Chapter 3: Hisstle the Catwoman
“When I first saw you come aboard with your tools, I thought you were a technophile,” Captain Zana Hoffsteder admitted from where she sprawled at the head of a galley table, one black-booted leg tossed over an armrest. “Perhaps you are some other sort of 'phile.”
Van frowned from the door. She still had her black (to hide grease-and-oil smudges) top and her hip-hugging tan pants, tapering snugly at mid-shin. But where her feet had been shod in manni-blunt boots, they were now literally captured in black over-strapped sandals, her toenails garish scarlet, tiny silver heart-shaped locks tinkling at her ankles.
“This wasn't my choice,” Van winced as she wobbled to her seat like a drunken pole-dancer. “Josie made me wear them.”
“You could have said no,” Zana smirked, her sky-blue eyes merry behind her clip-on spectacles, her face framed by a confused tumble of black hair, her body seemingly poured into rubber flight suit. “You weren't gagged.”
“I was tied flat on my back to a cot. She painted my nails and force-fitted these heel-spikes on me.”
“Did she suck your toes and lick your soles? She's got a literal taste for such deviances. Very handy when I'm feeling dominant,” Zana allowed. Van didn't grace her immodest inquiry with an answer, focused as she was by not falling off her teetering high heels. Carefully she settled into her seat, her aching feet arrayed side-by-side like naked sisters in fearful bondage.
Across from her, Zana unhooked her leg and came forward onto rubber-padded elbows. “So, two questions while we wait for Cook to bring us our dinner. First: what was that sudden ...disturbance... that went through the crew a short time ago?”
“You mean the wave of erotic passion that suddenly took hold of every woman's psyche?” Van tried to blot her memory of simmering in her own juices, bound down and unable to react as busty Josie slobbered over her tightly-trussed feet.
“Yes. I was speaking with Petra in the bridge concerning our limited fuel status. As you know, the Unbound Pleasure was the first airship fitted with an Orgasium extraction station. Normally five woman, forced into climaxes in series, provide the critical fuel additive. However, given that every industry in the world is switching over to Orgasium-fueled recombination engines, there is an acute shortage of climatrixes who can be placed into the extraction dais. Where we should have five orgasm-specialists, we are running with two. This means every three to four hours one of them is belted down by automatrons, strapped wide and exposed while machines fondle and coax and dildo and steal orgasms out of her. Hence, our airship is running at one-third power, hardly making way.”
“Anyway, I was discussing this with Petra and suddenly I was assaulted by a wave of lust. I thought it might have just been me – I've buckled on my suit pretty tight today and it rubs me to distraction. But, no, without breaking stride from her fuel-consumption report, Petra stepped over to the navigator, took up her caliper twine and neatly looped up the confused girl's wrists behind her back. Then she forced the girl face down onto her mapping station table, her leather-clad buttocks upraised, her gloved fingers milling impotently. Still discussing the fuel-burn rates, Petra reached down between the trembling legs, one-handedly opening the poor girl's crotch-patch. She never broke from her report, not even as she finger-fucked the poor bent-over officer, thrusting her hand in-out, in-out while the girl rose on booted tip-toes, drooling on her plotting grid, her gasps coming quick. I could see that Petra's own nipples jutting, that she was blushing in agitation, but she didn't seem to notice that she was hand-ravishing this poor girl. And the girl, also experiencing the lust-rush, was thrusting into Petra's grasp with desperation.”
“I was so surprised I didn't notice that I had my hands on my own breasts. I can tell you an airship bridge is hardly the place for masturbation. After forcing my hands to their sides, I spoke sharply to Petra about her actions. She blinked, realizing what she was doing, and stepped away from her poor plaything (who crumbled to the deck in a fish-scented swoon). So, any ideas of what this might have been, and when we might next enjoy... er, encounter, it?”
“I think,” Van said tentatively, “that it might have something to do with the creature I brought on board.”
“And that would be my second question.”
“Yes,” Van sighed, rocking her stilettoed feet. “All I can tell you is that it came from a forest the locals swear are magical. That it is close enough to being a woman that I figure it was patterned after an actual human female. There are unconfirmed reports of huge podlike plants that suck unlucky women into their sticky puckering pods, ravishing them with their pistils for days on end. They struggle, of course, but it's as if they're rolled in leafy, syrupy blankets, unable to move as they are teased to delirium. In the end the women is released, but from other pods spring carbon-copies of the victims in fairy form. Perhaps the same thing happened here, that some woodswoman or hunter was slurped up and… copied. Yet the resulting issue is not a small fairy version – this is a fully grown exotic, amazingly sinuous and sensuous, more erotic than anything I've ever seen...”
“And you know Petunia Goldwaith,” Hoffsteder noted.
“Exactly! And I had been playing with it through an airhole in its box earlier when a similar wave of lust hit me.”
The bespectacled rubberized officer frowned in thought. “Perhaps its some sort of defensive trait this creature possesses, that it empathetically projects its passions to those nearby.”
Now it was the ever-practical Van who frowned. “Why would a creature have such an impractical ability?”
“Well, when we are engaged in sex,” Zana observed, the lamplight running in lusty bronze along the sinuous curve of her wireframes, “we're at our most vulnerable. But it's hard to attack something if your own sexual synapses are madly firing.”
“But that doesn't make sense. The creature is currently strapped up in its box. Further, I know how to tie girls up so they can't pleasure themselves. So how could it trigger this recent disturbance?”
