Chapter 17: There and back again
Special note: this is the final chapter of "Pit", and a long one at that. Have someone bundle you up and make you comfortable, and settle in as we conclude our strange tale.
Life kept changing for Tameran, seemingly for the worst, but overall for the better.
The cheerfully plump golden-haired girl had thought she'd be happy as a village witch, even though she'd been on the bottom of the coven totem pole. The arrival of Megan had offered hope (if only that there would be a witch lower than she). But that, of course, had all gone to pieces that night Tameran had tried to capture the other witches and keep their collectively-supercharged staff all for herself. In the end, she'd bumbled into one of Zelda's protective spells and found her rounded pink body instantly wrapped in itchy magiced straw. With the dawn, the gypsy Tameran had commissioned to cart off scrawny, trussed Zelda had found her instead. And into the cart she'd gone, for weeks of suspension bondage and subservient degradations.
In all, a change for the better.
How she'd come to love Otka, the wiry Czech gypsy with her hooked nose, sky-blue eyes and raven-black hair. Every day the dominant nomad had arranged Tameran into sensation-frictioning suspension bondage inside the cart, to rock in mute frustration as the miles bumped by. And at night, with the campfire casting the exotic Otka in goldplate, she would settle the trussed Tameran face down on the grass, pull back her colorful peasant skirt, toss back her long bronzed legs, and whisper, "Lehce... lehce...". And how deep Tameran's tongue would wiggle for the deeper she went, the more lustful Otka became, and a gypsy's lust is a dynamic thing indeed. Especially when you are the only bound prisoner within reach.
Eventually the two drifted up towards London, to work the marks there. When Otka found Tameran could charm trinkets to bring luck in love, they'd begun a small cottage industry. But eventually too many women found themselves snarled in love affairs they'd not wished for, with domestics, with shopkeepers, with the Queen. Multiple arrest warrants had been issued, the coppers had been called in, and Otka and Tameran found themselves incarcerated.
Following their trial, they'd hung strapped and suspended in the police holding area, awaiting their punishments. Tameran's ample body had grown use to such suspensions, her buttocks full, her breasts ample, the straps digging into her baby flesh. But Otka, stripped of her gypsy clothing, looked like a plucked chicken ready for the stewpot. Tameran took pity on the poor girl, nuzzling her one-time captor, brushing their leather gags together in the parody of sweet kisses, rubbing her body against the other girl as best she could. The activity sent her blood to pounding and her pussy throbbing. How funny it would be if she had an orgasm in the police holding line. It probably wouldn't be the first.
Eventually the curly blonde desk sergeant rolled Otka towards the back room, where the enema nozzles slowly dripped and the spanking paddles radiated away the heat of explosive impacts. Tameran hoped she and Otka could find each other after this - she would gladly and lustfully place herself back within the gypsy's tight bondage. But then her own toe tag was checked and the blonde rolled her towards the corner where the curious hole lay.
"Tough break, sweetie," the blonde officer told her. "It's the Pit."
Tameran had heard gossip about this thing, tales so fantastic she'd dismissed them. But now she was being slowly lowered headfirst down the shaft. At the bottom, cold metallic claws unhooked her from the line and carried her off.
She was fearful at first, of course. Who wouldn't be? The initial industrial investigation, the drop down the pipe, then being forcefully washed, fed, enemaed, rolled up into a scratchy rug and deposited into a sleep-box. She'd lain in the casket-like crate, sheathed tightly in her carpet, unable to move, her wiggling toes so distant. Eventually the situation had become less fearful. The inside of her sleep-box was padded, the air comfortably warm. And the tight carpet was actually quite comfortable as bondage went. In her tummy, the forced meal was slowly digested, the Goldwaith elixir additive bringing a pleasant buzz to her sex-pocket. Her dreams were vivid that night.
The next day, she found herself hoisted and carried down a long tunnel. At the end, women similarly carpet-rolled as herself lay draped face down over a padded beam, leashes of chain locking their necks and ankles to floor-mounted ringbolts. Tameran noticed that the carpet contained a clever slit which, when the body was so folded, exposed the buttocks to complete access. With the elixir now peaking in her blood, the one-time witch found herself wishing she had full access to this row of pink peaches. How she would have played with them, squeezing, spanking, pinching. But just as suddenly, she found herself draped forward, the chains clicking into place, the air suddenly cool on her own exposed buttocks. Surprisingly, the beam seemed soft as if sheathed in foam, and somehow the carpet had also shifted to place her exposed and pulsing pussy directly against it.
