrist dampening my battered diary. I lift off my coif and shake my coppery hair, cooling myself. Milo watches with eyes as wide as his ball-stuffed mouth.
The only sound is the thudding tango outside, the trilling of the crowd as Goldwaith is woman-handled by the overbearing captain, right on stage for all to see. The superheated air of the tiny chamber reverberates from the heart-pulsing tempo.
Milo looks down at me, apologetic. He knows he's been used up and cannot favor me. It delights me that he cares for me in this perverse way.
Okay, a true diarist's test. Ready?
Hunching down to lean against those hot thighs of his. Right hand writing blind – Goddess help my penmanship. Left hand cupping his muscular buttocks, pinning what is already strapped up and helpless. Leaning in, running my lips along the serrations and knobs of his glorious sausage, tasting his essence amongst the sauce of a half-dozen women, caring not. My tongue – can it be so flexible? I run it languidly along his dangling member, savoring him. Overhead, he groans in frustration, helpless in every sense.
Goddess, I ask-
I-
Hard! I can feel him growing hard! Funny, but while he begins to swell against the tip of my tongue, while I leach over his shaft like an octopus's pucker, my right hand detects the end of page and automatically flips it over. What a sight this must be – a naked manni locked wide open, gleaming and gasping, his face contorted by the ballgag jammed between his lips like an apple in a boar's mouth. And before him a scrawny little priestess kneeling as if in service, coif gone and copper hair crazed, sucking like crazy while one hand records, automatic writing. Astarte, my Goddess, cannot see nor savor this, focused as she is on the female climax. If there is some little manni goddess, some slave-spirit, I'm calling upon her for help. Milo and I struggle against biology.
I fall back on my temple teachings, focusing on the pump of his racing pulse, the sounds of his moans, every feedback sensed and otherwise. We seem to be locking on the tango's pulse, throbbing in unison with the band's percussion. And it's working! Goddess, its working! He's swelling in my mouth now, I picture him and his bulging gag. And me with mine. Sharing, sharing. Left hand clawing his buttocks flesh, dragging him into my face. Jaw aches, tongue dances, breath racing, taste and smell of him fills me.
Something jutting into the back of my mouth. Don't gag. Don't-
A warm explosion!
=< O >=
I'm back on my haunches now, totally spent. My skin is sticky, my clothing clinging. I swallow, an oily gulp that is disgusting and wondrous all at once. I wipe the dribble from my chin and lick my fingers.
Milo is not looking at me. He's hanging in his straps, his manhood shrinking as I watch, totally done in.
I'm not done, of course, but it doesn't take much to ruck a trembling hand into my robes and throw the Goddess a little offering, my own climax, popping like a champagne cork. Soooo nice...
On shaky legs, I stand, putting my coif on crooked, my hair pasted across my wet forehead. I fondle Milo's limp limb once more, a handshake of goodbye, then slip through the curtains, crossing the room, using chairbacks as crutches. When I get back the girls are merry. Patunia is sitting in a daze, her dress rumpled, her eyes unfocused. The Captain is breathing hard. Chespeake is slowly rocking in her seat, her big brown eyes far away.
“You missed desert,” Kate notes.
“No thanks. I'm full.”
11.12.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 7: Crossing the Line
o0o