Chapter 8: The Wash Room
"I remember this place," the wiry Sybil exclaimed as the four exited a side passage into a huge manni-era storm drain. Her dark eyes flashed. "I've been here before."
A wide rubber conveyor belt scrolled at hip-height along the center of the corridor like a black river, banked by two-foot high metal walls. While its purpose was unclear, its presence was ominous.
Sybil led the jittery party downstream. All four women were on edge, having only recently been fed through an automated molestation machine that toyed and tempted them to the brink of climax. Then, with its needs for data satisfied before their biological ones had been, it had passed them onward, unsympathetic towards the women's churning desires. Only the magic of the little witch and the fluid action of the orchid had kept them from being dropped down feeder tubes to personally indexed prisons of servitude and extraction.
Silently, Kiyoko pointed. The others looked. It was Megan who voiced, "There's someone on the belt ahead!"
They trotted forward, easily overtaking the poor woman who was being borne along the rubbery tide. She was middle-aged, her eyes ringed by stress-induced shadows, airily naked. Wide black banding secured her crossed wrists behind her back. Her ankles had been similarly fastened crossways, forcing apart her flushed thighs, exposing her trembling sex. Any protests she might have had for the disinterested machines were sealed beneath a wide black band, smooth and taunt and unshiftable, tightly stretched across her lower face. Seated on taunt buttocks, head lowered like a slave, she peered up through tangled black hair at the trespassers, her eyes unable to beg for a release she was unsure she desired.
"We should..." Megan started.
"We can't," Olivia told her. As Sybil had pointed out, the Pit kept live data on every woman moving through in its numerous extraction circuits. Any discrepancies would summon the trussbots. The rule was look but don't touch. Yet beholding such fetchingly helpless victims filled the hearts of the party with a certain distress. One felt the need to do... something.
The air was growing moist. From ahead of them came the rumble of great engines. Sybil nodded with a private smile, knowing what came next. Whatever she remembered about this place was locked behind her black eyes.
They paced the bound woman who sat on her belt, acceptive of the fate she was being carried to. The conveyor swung through a wide curve. The woman tipped her head back against her bunched shoulders, beheld what lay before her and moaned through her synthetic gag, a moan echoed by little Megan. Sybil grinned in recognition. "Oh, yes. There's no forgetting this. Every couple of days, I was brought down here."
A battery of metal hands sheathed in latex gloves awaited their victim. As she drew nearer, several of the hands fetched soap-laden sponges from suds-clotted buckets. Other hands reached for her. She shook her head and tried in scooch to the side of the belt but the high metal sides prevented any escape. Her desperate whine and pleading eyes were met with Kiyoko's indifference, Megan's breathless gape, Olivia's stony face, and Sybil's amusement.
The gloved hands took hold of her shoulders and knees, leaning her back. Their sponge-bearing counterparts thoroughly lathered the woman's pink flesh from head to toe, soaping her down like a piglet for the fair. Through the handling, she whined and wheedled, struggling in the synthetic grips. In the space of a half-dozen rasping breaths, she was turned into a soapy mass of bubbles.
And on she went, carried to the next bank of automated attendants. Likely she could not see, a blessing as those waiting hands grasped stiff brushes rather than pliable sponges. Again, gripping hands locked onto her, pinning her fast. Then the brushes worked, scrubbing and scratching across her sudded body. Unseen within her bubbles, she struggled and gasped, unable to escape the hissing bristles that played across her soles, her flanks, her nipples, swirling along her tender inner thighs and across her straining shoulders.
"After three or four extractions, you're sent down here," Sybil exclaimed, arms tightly crossed beneath her compact breasts. "To be cleaned."
The hands released, allowing the gasping, shuddering, bubbly mass to trundle onward. But whatever reprieve the poor woman was granted was short-lived. Another set of hands, five this time. With mechanical accuracy, two of them shot down into the suds, locking around her knees, lifting her until she rested on her shoulders, her barely-perceived toes wigging ceilingward. Two more hands reached down and with a parody of gentleness, parted her soap-slickened cheeks. Only then did the final gloved hand extended its center finger, forming a once-obscene hand-sign. And, still erect, it thrust downward between the gripped cheeks, ramrodding water and soap into the quivering anus, butterchurning the gripped woman into a state of cleanliness ordinarily reserved for enthusiasts of the most watery of sports.