Craning to look around her dangling legs, she saw a row of carpet-beaters swinging into place behind the rank of trembling posteriors, their tireless robotic arms drawing them back.
No, she found herself thinking, I don't like spanking! I don't! There must me some mistake...!
But there was no mistake.
She really did like spanking.
How endlessly exciting it was, the stinging impact, the reverberation, the muffled cries in unison around her. She twisted and struggled and tried to extract herself from her predicament but her loops of chain held her firmly across the beam. With a white flash, she was suddenly pushing out orgasms as if she were a machine herself, sloppy wet orgasms that flared in time to the merciless carpet beaters. Beneath her hips, the beam sucked down her moisture like dry soil after a rainstorm. By the time she was done, her buttocks were crackling like a cheery fire and she was being transported back to her washing, her feeding, her rewrap and her bed-box.
She found herself quite content with this new life.
And then, one day the box opened and two Hindi girls looked in at her. They were dressed like little native dolls with their saris and silks. When they reached in, Tameran saw the wires and thought of puppets.
But the wires gave them strength to carry the full-sized witch easily between them as they floated down endless corridors. Wrapped in their arms, Tameran found a comforting calm, even though a mischievous brown hand had discovered the opening over her rear and was gently groping her. Beneath her stretch-gag, the witch smiled in dreamy bliss.
The room that they brought her to was a large circular space. In the center stood a large dais, empty. Equidistance around this central point, other Indian lasses were binding up other victims, suspending them from the ceiling like clever brown spiders. Some of the poor women hung head-down. Others hung by their wrists. Some were trussed into tight pink balls.
"How shall we do this?" one of her bearers chirped. "I very much like to suspend my captives by their heals."
"No, we should tie her the way the machines position her," the other noted. And so it was done with a single loop around her midsection, leaving her head and legs to hang. Of course, the position caused her custom-made carpet to slip forward, exposing her jolly round bottom.
"Oh look at this," one of the girls giggled. "Two great melons for me to consider. Shall I buy them?" Wicked hands groped her as if she were marketplace fruit.
"And look at this," the other said, her own hands discovering the other slit, the one that permitted the daily extractions. "I have found some sort of sticky fruit. I wonder how sweet it is?"
Tameran gasped into her gag as feminine fingers probed her steaming slit, pushing boldly in. The smirking girl made a show of licking her damp fingers. "Not sweet at all. Tastes a bit fishy."
A laughing slap across her buttocks and then the two were floating away like angels, leaving Tameran hanging literally in confusion, wondering what the purpose of these suspended women was.
Looking closer, she felt her witchcraft perceptions stir. For the most part, these captives had an earth-mother air to them. It didn't take much to picture them as fortunetellers, charm-makers, card-readers and the like. Given the essence she was sensing, there were probably one or two true witches in their numbers. That simply could not be due to chance.
Shortly later, another Indian, one not puppeted yet with her tight bun adorned with wavering feathers, entered. In her small hands she bore an old broom. This she placed upon the central dais and then left. Then there came the faintest suggestions of great machines starting up. Tameran found herself slowly rotating clockwise, which she at first assumed was due to some twist of her suspending rope. Eventually she realized that it was the overhead mounting points that were rotating, slowly spinning the suspended magic users. Worse, these rotation points were fixed to a great ring which also began rotating clockwise. In short order, the trapped women were carried around and around as if they were prisoners on some invisible carrousel. It wasn't fast enough to be sickening. No. But it was fast enough to...
Tameran's eyes flashed open. They were building a magical charge in the broom in the circle's center, the same way she and her coven had charged that staff at Stonehenge. But this wasn't voluntary; they were being forced through the rotation, a magical dynamo. Already she could feel the faint crackle of magic beginning to build.
She could only wonder what dark purpose this magic broom would serve.
Around and around she went...
=< O >=
Olivia Hammersmith leaned back in her leather chair, smiling. For the first time, she'd manage to conduct diplomacy without ending up bound, stripped and molested. What a pleasant change!
