To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Chapter 9: A Thief in the Night
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x
April 21, 199_
I'm finally able to stop shaking enough to write. It's early in the morning, 3am. I'm in the crew galley, Captain Barberis just turning away, our interview complete. Adara Burke, wrapped in a bathrobe, murmurs with the captain, confirming our debarking will still take place as planned. Kate glares at me as if I were at fault for what happened to Petunia. A cup of coffee steams at my rope-marked elbow.
The things that happened, that I saw. Goddess.
I'm not Adara. I am not accustomed to past-tense. But what happened was in the past, and it was tense.
Goddess...
I flip back a page to see where we were, remembering Lady Petunia's maids, the chair, their ropes. I remember them firmly seating me, the cord lacing my hands up tight behind the chair, my boots being pulled away (“too, ow you zay, kinky,” laughs one servant). I could only watch as they worked in tight concert, crossing and re-crossing my slender form with ropes, tightening and tugging until I could hardly move an inch, my black habit boldly showing off its collection of skin-tight, snow white ropes. My bare feet were collected and wrenched under my chair, somehow looped to my finger-waving hands. Into my mouth, wadding sealed in with a wide cloth gag. I tossed my rope-snarled shoulders and rocked my bundled knees. I couldn't move. I was helplessly trussed in the stateroom of a renowned female seducer.
Once they'd checked over their knots and shared tinkling giggles, the maids left for their own room. Through the heavy door, a suggestion of coos opposed by a protesting moan. The three had Teak the thief for their plaything.
So I sat, knowing that while I cramped beneath this cruel tension, Petunia gaily flounced about the deck from engagement to engagement, knowing in the back of her sharp mind that in her stateroom a nun sat laced up for her pleasures. Knowing that she was aware of me, and was purposely delaying her return – a little torment in itself – brought its inevitable reaction. Against my rope-compressed habit, my nipples stood out in stark relief. If Petunia saw them, might she be tempted to clip them? If anything, that thought makes my pussy smolder. The still air of the room slowly filled with my excited aroma.
My chin was on my chest, sometime around 10pm, when the door latch sounded and Petunia flounced in. She was gorgeously attired in a black gown which set off her creamy skin and golden locks. I rolled my head slowly up to find her towering over me (on her high, high pumps), her black gown as shapely as a sack full of sexy croquette balls. Her tapered fingers slipped beneath my chin, raising my face to her playful inspection.
“Sister Annie. Resident of the Temple of Astarte. How delightful to have you as my guest.” The emphasis on that last word set my glands to trilling. “Your Mother Superior has been trying to rope me up for years, but now I have you.” She cocked her head as if in thought but I knew she'd been considering my fate all evening. “I think I shall just keep you, nice and snug, in that chair all night. Oh, I'll amuse you, of course; truthfully, I won't be able to keep my hands off you. But I'll do my best not to give you any... wet, unseemly occurrences. Then, tomorrow morning, I'll have the ship's photographer down here to snap your image, trussed and haggard and strained. What a pleasant souvenir that will make for your temple mistress.”
I groaned. A night restricted in bondage with her Ladyship playing with me would drive me mad. Worse, it would be an insult to Astarte and a petty little jab at the Mother Superior. She'd see my image, my coppery hair sticking out at all angles, my sunken eyes bleary in frustration, and she'd know Astarte had been denied. Sin of sins!
I was a pawn between these two women!
She crossed to the porthole (oh, how her buttocks swayed in that black gown! How my heart raced! I'd never survive this night!). She placed a hand on its latch, smiling back over a rounded shoulder with its spill of gold ringlettes. “This room smells rather of... tuna, don't you think?” She threw open the hatch on the wide round window, admitting a heavy jungle air that seemed to fill the room with feral passion.
This done, she crossed to her dressing table, slipped off her gown (revealing white panties and bra, with nylons hugging her calves and thighs!) and settled onto the bench. For the next thirty minutes, I was treated to the spell-binding, breath-taking view of Petunia making herself all the more beautiful as she worked through her skin-care rituals. She washed, rubbed in oils, humming as she turned her pretty head this way and that. Across the room, I could only sit in my hard little chair, lashed up, gagged up, my passions churning, a cheat to the Goddess. I wiggled my toes, flexed my fingers, but her Ladyship's maids were renowned for their knottery; I wasn't going anywhere.