The woman grunted at every thrust, her shudders spattering her soapy cloak, gripped and elevated in the ruthless latex hold of the mechanicals. She couldn't move, couldn't avoid, couldn't even see the digit that ramrodded her, an indignity beyond anything she'd ever experienced or imagined. Yet her lip-strapped grunts were not entirely of pain and indignity. There was certain eroticism to this soapy sodomy, escalating a growing craving that had nothing to do with pleasurable sensations, a passion towards base usury that she could not understand nor ignore.
But before she could gather enough self-pitying passion to explore this new bliss and perhaps climax against it, the hands dropped her back to the rubber belting. She moaned, her bubble-clad thighs slowly wavering to the remembered tempo of the recent assault. Likely she no longer knew where she was or what was happening to her. With her eyes screwed shut against the stinging soap, with her body coated in excited lather, she was in a world of her own.
Three hands waited her, her final treatment. Two of them reached in, fingers positioned as if to indicate 'this much', to vanish through the white veil. A second later, the figure within the cloud shuddered, ruthlessly grasped by pinching pressures expertly applied to her agitated nipples. Her crossed-locked legs flexed in the humid air, forming a quivering ring. Into this ring pressed the third hand, its gesture the same as the recent intruder, its point of entry slightly forward of the last one.
Flat on her back, locked in the grip of the methodical machines, the woman could only shudder. To the Pit's calculations, such shuddering was the best way to work the cleansers throughout her body, just as clothes in a laundry are cleaned best through agitation. But the woman's agitation had nothing to do with any simple rocking motion. The latex fingers on the blossoming nipples rolled and pinched in accordance with her specific data, applying just enough pressure to excite and not injure. Meanwhile, the wiggling intrusion into her silken purse spun and flexed, its tempo and motion a perfect pressure. She was now mad with sensation, her teeth grinding across her wadding, her body's temperature heating the enveloping suds. And then her knees pressed against the rubber belt as her hips lifted, driving herself into the machine's grip. Soap spattered in every direction. She shook and shook, vibrating the steel arms that assaulted her.
And then it was as if she'd died. Where there had once been a convulsing victim, now there was this inert soapy mass, seemingly lifeless. The hands, their program run, withdrew. The ruin was carried onward, into an array of water jets. Before their gentle rain, the soap was carried away, revealing a woman still bound, her hair like wet black seaweed around her tightly gagged face, her chest rising and falling with elevated respiration. The party of four stood and watched as she rolled on, passing between batteries of hot air blowers which exhaled like a satisfied lover across her flesh.
It was Sybil, of course, who broke the reverence.
"She'll be back in her sleep box in a few minutes, to sleep the sleep of the sated. And then, in a few hours, she'll be up on the line again, pushing out a couple of drops of Orgasium with every go."
Olivia could only watch, her khaki blouse tight across her breasts. She found herself wondering what would have happened to her had Empress Nabuki possessed such technologies. Even attendants, with their feathers and paddles and teasers, grew tired of play. But machines like these never tied. And with her personal knowledge of little Nabuki's depths, Olivia wondered if she could have even survived the giggling waif's attentions had she possessed such devices. No rock can withstand the endless efforts of a steam-powered drill.
Megan, too, was silent, reflecting on her own passionate nights, trussed across her own bed, used and reused and reused again by the automagical Woody. Unhampered by the weakness of flesh, Woody had forced her to yield herself, again and again, until all she had known about herself and her craft was forgotten, making way for newer lessons and understandings. But that had been an occasional night, with sunshine and long walks and good deeds between them. To endure such absolute sexuality as the Pit demanded, over and over until the orgasmic rushes ran together into a unified whole - Megan was not sure if she could endure it.
Kiyoko said nothing. But then Kiyoko never said anything. Whatever reaction her body might have shown to the gratuitous assaults witnessed by her dark eyes were masked by the flow of her pure white robes.
They turned from the hydraulic rapes of the main drain, moving up an access corridor. From time to time they heard distant cries and moans but they did not investigate. Sybil was always watchful for pneumatic tube drops where she could sidetrack a container and read its cards to understand the Pit a little better. Occasionally she flushed at the methodical descriptions. But there were also commands as well. While the route-back codes meant nothing to her at first, she gradually figured out their logic as she sampled from different locations.
"Whatever is controlling this, it's below Hyde Park, at the bottom level," she explained, returning the latest cards to the tubes. "That's where all the coordination comes from."
Olivia paused in thought. "Does the Punch appear to be generated by MIs?"
"Mostly. But there's an element of something else to them. Occasionally commands are reissued or are inefficiently routed. Strange."