Across from her, the three women representing the Pit worked through the last of their paperwork, checking the treaty for form and correctness. Until recently, they'd all been strapped up in various processing cycles but had been granted parole for this important detail. One of them, a bright young brunette with flashing green eyes and a lilting Welsh accent, reviewed the documents with quiet professionalism. Olivia had perfect recall of names, a diplomatic necessity. Adara Burke. That was her name. Charming girl. A journalist for the Sun, she'd let on.
In neo-world diplomacy, everyone knew what was fair to all parties (the mannis, in their own time, and known yet chose to ignore it). In this era, treaties were a formal statement of agreement, a simple accord so every party knew their expectations and obligations.
Hammersmith had represented Queen Lilla, the women opposite, Pitinna. No longer would the Pit raid the surface world. A fixed quota of tourists had been agreed upon, with specific durations of captivity. In return, England would gain mineral rights to a large proportion of the white lake, an energy source that would greatly enhance its steam technologies. As with true diplomacy, everyone came out ahead (and a great many would come out bound and teased until they couldn't see straight, even more the gain).
She was happy with the addendum she'd added, the position for faithful Kiyoko and the gift for Megan. As for Sybil, Pitinna had made it clear she was not on the table. The MS had other plans for her.
"So, I think we are done here," Olivia said, standing.
"That we are, Miss," Adara said as she led her own party around the table to shake hands as was traditional. As they gathered around, Olivia felt a great happiness for what she had helped bring about. And just as suddenly, she felt something else. The two other women had collected her hands and had pulled them with gentle insistence behind her back, lacing them up with pocketfuls of rope. Meanwhile, Adara stepped close, reaching up to push a bright ball gag into the diplomat's surprised gape. As the journalist reached around her head to buckle the straps tenderly home, she laughed gently.
"I've got my own agreements, you see, Miss Hammersmith. Pitinna agreed to reduce my own sentence if I drafted this treaty and produced a book detailing what goes on here. I've been strapped to my desk for weeks, getting it nice and steamy to whet the appetites (and panties) of the women topside. However, the reader assigned to me burned out, poor girl. But Pitinna had said you'd been chosen to replace her some time ago, and fortunately that decision predates the treaty. So you're coming with us, Miss Hammersmith. You've got the nicest voice, and I've got the dirtiest smut. Together, we'll form quite a team."
Olivia shook her head but it did no good. In short order, her ankles were bound fast. Then she was lifted and carried off, knowing she was to be stripped and fitted into a seat, to have agitators placed on her most sensitive flesh and to have her eyes filled with passages of steamy degradations. Her job would be to read it aloud until incapacitated by orgasms.
It wasn't a bad job, really. But once, just once, she'd like to be able to walk away, free, from the negotiation table!
=< O >=
A manhole cover scraped back, casting a pillar of light into the subterranean passage. Three women slipped down the ladder, two of them with obvious hesitation, their leader without. She was a headstrong girl with a thick mass of coppery hair, an errant strand constantly falling between her achingly pale blue eyes. Her brusque commands to her lagging companions echoed her east-end origins. Her name was Teak Merrywell, and she was a professional purse-snatcher.
It should be noted that purse snatching was not the same thing as it had been in the former manni-epoch. Here, it was a strange cross of kidnapping and sexual-gratification-denial. The point was that eventually women so kidnapped would pay their own ransom, if only for the satisfaction to be derived.
Such were only one of Teak's many criminal activities. Chief Officer Constance Drummand had a standing order for her arrest. The two women circled each other like ruthless wolves, and woe to whichever should fall into the ropes of the other.
"Teak," one of the woman mewed, "Are you sure we should be here?"
"Of course we should bloody be here," the coppertop snapped, pushing that damned hair out of her eyes. "That's the whole point. The Pit used to be a bloody myth. Suddenly it's a tourist destination. And with the demand, the coppers don't lower no women down 'ere no more. So the only way to bloody get in here is to win that new national lottery. Or do what we are doing, which is sneaking in with an eye to getting caught."
"But if the machines catch us, won't they tie us up?"