Finally she rose, the moon playing across her lingeried form, shaking out her magnificent shimmering hair, looking at me with pert certainty. I shook my head, not wanting the agonized frustration she intended for me. Just being in the room before this living, laughing sprite was bad enough. To be worked over without satisfaction would be a living hell.
She crossed to me, bending forward, hands on the chair posts, her redolence hanging between us, her breasts presented to me like twin cantaloupes. I leaned away, trying to push myself into the seat back. She was telling me things she was going to do, terrible things, horrible things (things I'll have to try on the sisters back in Temple – they were such nice things). That my eyes went wide, she attributed to her smutty oration. But it wasn't that, not at all. Some dark form had blotted out the open porthole.
Through sex-dilating eyes, I watched as a huge serpent squeezed with fornicatitive grace through the porthole. It was huge, and it continued spilling silently into the room. I could see from the water beading its scales that it had swum across from the wild shore.
And still Petunia did not see the peril. She smiled, she laughed, she kissed my sharp nose.
Then the snake struck!
I'm not sure how constrictors attack in the wild; I'm a Sister of Astarte, not a zoologist. But the assault was curious. It rolled a thick coil forward that pushed between Petunia's nyloned legs, parting them. This it bulged upwards, lifting her like a girl on a pony. Her eyes flashed as all of her weight came down on her excited crotch. She clamped hands to the mighty flanks, blue eyes wide. Then they blinked and she gave the predator's scales a sounding-thump.
“It's a construct! How clever! I'd heard about something like this in the Pit and wished to try it.”
You're going to get your chance, I thought as I recoiled in surprise from a languid snake loop played across my roped lap. But I noticed she was right. The huge head of the creature had a disarming rattle-eyed sock puppet look to it.
Petunia's head was back, her guttural moans rising as her oscillating support roiled beneath her. The forward end dropped, creating an incline that her Ladyship, lubricated as she was, slowly slid down. It seemed the backbone of this construct creature was slightly raised and cunningly ribbed, granting the noblewoman cruel satisfaction. Petunia actually raised her legs to bear down even harder, yodeling at the sensation gutting her. But across her path, a second cable of flesh hung, a horizontal trap.
It caught her just beneath her breasts, slipping around her like a huge living rope, forcing her arms to her sides. With a petulant cry of protest, she was lifted from her perch (I could see the trail she'd left, glistening in the moonlight) and rolled face forward into the horizontal, her posterior raised. Had she screamed in terror, had she shouted for her maids, they would have descended on this scene of coiled madness with all due haste, perhaps saving us. But her Ladyship only moaned and groaned and warbled, noises all too familiar from the Goldwaith bedchamber. And moments later this fleeting chane was gone, for as she was tipped forward, the tough stubbed tail of the creature was thrust into her mouth.
Why did I suddenly think of what I'd done to Milo a few days ago, when he'd hung on open availability from that pillar. How I'd knelt...
Not the time, Annie.
Pinned, her mouth packed, there was nothing Petunia could do when another loop of snake positioned itself directly behind her and, with the wave-motion gesture of a jump-rope, sent an arc carrying down its thick body to crash against the positioned noble posterior.
She glugged in protest against the shaft that filled her mouth so phallicly but it didn't stop the beating as each rippling loop crashed against her buttocks like waves against a fleshy shore. With each impact, Petunia grunted, her blue eyes blinking. Bound as I was to my chair, I could only watch as my dominator was methodically spanked in an absolute and complete manner.
Only when she'd been battered into some semblance of submission (it would have been far sooner for me – Petunia appeared to have a great deal more resilience then I) was she repositioned. Coils looped around her limp form, dropping over her like some perverted form of ring-toss. Loop after loop; it was like watching a bowl of evil spaghetti capture its own meatball. And in the end, Petunia Goldwaith hung cradled in a tight swirl of coils that mummified her struggling form in a pyramid of raw pythonic power. Her feet jutted from one end, her face (her mouth still fellatio-gagged) from the other. And then, to complete its domination over her, the snake thing began to slowly squeeze her.
