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Chapter 7: Crossing the Line
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
April 17, 199_ by Adara Burke, reporter for The Sun
I prefer past-tense; newspaper writing is always the was, rather than the is. A force of habit, so I recorded the events of this day in my own style. I'm sure Sister Annie would want things documented.
At precisely 10:13am, I stepped freely, without knock, into Sister Annie's stateroom. Beyond the portholes, the dun African coast slid by as the Lola Montez found favorable winds and current, its buckled up fuel sources churning out precious orgasium under cajoled duress. Inside the room, silence. I fetched Annie's diary from her bedside table, settled into a seat and read it through. Overall it was a good account of our travels thus far. I had to smile concerning her entry concerning dinner the evening before. The Captain's table had been all a-gossip when she'd stumbled out of that manni's alcove, her eyes rolling in opposite directions. She thought she was so clever. Not clever enough, it would seem.
I finished her book, set it down, then told her “Nice job. For an amateur.”
She was on the bed, just as the ship's crew had left her after storming in at 7am this morning. She was hogtied nice and tight on her flat tummy, bowed nicely back. Her nightie was rucked up over her legs, showing off a half-globe of cheek. Encompassing ropes locked down her upper arms and cinched her breasts, binding her torso right up. The only part of her face visible between matted gold hair and full cloth gag was her blushing, bulging cheeks, her flaring nose and tearing eyes. Poor Annie. I greeted her by running a finger lightly along her jutting soles, making her squirm and mutter mute protests. Poor, poor Annie.
Annie's sad little diary went on and on about how ugly she was. Well, she's not. Sure she was little gawky and a little boyish, but she had spunk that more than made up for her plainness. Bound up as she was, helpless and quivering, she was quite a sight. If I didn't respect tradition, I'd have rolled her over and agitated her smoldering sex with a fingertip if only to see how well our demanding, orgasm-forcing nun could play in counterpart. But, no, Annie had bigger things in store today. I didn't want to spoil it for her. Or, rather, not spoil her for it. Heh.
I went down the hall, checking Chespeake's room. She was bound up comfortably yet firmly, not as part of the festivities but by my hand. In a few days we would be off Port Mons. I'd need her looking subservient for the natives. I must admit I had enjoyed keeping her bound. Our dark companion radiated sensuality as she shifted and struggled in her ropes. She looked at me with animalistic lust, growling through her gag, her ropes tight enough to bulge her struggling flesh. If there was ever a natural slave, it was Chespeake.
Down the hall in the upscale district lay Petunia's suite of rooms. At my knock, a maid suspiciously peeped out. Identifying me, she opened the door to admit me (while measuring me with a lingering eye, perhaps picturing me as part of the suite's growing collection).
Inside was nice enough. Petunia was up and about, dressed casually in a sundress topped by a white floppy hat, quite the tourist. We exchanged pleasantries. Then I asked how her girls were.
“Oh, you know, quite wrapped up in their own affairs. You may check in on them if you'd like.”
I had to admit I'd like that quite a bit. Goldwaith had a style about her ropes; everyone bound up in them became a living work of erotic art.
Behind one door was the maid's quarters. Three of them roomed there, and now they had a fourth guest. Teak Merrywell, rough-and-tumble East-ender, was sitting fully roped in a chair. Other than her raging glare, she was a study of cuteness. Beneath the straining ropes which held her wrenching torso stiffly in place, she wore a childish pink dress that frilled about her wide-tied knees, her lashed lower legs daintily sheathed in tidy white socks. Round girly shoes had been strapped without consent on her feet. Her auburn hair has been tied back in a dozen ribbons (including the dangling one between her eyes, sporting its own wee bow).
Two maids fussed over her, powdering her taped lower face, carefully drawing lips with lipstick. They had so heavily mascaraed her eyes and rouged her cheeks, she looked like a raccoon masquerading as a little girl. A cruel touch; the mirror they'd set before her tossed her humiliation right back at her.
Of course, I spotted the power cord that snaked into the folds of her dress. I'd no doubt an industrial-strength vibrator had been slotted into place.
“Teak, that new look really works for you,” I smirked. “You should flounce around your old neighborhood like that.”
If looks could kill, I'd have been a have been. Beneath her taped and overpainted lips, she buzzed like a wasp.
“Oh, Baby wants attention,” a blonde maid cooed. As I turned away, I could hear the whine of the vibrator starting up, accompanied by Teak's throaty moans.
A connecting door led to Kate's stateroom. Unlike Teak, this girl was not suffering Petunia's playful captivities. Like Annie, she had been bound in the course rope of the sailors, lashed into a tight hogtie. She was captured in her panties and bra and seemed quite upset by her state of undress. There was little she could do about it, what with the ropes locked tight from shoulders to knees. I sucked in a long look, savoring her rumpled distress and tossed purple hair.
“Be careful,” Petunia noted as she tipped her hat in the mirror, perfecting its angle. “She's quite cross. She'll set you to floating if you go in there.”
“Does she know what's waiting for her?” I asked, closing the door.