"Of course they'll tie us up! That's the bloody point of it, ain't it? Look, those who been here tell tales of great spankings and sodomies, of dildoes by the score. All the sex a woman can bloody well stand, and then some besides. And I have to admit," she paused, her icy-blue eyes warming as she brushed aside the hair, "that it's got me curious. Most curious indeed. But I'm not going to play the odds like those high-class twats. The Pit used to rope up trespassers in the past. Stands to reason it still does."
"But what if we don't like it?"
"Don't like it? Didn't I keep you both trussed up in my flat for a week, training you up? Didn't I show you what it was like to look down your roped, naked, sweat-beaded torso and watch as you were played to the point of screaming bloody insanity? Wasn't it you who actually chewed through her gag? And now you're getting cold feet?"
"Well..."
"You stick with me, gel, or I'll bloody tie you two back to back and leave you here for the rats. We're going to get nicked for trespassing, we're going to get sorted out, we're going down the tubes, then we're going to see what things a machine can do to a gel."
Her companion would have argued further but suddenly she was tumbling to the floor, her hands pinned to her side with sashes of silk, her legs wrapped with trim white bands. A thick gag had appeared across her startled lips.
It had happened so fast.
"I say, Teak! What's wrong with Cynthia? How did she get...?"
Merrywell ducked instinctively as the second set of burring disks sailed out of the darkness. The second girl was just turning as the gossamer strands whirled around her, capturing elbow and wrist, thigh and ankle. She was just tottering as a final disk, smaller and specialized, came in at face-level, swirling around her lips, filling her gape with muffling bandings, silencing her. And then she, too, was crumpling to the ground.
Teak lowered into a fighting stance, two switch-snares clicking open, one in either hand. Switch-snares are the primary tool of purse-snatchers: each is a cylinder with a loop of line out one end, the set connected by a four foot line. Inside are powerful clockwork winders. Once a wrist or ankle is snared up in a loop, the switch-snare draws shut. Once both are triggered, the line between them reels in. All a purse-snatcher needs to do is capture two limbs and they are automatically drawn together, rendering the victim fairly helpless. Full bondage invariably follows.
"It was suppose to be bloody machines that did the binding," she demanded, blowing the strand clear of her straining pale eyes. "Not this silk mischief. Show yerself!"
It was an old east-end trick, showing yourself, fighting fair, all that rubbish. Teak Merrywell had bound up a number of girls who'd fallen for it in the past.
From the darkness stepped a slight girl. Teak squinted, not sure of what she was seeing.
"A Nip," she breathed, taking in the exotically slitted eyes, the elegant poise, the flowing robes. She looked to the slender girl's hands. They were empty. A tight smile flickered across her humorless lips. She loved when they came at her with nothing. She settled the switch-snares in her hands in the approved fighting grip.
The woman glided forward, her white robe shimmering ghostlike in the dank, dripping surroundings. It was almost as if she were unaware of Teak, as if the east-ender was invisible. When she came within optimum range, the purse-snatcher leapt forward.
It happened so quickly, she almost didn't see how it occurred. The Oriental lightly snatched the switch-snare from her hand, reversing it, and neatly looped it over Teak's right wrist.
SNAP!
So stunned was Merrywell from this sudden reversal that she hardly was able to follow the girl as she stooped nearly around her, so close, smelling so nice, jasmine. And suddenly something clicked around Teak's left ankle.
SNAP!
Teak managed to roll as her wrist was harshly drawn backwards, behind her back, to meet her ankle as it was hauled up, a half-hogtie.
"You bloody Jap! Unfair! Let me up! Best two out of three!"
To this, Kiyoko only smiled, clapping her hands twice, a signal.
Four trussbots rumbled out of the darkness, their Spartan frames supported from overhead rails, their set of heavy handling arms reaching down towards the struggling trio, their smaller manipulator arms already unspooling line. Teak attempted to roll and fight but the heavy-duty hands pinned her arms behind her back, arranging them neatly to be bound up. She could only look down at the damp cobbles, experiencing the sensation as rope went around and around her wrists, bundling them snug and neat. She was experienced enough in this sort of thing to know she'd been tied well and proper. No getting loose.
Any hope of flight was further removed as her ankles were lashed together and pulled up to convert her half-hogtie into a full one. Overhead, a cloth gag snapped open; she blew the hair out of her eyes a final time before the gag crackled over her lips, the dexterous fingers tying it snuggly in place. She was as done up as she'd ever been before.
