To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Chapter 8: Meeting the Natives
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
April 20, 199_
Trapped within its tight loops of palisades, Port Mons huddles against the encroachment of the luscious jungle. It is a town in fear, Captain Barberis tells us. The jungle that embraces its fearful districts has taken too many native girls already, girls absented for a month and then returned, shaken, somber and secretive.
From this port come the carbon-aligned diamonds too, but like a poor maid whose mistress is wealthy, the town enjoys none of this wealth. The stones come in from the wilderness and are loaded onto cargo-runners bound for the markets of Europe and America. The port remains behind, struggling and abandoned.
I'm standing at the railing, feeling the wind blow errant red hair from beneath my coif. Yes, it's me again - Annie. Is there anyone on this ship who hasn't added entries into this poor stained diary? I've been recovering in my cabin over the last few days as the Montez thudded south. You know, through Adara's entry, what happened to me. Even now I'm walking a bit funny.
A dugout canoe slips from the port, two native women propelling it, a third sitting proudly in its center. A ladder is deployed to receive them and I cross the deck to where Captain Barberis and her sailors wait. Eventually the three natives climb to the high deck.
The two paddlers are the first natives I've seen up close. One could be my sister in scrawniness, her body wiry under her native dress, overlarge hands and feet at the end of pipe-cleaner limbs. Her hair is pulled back tightly around her skull-like head, and missionary-issued wireframe glasses perch on her tiny little nose, her ears tinkling with a multitude of silver adornment. She stalks about like a long-legged bird, her arms close to her sides.
The other is like Captain Barberis, soft and round and fleshy and dark, her full lips smiling, her hair as twisted as a troll-doll's. A silver ring dangles from her pug nose, as erotic as bondage tackle. She looks to each woman in turn as if sizing them up for tussle and capture.
It is their leader who takes my breath away. If Chespeake had an older sister, one who would dominate her, keeping her bound in her bedroom over long cramped days, it would be her. She is tall and full-bodied, her slender neck festooned with silver necklaces, her wrists cuffed with ornamentation. Her dark hair sweeps lion-like around her noble face.
“So these are your little guests,” the Captain notes in flat tones. “Don't let them wander the ship.”
I bow before them in greeting (I've no better idea what to do, having been sent to fetch them). They nod, recognizing me as a woman of religion by my robes. At my gesture, they follow. The women we pass edge against the walls, looking after us with fearful yet speculative glances.
I usher them into Adara's stateroom.
Chesapeake has been stripped and rigged, hanging from a ceiling-mounted hook, her ankles demurely crossed and corded, putting her into a perpetual toe-teetering state. Overhead, her long fingers flex and ball, working with whatever circulation her tight wrist-ropes permit. With her coconut breasts, her trim tummy and diving scruff of pubic hair, she comes across as aggressively adorable.
Behind her, Adara loiters with purpose, her long dress tied up about her hips, showing off her strong shapely legs and implying she's ready for action. Grimly, that action centers on the cruel hand-whip she's cradling. That she wouldn't employ it against the muscular haunch before her is a fact I know, Chesapeake objects to, and our native friends hopefully don't suspect. It's theater for their benefit.
In a corner seat, Lady Petunia reclines in upper-class nonchalance, fanning away her agitations. Her pursed lips and lulling eye make me almost wish I hung in Chespeake's place, Adara standing so close with her cruel little whip, with my habit lifted up to expose my trembling buttocks.
The leggy leader of the natives notes Chespeake's color and speaks directly to her. I am at pains to record what I phonetically make out.
“Ave-hay ou-yey een-bay hiped-way et-yay, arling-day?” our guest asks.
Chespeake shrugs her upthrust, muscle-corded shoulders. “Ix-nay.”
“Ity-pay.”
I find I cannot keep up with their indecipherable chatter and give up. They chat for a while and then Chesapeake half-turns her head. “They say they will guide and bear for us. One silver piece each.”
Adara is so pleased by the deal she gives the dangling buttocks before her a sharp crackle with her whip. Chesapeake tips her head back and issues a luxurious moan. She does love submission.
“One thing,” our tormented translator adds, her half-shuddered eyes rolling to me. “They wish to know if they can purchase our nun for two silver pieces.”
My hesitation doesn't show in my writing.
“Wha... why?” I finally manage.
More chatter. “They say,” the tawny dangler translates, “that nuns make the best soup. I gather they wish to place you into a huge pot of hot water and...”
I cover my ears, fearful to hear more of it. The three girls laugh, joined by our mocking 'slave'.
Even more chatter, with Chesapeake gesturing to us each in turn. I carefully record our introduction. Perhaps someday I shall spend an afternoon in the British Museum, seeking their translation.
“His-tay un-nay ou-yay ish-way o-tay aste-tay s-iay Sister Annie. He-tay aucy-say ollop-tray ehind-bay e-may s-iay Adara. Nd-Aey he-tay ovely-lay ominatrix-day s-iay Petunia. Hey-tey ie-tay nd-ay inger-fey uck-fey ite-quay ell-way.”
