Chapter 1: Kidnap
With a exhale of cinder-reek, a tube train rumbled into Bond Street Station. The station-mistress, a hard-faced middle-aged brunette, didn't even look up as she automatically noted its time (10:20pm) and the line (Jubilee) into her log. A couple of women dismounted and drifted down the various exit halls. The station-mistress yawned. There wouldn't be another train until 10:42.
She turned her attention back to her newspaper. The Japanese Crisis had been resolved, something to do with airships and ninjas and such. Now the captive Ambassador was home and the Empress was pining for her lost prisoner. Somehow the paper had gotten a picture snapped by the Imperial Photographer of Record, showing a grinning Empress Nabuki kneeling behind a hogtied Olivia Hammersmith, proudly displaying her work. Whether or not the ash-haired stateswoman was keeping a stiff upper lip was impossible to tell, but she was certainly keeping a stiff set of titties.
The political wires were humming with the fallout from the crisis, saber-rattling between nations. It was almost like the pre-Gai-Shift world before 1922, when the planet suffered wars and profiteering and other beastly behavior at the hands of the mannis. Now women got pregnant when they wished, usually birthing daughters. With Mankind now chattel, the world had become a far gentler yet more interesting place.
The provocative black and white pictures spread so garishly across the front page gave the station-mistress pause. She smiled serenely, engaging her favorite fantasy, one where she left job and homeland behind, setting sail for this land she knew nothing about. How frightening it would be to walk down the gangway and into the busy streets of Tokyo, the women so fetchingly robed, their almond eyes so mysterious. She figured she could identify a country noblewoman there as well as she could here; they always had rosy cheeks and mud on their hemline. She would find such a woman visitor, bow before her, offer her crossed hands in submission.
The station-mistress knew she was middle-aged plain. But that was here. There, she would be unique. Like Hammersmith, she could easily find herself spirited off to some country estate, pushed into a rice paper room by a ring of slender servant girls. Brusquely they would pull away her clothing, force her to her knees, and bind up her arms and legs with scratchy farm rope. And then they would leave her lying on her side alone, marinating in her distress, a wide gag sealing her lips, her limbs throbbing from the harsh roping. Outside, innocent crickets would chirp. She would be as lost to the world as if she'd been dropped into the deepest ocean trench. She would be alone, surrounded by incompressible landscapes and languages. As a foreigner, she would be little more than a toy, a possession, a slave. What could she do when the girls returned, their dark eyes mischievous, their fingers pinching, their hands stroking, their tongues tasting?
What could she do, save grow wet. Which is what she was doing now.
So wrapped up was with her sensuous travelogue, she almost missed the rumbling approach of another train.
It was only 10:31.
Blimey, not that.
A single rust-streaked, battered car squeaked into the station. The rolling wreck's windows were masked in dirt and soot. It jerked to a stop, idling. For a half-minute, nothing happened. The station-mistress sat silently. On the train sheet before her, her trained hand jotted down the time. Under the column for 'Line', she wrote:
"The Pit"
An un-oiled door squealed opened, revealing a dark interior. Something moved within. Then, with the hesitating motions of a grandmother reaching for a tea-cup, a mechanical arm ratcheted out of the opening, fingers clenching something. With gentleness, it placed a bound woman upon the station platform.
The woman had been methodically wrapped, head to foot, in rope. Ropes criss-crossed along her naked body, turning her into a tightly-packaged cylinder of feminine flesh. Ropes even pinched her nipples and molested her snatch, every slight movement exciting her further. Over her gag, her eyes swam in dreamy unfocus.
As she watched, another woman, then another, was laid along the tile floor in an orderly line. Two were frog-tied, open and recently used. One was hogtied, a trembling ball of frustration. All of them quivered, poised at near-orgasm from the ropes' harsh bite.
Rumors had been running up and down the stations, rumors of battered unscheduled trains, of MI claws, of bound victims. The tube service, at the bequest of the Metropolitan police, had kept it quiet. But it was hard to overlook five women deposited on your platform, neatly bundled in dreamy sexual wantonness.
As the car pulled away, the station-mistress telegraphed the local hospital, telling them they had another five drop-offs. In quick order, the girls would be straight-jacketed, strapped and hooded, placed in quiet padded rooms so that psychiatrists could try to sort out their memories of claws and ropes and spinning dildoes, of robotic manipulation in echoing caverns deep beneath London's streets. There would be stories of molestations that went on and on until the victim went sexually catatonic, little more than dreaming, smiling bundles of industrial waste.
And so the station-mistress waited, looking over the five bound up victims. Perhaps some day she might board a Pit train. It was certainly closer that far-away Japan.
= < O > =
A maid rolled a dinner cart into Willie Hall's downstairs kitchen. "Miss Anna, Lady Goldwaith didn't eat a single bite of her dinner."
Another maid came in. On her cart hummed a frog-strapped manni, face up, his unit locked erect by a cunning leather loop, his protests sealed by the wide cowhide gag.
"And she didn't even touch her manni," the second protested. "I even handjobbed him erect for her, just the way she likes them, but she didn't give him so much as a flick."
Miss Anna, the hard-faced head-of-domestics in sprawling Willie Hall, frowned like a displeased nutcracker. "Her ladyship hasn't been the same since her protégée, Miss Rani, led an expedition into the pit six weeks ago and went missing."
"Wasn't that the one Miss Sybil was supposed to lead?" one of the girls prompted, idly running her fingers along the manni's shaft. The other maid watched with interest.
"That was before she took liberties with her Ladyship's elixir and became the Knightsbridge Angel. After that, she was sentenced to the Pit."
Both maids gasped at that frightful news, the one gripping the manni tightening her little fist in agitation. A moan hung in the air.