She cast a pale eye over her shoulder. Her two companions lay nearby in hogtied grace, the tension straining their bodies in dynamically sexuality. Teak suddenly experienced regret; if only she'd extended the girl's training, keeping them bound and deprived instead of coming down here. How grand it had been to have this pair as her captives. There was always a tongue ready for use, a tit ready to play with, and feet ready for cruel tickling. How fun it had been. Why had she sacrificed it all for this shot at the Pit? She should have figured it would have safeguards in place.
Still, she supposed she was going to get what she'd come for. To cum for.
Let the games bloody began.
The trussbots lifted the three by their wrist-ankle ropes, causing them to bow even deeper, forcing three pained grunts from the three stressed maidens. Teak found herself suspended as if on a cloud of pain, three feet above the floor. Meanwhile, the fourth trussbot drew up to Kiyoko and placed its hands so that the wide heavy-palms formed a seat, the lighter manipulators playing as armrests. Nimbly, the Japanese maiden took her place on his hanging chair and instantly was swept away, her prisoners following. Looking forward, Teak could only admire Kiyoko's easy grace. She was like a big-game hunter swaying atop her elephant, her prey carried by bearers in her wake.
They rode for a while though the warm tunnels, the air rippling along the bodies of the three helpless girls like curious hands, their breasts hanging like udders in a dairy. Then, inexplicably, they swung down a dead-end corridor and came to a stop. A lone hook hung on a line from a hole in the ceiling.
Kiyoko lightly dismounted, plucking up the hook and looping it through the wrist-ankle lanyard of one of the girls. She gave the line two signalling tugs and instantly it began to reel up. As soon as the slack went out of the line, the trussbot released her, allowing her to be carried upwards, slowly spinning, warbling meek protests into her restricting gag.
Kiyoko smiled, fully enjoying her job. It was a return to true service, the white orchids' calling. She had been tasked to patrol the Pit's sprawling border-passages, watchful of trespassing thrill-seekers from the overhead world. Pitinna was good at spotting the signs of infestation and could dispatch Kiyoko (in elegant Japanese words, no less) to trouble spots. But Kiyoko's own training was rapidly manifesting itself. Often, she could rely on orchid intuition as she had with these three, placing herself in the right place at the right time. If anything, it was a game to her, a delightful game whose goal was to capture as many women as possible.
As the second woman whined upwards, fingers fluttering, eyes as big as saucers, the coppery-haired criminal suddenly realized where she was. Kiyoko had no doubt the woman had mentally triangulated her entry point against the distances and headings they'd traveled, rightfully concluding that London's Central Precinct house was directly overhead. Yes, where once this shaft had been used to lower prisoners to their sexual destinies, now it was used to haul out trespassers for more traditional (and enthusiastically applied) punishments by the topside constabulary. Clearly this woman was fearful of the reception awaiting her. She had the air of a black orchid, that of capable strength and drive, and Kiyoko respected that. No doubt Officer Drummand would love to get her hands on this one.
Kiyoko regretted that wasn't to happen.
She slipped back into the impromptu trussbot seat, sailing down another corridor, her prisoner following docilely behind, still hogtied, still suspended, still gagged, the strain of her suspension sapping her resistance. Kiyoko smiled one of her tiny smiles, for life underground suited her. She had a quiet set of rooms, elegantly simplified. And she had her newest hobby, bonsai. But this bonsai did not involve plants molded and formed, but women. She'd never moved Olivia into this capacity, simply because she still believed Ambassador Hammersmith belonged to Empress Nabuki. But the girl behind her would be a fine challenge. Her current girl had wilted (as they all eventually did), growing accepting of Kiyoko's tight knots and sexually demeaning ropes. But this bronze woman, she had spunk. Kiyoko half-turned and looked back at her, her smile as fixed as if painted, her thoughts playfully considering how she would introduce this shapely young woman to her new role as a bondage plaything. Perhaps the hemp rope, so uncomfortable. And maybe only elbows behind and knees together, leaving wrists and ankles unfettered, a lingering hint of freedom. How she would sit on the reed matting, half-hobbled by the thick cordage, grunting into her gag, nothing but livestock in Kiyoko's viewpoint.
And tonight, tonight would be long and interesting.