The shadowy leader lays a finger along her chin, a jangle of silver. “O-day ell-tay...”
A shiver runs through me at her syrupy observation. It affects my penwomanship.
Then it is their turn for names. The languid leader is named Jumbe. The rolly-polly one is Mosi, the skinny glasses-wearer, Pili.
Jumbe, Mosi and Pili. I shall try not to think of them as 'Boss', 'One', and 'Two'.
More cross-language negotiation. It is determined that they will come for us tomorrow. We will use their boat to ferry our goods to a secluded cove south of Port Mons. Evidently the settlement is dangerous. A white woman, we are assured, wouldn't last a quarter hour before she was roped, gagged, and stuffed in a black noblewoman's wicker bedroom basket, to be pampered and aroused by lithe slaves before presentation (invariably spread-eagled on silken sheets) before the mistress.
Lady Petunia listens carefully. I assume she's just trying to gain understanding.
With that, I go to show our bearers out. As they walk past Chespeake, they treat her each with a personalized farewell. Pili runs her long fingers along the proud curve of the suspended girl's ass. Mosi dives a chubby hand into her dark moist cavern and gropes, making Chespeake half-topple, her wrist ropes creaking painfully under the strain. And Jumbe, as poised as a queen, deliberately takes a helpless brown nipple in each hand and grants a tender squeeze. Chespeake's gasping moan requires no translation. They leave our poor dark friend agitated, aroused, and suspended. The others are even affected. Adara looks at those cheeky dun orbs hanging so invitingly and tightens her grip on her sweaty whip handle. She looked to the cat-smiling Lady Goldwaith who gives a little nod a approval. Even Chespeake knows what's coming – she regains her toe-stance, straightens her back, balls her fists, closes her eyes.
As I turn to leave (cursing my luck that I'll miss the show), her Ladyship calls me over and asks me if, following dinner, I would come around to see her. She implies she wishes to see to her sadly neglected spiritual side. I nod demurely and, with effort, keep from leaping into the air and clicking my stiletto heels. My mind is spinning as I see the dark trio back to their floundering craft and nearly boot them over the side. The fact that Lady Petunia wishes to see me for 'spiritual guidance' ignites my fervor. I find myself trembling at the thought of her bound up nice and tight, cradled in my bony lap. And how I'll whisper sizzling prayers to her sexual soul as I trace meaningless patterns across her trebling thighs with her own juices. How wonderful it will be to tuck my head in close, to take each of her apprehensive-stiffened nipples between my saliva-moistened lips and give her the gentlest gnaw. I find myself thinking, as I eat a ship's dinner that is as sawdust to my distracted tastes, how I'll service her thrice – quickly – for Astarte, before devoting the remainder of the night to my own pleasures.
Cuddling! I love cuddling! And who better to cuddle with than the shapely Petunia Goldwaith, with jutting beasts and grinding hips. Outside her porthole, a moon will float over the shoreline jungle. It will cross the sky as I cradle and rock her, granting her loving kisses and tight embraces, holding her in my arms and legs like a mother spider does her precious sack of eggs. In the wee hours, we'll play my favorite game, 'Marco Polo', where every segment of her rope-delineated skin represents a province of China, which I slowly explore with tongue and fingertips, seeking out her secrets, secretions and sensitivities. Regardless of how she begs and whines, I'll not grant her that final freeing climax until the sun breaks the shoreline trees and plays in her tangled golden locks.
Finally it is the hour of my visit. I go to her stateroom and knock. A maid, saucy and frilly, opens the door. “Come een, come een,” she says in wine-sweet French.
In the center of the room stands a chair. To either side, two other maids are sorting ropes, eying me as if menially measuring my limbs. I find myself looking around.
“Um, where is Teak?”
“She ees secured in our room, under our firm control. She 'as been a very, very naughty girl.”
“And, er, Lady Goldwaith?”
“ 'Er ladyship weell return later. She asked that you be fixed up nice and tight in preparation for 'er pleasures.”
“There is some misunderstanding,” I stutter and write quickly, thinking perhaps I'll show Lady Petunia this entry to illustrate the mistake of her underlings. “I was supposed to, well, see to her needs.”
“You thought you were to tie her up?” The three exchanged giggles. “Her ladyship said nozing about zat. Now for you, on zee other hand, she left specific and detailed instructions. Please, sit on zee chair. And cross your hands behind your back.”
I'm backed against the wall. The door is locked. They are all standing their in their black and white lacings, ropes expectantly in their gloved hands, looking at me so sweetly. The chair seems to hunger for my ass, seeking my roped embrace.
“ 'Eere, geeve me your leetle book...”
But I was supp-
02.02.11
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 9: A Thief in the Night
o0o