She could not struggle; against what, for what? This was not a matter of finding loose knots or fraying cord. The snake held her within the fist of its body. With her mouth plugged obscenely, her toes milling, she could only endure the pressure that made respiration difficult yet ignited her basest fantasies.
From my chair, I watched her submission in my own building heat, shifting so my reacting tits dragged beneath my tight ropes. In my passion, I reflected how I loved cuddling, my private little sin. I loved to tighten my arms and legs around my involuntary guest, to feel their body tremble as my hooked ankles and locked fingers let me bear down on them. In that, I lusted to be this snake-thing, to crush Petunia in the loops of my body, to feel her fevered nipples, her moist sex, her beating heart, her fluttering lungs, to look into her eyes as did this snake and savor all the things I was doing to her.
She was about to swoon, so intense was the enfoldment. The snake, watching her, sensing her, knew this. It was time. With the ease of someone raising a bottle of soda to their lips, the snake raised Petunia Goldwaith, tipping her forward, bringing her purpling face to its own. Then its jaws unhinged, its tongue flicked aside, and slowly, ever so slowly, she was forced into it yawning gorge, sliding headfirst into its maw.
I trembled in my ropes as I watched her head enter. For a moment, the tail was removed (with a near-comical 'pop' like the cork from a bottle). With what little breath she had, Petunia opened her eyes to the fate she knew was coming and said, simply, “...finally...”.
And then her face, her shoulders, her ample breasts, were all sliding in.
The snake's teeth were interesting in that they were retractable, riding along the curves of her body, not hurting her yet catching on her clothing, tearing it away. She would not have the benefit of any coverage when she slid into the tormentful stomach that was churning in anticipation for her arrival.
The final part of her I saw was her feet, still wiggling as she slid head-first along that endless throat. Only then did the great jaws close, spitting away the fragments of silk and nylon its teeth had torn free.
I must admit I trembled at the thought of what was currently happening to Petunia. Of course I knew – many books were hitting the shelves of London bookshops, Pit-lottery winners detailing their experiences. Some night after the younger acolytes had been trussed up, one of us senior sisters would read from these accounts. I remembered accounts of a great snake like this one that prowled about, seeking women who had managed an escape or were simply due for a change.
From these accounts, I knew that even now Petunia was sliding across a slick surface of cilia, their tiny stiff heads playing across her sensitive flesh, stimulating her from her sweaty forehead down to her tender toes. With her arms jammed down to her sides, with no room to move, she could only endure the slow passage over these tireless agitators. She could thrust her feet, she could toss her creamy shoulders, she could scream, but nothing would halt her agitated passage down that long dark tube.
Worse, the air she now breathed was steamy with Goldwaith Elixir, a chemical which would exacerbate the sensations bombarding her yet deny her the soothing sanctuary of climax. And locked in the churning belly of the beast that was tightening around her, holding her in its sack of sadomasochism, she would be driven to the brink of madness with every twitch and wither of the great beast.
And suddenly it was just the creature and myself in the room.
It's vast cartoonish head regarded me from the great stalk of its body, weaving. I wondered if it would wrap around me, squeezing me until the chair shattered at my back. Would I find myself sliding, still bound, gagged, and sexually aroused, into a secondary stomach just short of Petunia's own?
But, no, for whatever reason, capacity or mission or temperament, the great beast pushed its head through the porthole and slowly wiggled its way out. I saw the bulge that was Petunia, fancied I could hear her screams as the cilia masticated her supple body. And on and on it went, the last part to go being the saliva-wet tail which vanished with a brief wag. From beyond the porthole, I could hear splashing as the great machine made its way to shore, carrying Petunia away.
Only later did a maid look in to see if her mistress required anything, a massage, oils, perhaps a set of jeweled clips. She found the room in shambles from the snake's convolutions, her mistress absent, and me panting in my bounds in great frustration.
The ships officials were summoned.
Diary, in a few short hours, our guides will be back and we will transfer to shore. I must seek sleep.
And the privacy of my bunk.
For an offering to the Goddess.
27.02.11
story continues in Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 10: Another One Down...
o0o