She'd been thinking of those things the handmaiden Sakujna had done to her weeks past, when she'd freed Kiyoko's body of its elixir. Having experienced the feather-play of a master, she saw room for improvement in her own abilities.
Tonight she would hone her skill, regardless of how long it took. She was, after all, a professional.
=< O >=
Pitinna calculated that Rani and Sybil should be forced to remain in each other's company since it would really annoy them. In this she was correct.
Pitinna also calculated that Rani and Sybil should be forced to remain in each other's company since it would insure they would eventually get over their issues with each other and fall in love. In this she was also correct.
The two girls, the one-time goddess and the one-time angel, found themselves sharing a padded cell, sitting in opposite corners, knees up and arms crossed, as if that would hide their total nudity.
"All this is your fault," Rani sniffed.
"All this is your fault," Sybil gruffed.
They'd shared daily adventures since their overthrow. Pitinna still maintained a small portion of Rani's former harem, girls who had willing opted to remain. Every morning they would appear with straps and ropes, to bind up the two troublemakers. Sometimes the pair would be placed in one of the circuits, to experience some disturbingly intense sexual experience. Occasionally they were forced side-by-side into stocks, to watch in fear as Sakujna strolled in, her round face set in artificial displeasure, her fingers playing with a long feather. They suffered jointly, experiencing each other's quaking distress at close quarters. If Pitinna's reasoning was correct they should graft together, forgetting their plans to dominate her as they spent their every effort dominating each other.
"Your fault," Rani groused.
"Your fault," Sybil rebuttled.
"Good morning," giggled an Indian puppet-girl from half-open cell door. She just smiled from girl to girl, making no move to enter. The two captives looked to each other, wondering what this was about.
Then, like a house pet rushing through an inadvertently ajar door, the huge artificial snake swept into the room, lifting the Indian girl's sari as it swept past, causing her to giggle.
It erected itself in the center of the room, rising nearly to the high ceiling, casting its rolly-poly gaze from one girl to the other. Its trunk-like body stroked back and forth as in anticipation of gripping their warm soft flesh.
Rani stepped up, thrust up her two remaining arms, and tried to command it to do her bidding. As it turned to face her, seemingly uncommanded, Sybil shot for the open doorway.
As easily as if it were playing ring-toss, the snake dropped a loop of muscular coil over the gesticulating Indian, snapping it tightly around her hips. Rani reached down and tried to push the loop down as one would push down clinging slacks. At this, the snake neatly rolled its coil, dragging Rani's hands down along her side, making them fast. Loop after loop followed, stacking up around her body until she was sheathed from chin to hips in thick bands of artificial snakeflesh.
Sybil thought she might actually make the doorway. Her sharp mind was already forming plans. Perhaps she could take the puppet-girl prisoner, or run past her and find a bolt-hold. Unfortunately, her plans did not include falling face first into the padded floor. Shaking her head, she looked back. Her ankle had been snared by the snake's dexterous tail. This tail led back through wide loops of coils. With a steady pull, she was hauled back along the floor, dragged towards the yawning loops that lay ready to clamp around her. And that was exactly what happened. Struggling, she was raised up.
The two girls, the dark angry Caucasian and the dusky haughty Indian, were positioned facing each other as their boaic captor dressed up their loops, tucking them inside orderly stacks of coils. Their trim little feet wiggled clear of the floor, their heads sunk into the concavity of the topmost loops. The snake allowed them to realize their helplessness, to struggle against its manufactured muscles, to expend any hope of freedom. Only then, when everyone was in agreement as to the helplessness of the situation, did it start to compress, to squeeze, to hug them so very tightly.
Sybil knew what was happening, how she was being constricted to make her compliant for what as to come. And she knew what was coming. Knowing made it worse. Last time it had driven her nearly mad. This time she was afraid it would. Already her nipples where pushing hopelessly against the mounting pressure, already her pussy was turning wet in the steamy embrace.
Rani only knew the snake's operating abilities through casual approval of its design specs. It had been fine to imagine it squeezing its prey until they couldn't breath, until their vision flashed and their blood pounded. It was fine... for others. Like a usurped dominatrix who finds her subbie has been taking careful notes, the lesson was humiliatingly discomforting. The fact that Sybil was watching her suffer oddly excited Rani. And that Sybil was turning bright pink from the mounting pressure made her tremble against the thick bands.