“Oh, I must admit I told her. She looked so cute, shaking her head and making those darling gag-noises. Did you tell Annie?”
I indicated no. I didn't want to ruin the surprise.
“See you at one o'clock, then.” Over her shoulder, she commanded, “Marie, stop pinching Miss Merrywell's titties and bring me my scarlet hat. The one with the darling French bow.”
There was little to do but wait. I walked the deck and watched the sun shift as we turned south-east. As the coast here ran due east, the low wilderness dropped away.
I stood along the rail and composed dispatches in my head. A high-cheeked brunette with lazy eyes and a French accent stopped at my side, an empty harness in her hand. She explained that the young lady she'd belted up and brought aboard had somehow worked loose (a broken strap, I was led to understand), and jumped ship in London. Now she was returning to her plantation in Vietnam without any plaything at all.
“You would like to become my companion, non?” she asked, opening the monoglove like the maw of some woman-eating plant.
“What about the local girls there? Certainly you must be some native beauty you could lock up in straps and servitude.”
“Oh, zose girls,” she pouted dismissively. “You tie oop one or two of zem, mistreat them good-naturedly and zee next thing you know you 'ave a native rebellion. How tedious it becomes, to wake up with a dozen scantily dressed native girls bursting into your sleep chamber, to tie you up, head to zee toes, and carry you off though the jungle. Zey always keep you for a few days, to torture you.”
“They actually torture you?”
“Well, zey teekle. And zey love it. They weel keep you tied for hours and hours, flat on your back on the straw carpet of their hut while the rains come down, tickling your tootsies, your ribs, and your various, 'ow you say, womanly bits. Zo I am done with it. I want to bring back a European girl, one I could keep on call and in harness for whatever gratuitous notions come to mind.”
She sighed, looking out over the ocean, her long hair flickering back in the breeze. I must admit I was tempted for a moment. But such a commitment might last months if not years (depending on how well she knotted). As I was not Chespeake, doomed to pervert mistresses into slaves, I had to turn down her nice offer. And I had to keep my back to the railing lest she slip in behind me with that most thorough harness (“Can't fault a girl for trying, eh?” she smiled at my defensive stance). When I last saw her, she was stalking a young debutant, showing the innocent girl her interesting gear, biding the little fool to see how it fit. I wished her luck.
But for the most part, I idled along the upper railing, looking down at the assembly deck where the sailorgirls rigged curious half-length hammocks of knotted cord. They all shared the curious fact that they formed triangles, the head end supported by a single rope, the base held aloft by two. While I mused over this, other women drifted up to join me. An hour following noon, most of the ship's passengers were there, chatting in heated anticipation.
Finally Captain Barberis took the deck, her massive breasts and strong hips casting a wide shadow.
“As you know,” she boomed out without megaphonic assistance, “we have just crossed the equator. While most of you are well-traveled, there were still a number of polliwogs on our manifests. Let us correct this. Bring them forward.”
I leaned over the railing on booted tiptoe. Pairs of sailorgirls entered, carrying foreshortened pink bundles between them. A closer (and eager) inspection revealed these to be hogtied passengers, carried face-up beneath the cruel equatorial sun, still garbed in whatever sleepwear survived their early morning assault and lusty bondage.
I felt my breath catch. There was Annie, adorably cute without her restricting habit, looking like a roped-up quadruple amputee, straining against the hemp cordage that gripped her most cruelly. And there was Kate, face lowered against her collarbone like a turtle's head tucked into its shell, glaring. One of her carriers started to float as if on the bottom of a pool. Without hesitation, the other pinched a tender nipple – hard. Distracted by the sharp and instructive pain, Kate dropped her levitation effort. Her magic would not save her from the fate the massed onlookers desired for her.
Our two companions, along with their cadre of roped, half-naked victims-to-be, were placed face up in the swinging rope hammocks, their thigh-tied knees bound to the twin base lines. Those whose panties and pajama bottoms had somehow survived quickly lost these last defenses, ripped away by lust-leering seawomen. Annie shook her head back and forth, shaking her hips to set the hammock rocking. Keep it up, girl, I found myself thinking. You'll just make it easier.
“We offer greetings to Neptune,” Barberis called, “and to his legion of mermannis!”
The 'mermannis' were the manni members of the crew, done up with silly fishscale pants, a silliness that did not extend to their exposed manhoods that swelled beneath the South Atlantic sky. As there were more polliwogs than male crewmembers, the balance of their ranks made up by grinning women sailors sporting remarkably curved strap-ons.
But it was 'Neptune' himself who caught my attention (as he caught the attention to all the hyperventilating women flanking me). With broad, oiled shoulders gleaming beneath the sun, his thick hand grasping his trident, he was a sight to behold (and a fantasy to imagine). Then I realized that beneath that fake beard was the fellow Annie had spent too many words of her diary on. What was his name? I flipped back and checked. Milo. Right.
Milo/Neptune yacked some silly pronouncement about the tariffs due him and all that yak. On the railing, we women didn't give a flip about all that silly equator-crossing rubbish. We wanted to see these women serviced, and serviced very soundly.