Suddenly Kiyoko tensed. A spindly device whirred down the passageway towards them, suspended by overhead tracking. It was little more than a central trunk bearing two sets of arms, one large and strong, the other small and nimble. Mounted to the central trunk was a rudimentary guidance system and spooled rope dispenser.
"Trussbot!" Sybil hissed. "Don't bother it. It's simply deadheading from one patrol zone to another."
The women leaned against the wall, permitting the simplistic unit to pass. Olivia could easily imagine its operation, the larger hands gripping the prey, the smaller ones binding it up. And then the trussed victim would be lifted into the air, to be carried off for processing and integration.
There was no sense of time as they journeyed on, moving towards Hyde Park, descending as the opportunity presented itself. Megan didn't realize it was time to stop for camp until Olivia glanced to her watch and ordered it. They picked a small abandoned side room, illuminating it with a chemlight.
Ration sticks were passed about but Megan had a difficultly eating, her mind whirling at the imagines she'd absorbed over the long day. Women bound. Women tormented. The images didn't disturb her. Actually, her mind filled with... possibilities.
Originally, she'd thought to let bygones by bygones when she got back to Sheepish, to let her student witches off with a stern warning. But after seeing all these women in bondage and distress, her imagination had been sparked. Simply put, Kate would have to suffer - in a nice way, of course - for acting against her chief witch. Her traininng demanded it. She'd have to be stripped and tied spread across Megan's bed, to while away a few hours in gagged contemplation of her actions. How cute it would be to stroll around the bed, ignoring Kate's glares while she attended to her simple domestic chores, to emphasize her captive was beneath concern. As evening fell, a feather could be found, one that could be conjured to dance across feet and ribs, an endless niggling torment. Megan could curl up in her big comfy chair to watch as Kate shuddered and twisted beneath the endless torment. Perhaps she might even go to sleep, the muffled grunts of rupturing laugher a sweet lullaby. In the morning, Kate would still be there, still under duress, bleary and haggard and ready to agree to any conditions.
She'd stop the spell then to give the girl a chance to rest, still bound fast in the bedposts. That would give her time to fetch the other witches (perhaps in their own ropes), to show off the ruined ringleader to, to force them to kneel and kiss her dainty foot in submission.
It was her duty as chief witch, of course, to enforce discipline. And she'd gotten plenty of ideas of discipline over the last eight hours.
She was still considering this as the others rolled out their blankets. Sybil, boyishly compact, sat in black panties and t-top, chatting with Olivia about the next day's plans. Kiyoko was just passing behind the dark girl. There was a blur and a cry and suddenly there was Sybil gaping stupidly at the twin white scarves that looped around her body, above and below her trim breasts, pinning her forearms to her side. Kiyoko stepped around her, placed a small trim foot between her breasts, and toppled her back. Sybil sputtered in anger as the slender oriental knelt at her side, binding each wrist to its associated thigh, making her comfortable yet secure.
Olivia watched the trussing over the Japanese's shoulder.
"My apologies, Sybil, but you're still a bit of a loose cannon. We don't trust you, not with your proclivity, when you were the Knightsbridge Angel, for tying up sleeping women. Until you earn our trust I'm afraid we're going to have to keep you bound up every night."
"Oh, that's it," the dark girl sputtered as her knees and ankles were trapped and wrapped in Kiyoko's silken coils. "Don't trust the ex-con. It's the same story. Well, I wished I had gotten a go at you, Miss High-and-Mighty. Bringing down upper-class muffins like you was reward in itself. Oh, when I got my ropes around them, they looked so mortified. But once my feathers started to play along their sleek bodies, they shuddered and moaned like the lowest flower girl. You should have seen Lady Goldwaith - she panted like a steam engine when I ran my feather slowly along her pouting..."
And then Kiyoko's scarf settled across her lips, ending the discussion.
Sybil lay in her bindings as the other turned in. She shifted her shoulders, partially to explore her wrappings for weakness, but mostly to feel the taunt play of silk across her lashed arms and pinned legs. Hammersmith's Oriental tool had bound her up snug, no question. She wouldn't be getting lose this night.
Sighing over her gag, she thought of the injustice of it all. They'd bound her up because simply because they couldn't trust her? How unfair. True, she had slipped in an extra card once while hacking the pneumatic system, alerting the Pit of the intruders inbound for Hyde Park. But the Pit was a ponderous machine, one that would take a while to react. So, technically, she hadn't betrayed them all, not just yet.
So unfair.
05.01.10
story continues in Gai Shift - Pit 9: Megan's Frustration
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