".... Your... fault...," Rani gasped.
"...yours....," Sybil whispered.
The snake chose Sybil first, likely so Rani could see what was in store for her. The poor Indian could only watch with blurring eyes as her suffering rival was tipped up, feet high, and maneuvered to face the unhinging jaws. Like paste from a tube, she was slowly ejected into the cilia-coated throat. Rani caught a last sight of wigging feet and then the girl was gone, a trembling bulge slowly sliding down the long, long gullet, every inch of her descent a sexual agony.
"...I am... the... goddess...," Rani feebly protest as she felt herself in turn being elevated, the snake turning its great head towards her. She remember how she'd lain in pillows and two Indian puppet-girls had read her the design specs, how idly aroused she'd been at the thought of it. But now she was being passed through the yawning jaws, darkness falling over her. Her pink-bottomed feet seemed to wave farewell as they vanished, and she started her own long slide, following the girl she'd originally consigned to this fate.
What she didn't know, what Pitinna had recently changed, was what would eventually happen to her. Oh, she'd be tormented in her private little belly for an hour or five. But eventually, when she'd been worked into a frenzy, she'd be carefully pushed into Sybil's tight space, to find her sweat- and juice-slickened body slithering against the other girl's. She would find herself nose-to-nose and lip-to-lip with her unexpected-soulmate. The tight confines would lock her arms at her side, but a little desperate wiggling might get someone's hand within range of someone's steaming twat. And so, locked together in their womb of passion, the two girls would discover obsessions they'd never felt for anyone beyond themselves.
The snake swayed its head from side to side as if sated by its double-meal, its face, as ever, goofily comic. Then it burped some excess air (a burp echoing faint cries of hysterical arousal). Only then did it turn and slowly serpentine its way out the door. The Indian maiden who'd watched the entire double-devourment stepped back to allow the two lumps to pass. Only when the snake was gone and the room was empty did she sigh a lusty little sigh and close the door.
=< O >=
The broom Pitinna had given Megan as a present would have come in handy in getting the dust out of her cottage. But right now, it was out running an errand.
Megan fell back on more traditional means, fetching out a feather duster and sweeping the table and chairs clear. Megan was expecting a guest so everything had to look nice.
She smiled when she saw the teacup on the table, its contents a sludge at the bottom. She'd been drinking from it that night she'd heard the noise outside, and had set down the cup and gone to investigate. Too late she'd seen the crouching, giggling girls with their personnel shipping box. Eager female hands had borne her down to the night-dewed grass, to pin her fast and distract her with cruel tickling while they'd stripped away her clothing. Then they'd lifted her, whispering conspiritually to one another as they'd carried her across to the receptive container. She was lowered in, settling into the notches that cradled her neck, waist and folded ankles. With snapping clicks, the stocks shut around her, pinning her snuggly. "You really shouldn't do this," she reprimanded. "We've so many witchy lessons still to cover." To that, they closed the lid, cupping her into the solitary darkness. Then had come the sways and bumps of transport, and eventually the rumble of trains. And so it had begun.
As she scrubbed the cup out, she thought about her recent adventure. Had she really been gone for a little over two weeks? It felt like years - so much had happened, especially to her.
Placing the cup neatly into the drying rack, she checked the mirror. She looked as adorable as ever, her pageboy cut topped by a bow, her nightshirt white and ironed. She was ready for the slumber party. Even though there would only be the two of them. And there would be little if any slumber. But it would be fun!
She had to remember that her guest would be leaving the next morning.
There came a light rapping against the windowpane, bringing a brilliant smile to her lips. Half-skipping, she crossed the room and threw open the window. A moment later the magical broom floated in from the night. From it, hung like a captive missionary between native bearers, dangled Kate. And like a captive missionary, she'd been stripped of every stitch of clothing. Her wrists and ankles had been heavily banded by ropes. Further rope, thick and coarse, had been looped around her purple-haired head, forming an uncomfortable gag. Megan observed that all of Kate's hair was purple, not just that on her head.
"Oh, Woody, you got her," she explained, clapping her hands in approval. Of course, the original Woody lay propped in the closet, drained of all magic. This Woody, technically Woody II, had been fully charged by reluctantly-twirling occult-prone women in the depths of the Pit by a grateful Pitinna. Megan had been told to ship it to London whenever it required a recharge.