Then Milo lowered his trident, a shaft of pronouncement, decreeing the woman he claimed his right over. Annie looked along the weapon lined on her, shaking her head in blushing desperation, humming into her gag. It wouldn't do her any good of course. She was going to get it, and good.
“You are my choice,” he bellowed, beard flapping at his words. And then he took another step forward, trident lowered. A bosom-flustered mass-exhale ran down our line. He'd skewered poor Annie with his weapon.
But not really. One blunt prong slid along her belly, one into her anus, one into her clit. I could see that the tips of this weapon were capped with plastic cilia. Annie took it well, arching her back and shrieking in shocked arousal as she was impaled/corn-cobbed in front of hundreds of watching eyes. Milo maintained his grip but I could tell from his muscle-rippling forearms that he was shifting the stick back and forth, gently rotating it, giving it a gentle shake that the poor nun into hysterics.
“Goodness,” Petunia said from my side, her cheeks flushing as brightly as her lipstick, “this is quite a performance. How excruciating for our little sister; anal-violation and vaginal-stimulation. I shall have to try it on one of my maids.”
“You were across the equator on your trip to Ecuador, right?”
“Of course. I ended up naked and bound in a net, lowered from an airship into the sea. Then we were resuscitated with brisk intercourse. Quite a pleasant afternoon all told. And you?”
“On my first journalism assignment to India. Was on a tramp freighter. The crew tied me down on the galley table and left a bunch of bananas nearby. Anyone who passed through, for the balance of the day, could work me over. The Chinese cook was the worst – she loved to spin it as she thrust, cooing to me as she fruit-rogered me silly. Sometimes the Chinese can be a very perverse race.”
“I prefer to use the term 'inspired'. A friend of mine wrote me about a darling hotel in California a pair of Chinese ladies run. It has the most delightful laundry service...”
I'm not sure what else she said; my attention had been pulled down to the rapine taking place below us. Milo had tossed aside his trident. Now he was stepping up, laying a broad hand on each of Annie's upraised knees, smiling down at her like some sort of sex-crazed wildman. His mermannis were spreading out, each picking their own reluctant partners. By my eyes were on Annie.
Her narrow face showed the apprehension of one in the cusp of achieving a life-goal. Milo slipped a hand down and thumbed her auburn-wisped clit, causing her to shudder in her webbing. He kept this up for some time, playing her up, bringing her to a boil, his own scarlet trident rubbing against her inner thigh. Over her firm gag, her eyes went wide at the sight of this sexual cobra head, one that nuzzled her corded flesh. But her focus was hard to maintain with his twat-thumbing. She shook her head, bleated like a nervous calf, shook her head again. And then, with a terrible fluid motion, Milo stepped forward, his meat vanishing between them.
Annie's eyes flashed open. Even with gag and distance, I heard her hoarse exclamation. Her shuddering body made the hammock crackle like a storm-strained sail but Milo took it in stride, holding her knees firmly with his great hands, thrusting in with a smooth repetitive motion, setting her into an easy rock that worked to drive him even deeper into her.
I can only wonder what some shipwrecked, raft-floating survivor might think if the Montez bore past her. She'd look up at the high decks and not see a single out-turned face. Every lookout would be focused inward. And over the passing railings would come a multitudinous sexual applause, pelvis to pelvis, slap-slap-slap, with a accompaniment of cries and moans muted by spit-soaked gags. Over this tumult would roll an erotic dirge sung by the impassioned onlookers, moaning in witness. And so this poor woman would spin away in our churning wake, the smoke from our combusted orgasms hanging over her, probably desperately wishing that whatever was happening on our deck, it included her.
“Ump! Ump! Ump!” Annie grunted as she swung into each contact, her momentum driving him ever deeper into her. Then, with a knowledge as arcane as carnal, Milo grabbed her knees and kept her from swinging away, rising up on his toes. Her head went back, further, further. And then they shuddered with such a violence that it nearly shook the bolts from the Lola Montez, a shared detonation of erotic resolutions, their screams shared, his baritone, her's gagged. The excitement coursed through the women lining the railing, some openly drooling.
A hundred partners surged as one. A hundred assemblies of bondage creaked together like a massive ship tacking. In their midst, Annie and Milo hung shuddering, locked in a millennium of hesitation. Then the manni fell to his knees, leaving Annie suspended and semiconscious, panting in her roped ruination.
Around them, other couples ended their crazed matings, shuddering out the last of their efforts, slowly breaking apart with juicy pops.
“What do you say,” the flushed Lady Goldwaith said at my side, “to looking in on that tawny Chespeake of yours? Making sure she's all settled in. I must admit that my tastes have been... aroused.”
I had to take a deep breath, my recording pencil trembling. “You should bring Merrywell, too.”
“And some toys,” Petunia breathed, her agitated heartbeat visible against her silky breast. She looked over the railing. “I'll fetch that delightful trident. Milo and Annie are done with it...”
11.12.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 8: Meeting the Natives
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