Miss Anna shook her head. "Oh, like the other women, she was returned. And like the others, she was admitted to an asylum for oversexed women. Rani's one of the few the Pit kept. Now, what of her Ladyship? How did you leave her?"
"Well, since she's been too worried to sleep, we thought it best to strip her for bed. Of course, since her tossing and turning might cause her to fall out, we secured her spreadeagled to the four posts, nice and snug. Also, we added a thick silk gag to keep her own cries from awakening her."
The matron nodded. "Very well. I think our Ladyship needs a little cheering up tonight." She reached over and plucked a peacock feather from a hat hanging from a wall peg. "I shall attend to her. I shall be most... insistent... in bringing her cheer." With that, she left.
The two maids looked down at the belted manni, who returned their hungry stares with panicked eyes. "Oh well," one said saucily, "Waste not, want not."
Soon the room filled with the sound of girlish giggles and belt-muffled moans.
= < O > =
The maid sat on a step, back to the lit kitchen, facing the dark scullery. Her mistress's party was next week. While Lady Goldwaith had declined, the illustrious Lady M___ had accepted. Everything had to be perfect for such a personage. This translated to the lonely maid shining the silverware at 11:30pm.
As she sat, she pulled off her pinching heels and placed then neatly on the step beside her. Then, spoon by spoon, she began working her way through the missus' service, bringing each to shiny brilliance. In her mind, she thought about the things maids from various houses whispered about Lady M___, and how her estate had manni's mounted inside hidden passages, their tackle jutting into the rooms to the delight of the guests. How wondrous it would be to work in a house where manni's shafts were as common as sausages. How she would love to enter one of those rooms, to kneel down before the helpless meat, to place gentle kisses along its throbbing length, the sooth and stroke until the fellow was fit to bursting. She would smile as she left him in unfinished distress. Denial was a delicious game.
She mused on this as she sat half in the darkness, polishing the spoons, her mind on throbbing manhood. She imagined herself as the 'downstairs terror', able to strike panic into manni's hearts and steel into their cranks. So wrapped up was she in these considerations that she did not hear the soft scrape of the grate at the far end of the scullery.
She crossed her trim ankles in the darkness, her thoughts a thousand manni-lengths away, completely unaware of the unliving thing that was slowly deploying towards her from the shadows.
Hidden in the darkness, something brushed over her ankles. She gasped in surprise and tried to move her legs apart. It was as if her feet had been... bound together.
"Janie, is that you," she asked. Her fellow-maid was prone to playful games with ropes, feathers, and huge plastic sexual appliances. "This is not funny," she pouted petulantly.
A moment later, something hissed around her knees, a harsh coil that looped over and under her dainty kneecaps. She could feet her calves compress as more banding crossed around them.
"Janie, I shall be quite cross if you do not speak. I shan't lick you this time, no matter where you pinch. And besides, I have the silverware to do!"
A moment of stillness. Then, something as hard and cold as a skeleton's hand gripped her ropes and tugged her forward. Her round buttocks slipped off the step, and she found herself pulled further into the darkness. More coils looped around her thighs, cutting painfully. The maid, feeling the first stirring of disquiet, gripped the doorframe.
"Janie, I shall tell the missus. You will be bound over the table and spanked. And when she is gone, I shall rub a lemon over your glowing buttocks. I shall laugh at your moaning. Cease this play at once!"
In response, another yank, pulling her further into the darkness. She took a hand from the doorway, reaching into the darkness, seeking Janie's hair to pull. In an instance, coils looped around it, pulling her wrist down into her lap, binding it fast. The relentless tugging continued. On the doorframe, her finger's whitened.
"Janie, please..."
A moment later, her grip failed and she was pulled a foot deeper. Now only her head lay in the light, pillowed by the hard step. Her hairpins had fallen out, leaving her brown hair matted in crazed confusion. Her other wrist was quickly bound to the first. Now she could not move. She canted her head back to scream for help but the cruel grip hauled her further into the darkness. Something wet slapped over her mouth and lips. Unseen claws wrapped the soaked fabric around and around her head, sealing in her cries. She inhaled in fear and suddenly everything changed.
There was no way such a lowly maid could have recognized the distinctive scent of the Goldwaith Elixir which soaked her gag. This was the extract that turned women into panting servants of sexual submission, willing to do anything for the stimulation they craved. Yet, cruelly, the same extract caused them to be unable to climax, keeping them in a frustratingly aroused state for hours.
There was another aspect of the Goldwaith Elixir, one that will figure into our story presently.
What mattered was that the maid, as more and more loops lanced tightly around her belly, breasts, and shoulders, suddenly felt a rush of passion sweep through her. Her pussy trembled in agitated excitement. Her nipples hardened. Her skin flushed. Her senses screamed at the tight bindings, the chafe of the ropes, her helpless state. She shook her head back and forth, moaning deep-throated into the wet gag, wishing to be taken in every orifice. Her wish was not to be granted, not yet anyway.
Slowly, she was dragged across the cold dark floor. Twisting her head, she looked up as the bright rectangle marking the kitchen as her familiar world receded. Moaning, she found herself drawn, steadily and firmly, towards something majestically beyond her most sordid fantasies. She twisted her bound wrists, achieving nothing. She thrust her breasts against her bonds, compressing throbbing nipples. Her pathetically muted cries excited her all the more.
She sensed she was being drawn through the grated opening on the far wall of the scullery. Janie had joked of the rats that lay within. The maid only hoped they would rape her with huge phalluses before eating away her flesh with heated breath and trembling whiskers. Her body screamed for use and abuse. Nothing else would do.
And then she was through. A moment later, the grate was reseated. Nothing remained but a spill of spoons, a polishing rag, a few hairpins and a pair of abandoned high heels.
18.11.09
story continues in Gai Shift - Pit 2: Miss Anna
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