Like the original Woody, this Woody had a mind of its own, but served its mistress with every grain of its shaft. And like the original, it was very adept at manipulation ropes.
Megan could only imagine what happened. Kate, out for a walk in the middle evening to clear her head, unaware of the descending broomstick, loops of ropes hanging from its shaft. The ropes would have reached down like the tentacles of Rani's tripods, snatching up the startled witch, lifting her up, holding her helplessly wide, gagging her with mouth-packing bands. Others would have deftly unfastened her clothing, slipping it off over her straining limbs, making her look like a naked fairy struggling in a spider's web. Once the broom had her clothing away, it would easily bring the hapless girl's hands and feet together, lashing them fast and slipping its shaft through. Then Kate would find herself rising up into the night sky, naked and windblown beneath the swelling moon, carried off in the direction of Megan's cottage, towards a vengeance she could only dread.
"I'm back," Megan greeted. "I had a great time." Kate, still muffled with her thick rope-gag, could only stare in concern.
"Oh, let's get you comfortable," Megan said with a light touch along the broom's shaft. "We've got so much catching up to do."
The broom, knowing its mistress's desires, floated over to the wide iron-wrought bed, the captive still dangling in pinkish perturbance beneath it. Once in position, it tipped its shaft, depositing the purple-headed captive onto the mattress with a bounce. Megan leaded against the upper bar of the footboard, whimsically natural and easy in her cotton nightshirt. Kate, on the other hand, drew up her knees in tense concern, lowering her bound wrists to cover her breasts.
A rope, as animated as a glowworm, crawled across Megan's shoulders. Another eased along the headboard. Both of them located opposing bedposts and neatly knotted themselves in place.
"Stretch out," Megan invited. "Relax." To back her request, the broomstick gave Kate a chiding little rap across her thighs. Automatically, she lowered her knees, putting her within range of the footpost rope. Quick as a cobra, it whirled out to loop around her ankles, yanking her forward with enough force that she tipped over backwards. As she fell, the headpost rope caught her wrists and hauled her tight. In less time than it took to relate, Kate found herself taunt and trembling, her hands and feet sharply pulled to either end of the wide soft bed.
Megan kicked a stool to the side of the bed, settling in, smiling down at her concerned rival. "Comfy? Good. We've so much to talk about, girl-to-girl, before your little trip. First, let me tell you of my adventures..."
And so she did. In grand and wondrous detail, she told of meeting Kate's aunt, the great Petunia Goldwaith. She told of being bound by playful maids, over and over, in great exactitude. And then the incursion into the Pit, the sucking pipe, how it had felt to be dropped into a slip-bag, to be positioned amidst pinching manipulators and whirling dildos. Then the tunnels and chambers beyond, with all the women - women being bathed, women being tormented, women being climaxed. Hundreds of women, bound and fearful, tied and slutty, roped trembling and helpless as they were methodically transported towards climax and extraction.
And as she talked, her finger wandered as if tracing her strange journey across the pinioned flesh before her, a stroke, a touch, an underline. Kate gnawed on her rope gag as the whimsical girl related bondages and savage servicings Kate could hardly dare dream of. And still the finger slipped this way and that, its smooth nail causing her skin to tremble beneath its passage. As her tale moved towards the final confrontation with Rani, the finger drew ever nearer to her dampening purple-curled mound. The prone victim moaned, sweating, struggling, but the magiced ropes held her fast.
With tear-filled eyes, she looked beyond Megan's shoulder, to where the transport box yawned opened, the tag to Miss Pitinna Pitt already filled out in neat little script. No... no...
But she had no time to reflect on future perils, what with this most simple caress now racking her body. The wicked little finger traced along her slickening sex, forcing her heart to race and perspiration to stand out across her quaking flesh. Megan spoke of the handmaiden Sakujna and illustrated exactly how it had happened, that final slow and agonizing draw of the soaked feather. Kate could hardly hear her now, what with the blood pulsing in her ears and the throb of her expanding passions. Suddenly the finger positioned just so against her puss, perpendicular, slick and ready.
"There and back again," murmured Megan in the time-honored conclusion to great epics. And then she thrust.
The End
22.03.10