But Zana's face had drained of color as if she'd been enemaed with ice water (which, actually, she had, while belted up in Officer Drummand's precinct house during the Knightsbridge Angel case). She stared at their empty table where their meals should have now been placed by the ever-punctual Cook. Leaping up, the captain dashed into the kitchen, the confused Van tottering after her.
It was empty. Water boiled in pots, carrots lay sliced on the cutting surface. But there was no sign of the fleshy, perky Cook.
On the opposite wall, the door to the storage room / cargo area stood ajar.
Zana drifted forward, her leather-sheathed body in fighting/binding stance. In her mind she could imagine Cook requiring something for the meal, a potato, a bottle of spice, something. Of her traipsing into the cargo area to fetch it. And noticing the curious box. And Cook, ever interested in new things, risking just a peek.
They entered the deserted cargo area.
“Where's your cook?” Van inquired. Then, over Zana's shoulder, she spotted the overturned, empty shipping crate. “Threaded bolts! Where's my...”
“It got her,” Hoffsteder scowled. “Cook released it – if it's as sexy as you say, perhaps she did it for access. Silly girl.” Her bispeckled blue eyes scanned upward, noting the dangling air vent grate. “Carried her into our envelope, I'll bet.”
Van's sandal toed discarded clothing. “It stripped her. And there isn't a coil of strapping left – it must have used it tying up your woman. You know, I don't know a thing about this creature but I've looked it in the eye. I'd wager it's hungry – sexually hungry – and its got your cook striped down and bound up. We've got to recapture it before it does, well, a lot of naughty things to her.”
Zana shook her head, her black gypsy hair fanning out. “And where would you suggest we look? The Unbound Pleasure is 800 feet long, 130 feet in diameter, all packed with girders and gas bags. Occasionally girls leave their tied-up, used-up partners in some private space topside and we have the devil of a time finding them, especially if they are gagged or ravished-to-swooning. Finding this creature is going to be...”
Her words were cut off by a general quarters alarm. Cursing, Zana rushed forward towards the bridge, Van tottering and teetering after her, cursing her locked-on heels.
“Fuel generation is offline!” Officer Petra called out as Captain Hoffsteder burst onto the bridge. “The extractors performed an automatic shutoff!”
“But why?” Zana sputtered. But it was Van's turn to blanch. “The units shut down when there aren't any climatrixes plugged into the molestation circuit.
Outside, the heavy propellers fluttered to a stop, as starved for fuel as a woman bound naked upon a bed could be for sex.
Zana took the ladder rungs two at a time, followed by Petra. Van struggled to follow in heels made for curving calf muscles and shaping buttocks but not for ladder rungs.
The interior of the airship's envelope was bigger than a cathedral yet filled with off-angle girderwork, massive gas cells and midnight shadows which laughed at the scattered lighting. Just aft the bridge, contained within shrouding canvas curtains, lay the extraction circuit where women were locked up and sexed out, the juices of their passions used to magnify the airship's efficiency. Without pause, Zana wrenched back the curtain – the three women gasped as one.
The creature Van's machine had captured, the one she'd brought aboard, that Cook had freed, twisted to look back at them in hissing glory. It was a woman and also a cat, a feline bundle of sexual energy. A downy coat of thin white fur clothed her, her arching back painted with a dun calico pattern. Her body, svelte and sweeping and compact, was proportioned to sexually-crackling perfection, muscular, ever-tensed, proud. Breasts quite feminine, paired in human configuration and separated by a snowy tuft, rose mocking-bird quick with her agitated heartbeat.
A mane the shade of mahogany swirled around her narrow face. Slitted eyes inhuman in nature yet hungry in human sexuality scanned over them like a meat market shopper. Her muzzle, flatter than a cat's, broke into a predator's smile. Her brown-tuffed tail lashed like a whip.
Over her shoulder hung the second of the purloined climatrixes, a mesoamerican beauty who'd graduated from the towering pyramids where she'd defied sexually-demanding priestesses with her endless supply of orgasms, mewed through her hastily-applied gag. She'd been bound, tightly and cruelly, ropes clamping her arms to her side and her wrists together behind her back, her strong legs corded in flesh-bulging restriction. Coppery bangs curtained eyes desperate for rescue. She wiggled her fingers, the only gesture the flesh-bruising ropes left her, trying to buck free. The cat-creature looped arm up over her, gripping her upraised bottom.
“Mine...”, she hissed. “This girrrrl is mine. All will be mine.”
Then, like a spider carrying a webbed-up fly whose juices were soon to be extracted inside its cozy lair, the feline scrambled up a sheer girder, vanishing into the gloom overhead. Mockingly, a hissed taunt drifted down to them.
“My name is Hisstle. I come forrrr you soon. All of you. You will be my pride of slaves. This I promisssse....”
And she was gone.
Petra, her head craning upwards, her strong fists clinching in desire to grip, bind and, with the Captain's permission, to torment, blurted “What does this mean?”
“This means,” replied Captain Hoffsteder, “that we are adrift with no power.”
And then the three woman rocked as passions flooded through them, passions of tight knots, helpless partners, wide pink beds in dark, scented boudoirs, long weekends and no interruptions. Involuntarily Petra raised her hands and thumbed her nipples. Van rocked in her high heels, letting her shoes pinch and punish her strapped up-feet.
“What's happening?” the Captain gasped.
“Hisstle is feeding, ravishing her prey,” Van moaned, “and we're all feeling it.”
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03.02.13
story continues in Gai-Shift - Peregrine 4: Bound for Pleasure
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