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Point of View
a Gai-Shift storylette
Darkness falls away like a blindfold, likely because there had been a leather blindfold over your eyes.
You blink slowly (for blinking is the only action open to you, strapped up as you are in your leather body suit, gagged with a thrusting penile plug, only your eyes exposed. The room hazing in the glare of overhead gaslights is tiled, harsh and institutional.
A shift against your leather-locked hip and a woman's face swings into view, redheaded, bird-sharp, peckish. Her body is like a coiled spring within the white blouse and leather skirt of her police officer's uniform. Domineering eyes frown into yours.
“You feeling okay?” she asks. With your mouth plugged and belted, you reserve the right to remain silent.
“Let's see how you feel.” A stir from over your right nipple, the kiss of cool air as an access patch is shifted. Strong fingers clench up your tit, giving it a prolonged squeeze, a gentle roll putting English into it. You shudder against your black cocoon, racked with erotic pain. The agitation goes for a minute or so, enough to turn your tit aflame and your glands likewise. But there is nothing you can do, locked up as you are, save creak your leather encasement and hope your arresting officer takes this assault further. Sadly, having gained the response she sought, she tucks you away and buckles the flap back into place. Your sad moan echos against the tile work.
At that moment a door opens and a white-coated woman walks in. She is as old and gray as a Great War destroyer yet equally slender and battleworthy, the gaslights flashing like novas against her wire-hoop glasses. Her heels click up to stop just before your strapped, sheathed toes.
With Slavic intonation she notes, “I'm Doctor Gayana, personal physician of Contessa Anna Oblonsky, on loan from the Moscow school of medicine. And this is our newest patent?” Is the toe of one of her pumps playing footsie your black-bootied instep? Hard to tell.
The redhead clips, “Officer Constance Drummand, London Metropolitan Police Force, depositing this prisoner to the London Asylum on orders of the Judge-Mistresses. We caught-”
A flat hand comes up as if to slap. “Stop! Do not tell me patent's gender or charge. We do not need this for our research.” Yes, her toe is definitely rubbing your foot.
“Very well. I'm just happy to be done with...” at Gayana's warning glance, Drummand amends her statement, “...it. Sign the prisoner release form and it's all yours.” Your eyes watch as a clipboard is handed across and your human rights are signed away. Your protests are nothing but the mew of a kitten, and equally as easily ignored. Reclaiming her paperwork, Drummand departs. You watch the near-mechanical working of her tight ass, your nipple still throbbing from her pinch. Meanwhile, Doctor Gayana reaches up and fumbles for something atop your head. Just as you realize she's snatched up your transport ring with her wiry hand, you are pulled off the bench to tumble on the floor. Still gripping your ring, she drags you down a linoleumed hallway like a primitive woman dragging her vine-tied captive back to her cave for prehistoric propagation. Heels dragging, you can only whine around the saliva-slick penile head, seeing where you have come from, her hand still hitched to your head-ring, her heels clicking utilitarianly down the hall.
You're just starting to ponder why there were occasional hooks lining the hall at hip level (like coathooks for midgets) when a woman's voice calls out, “Doctor Gayana!”
The hooks become obvious. Neatly, Gayana heaves you up against the wall, clicking the hook through your head ring. Now you dangle erect against the wall, your bagged buttocks hardly touching the cool floor, sacked and strapped and hung. You take a moment to throw your back-bagged arms about but gain nothing save increased respiration.
With your head hooked up and your vision restricted to a slit, there is not much for you to see. Gayana and a junior doctor stand before you, visible from the hips down. The unseen doctor's features are curvy and ripe, her skirt overly short. Gayana's legs are skinny, strong yet still oddly sexy. As they talk, as you watch, she slides a bare foot out of her shoe, playing it across her shod heel, an oddly childlike gesture for such a mature and disciplined woman.
At that moment you realize that just visible through the forest of legs dangles your counterpart, the other doctor's charge, hung up like you, bagged like you, helpless like you.
Now you can study the full-body sack like the one that holds you in steamy captivity. The black leather is belted so tightly around the figure opposite it is impossible to determine their gender. Black leather sheaths it. Belts hold everything fast. Straps lace around thighs, lance tightly through the crotch, loop around the seemingly armless torso, locking up straining shoulders. The silvery tongue of each buckle has numerous holes to chose from, but like yours, every buckle trapping your counterpart appears to have been pulled to flesh-straining tension.
Over the wide leather gag, desperate eyes look to you for some sort of impossible rescue. Were it not for the many straps locking your forearms and shoulders, you would have shrugged.
The other doctor's voice: “...but my patent doesn't seem to be responding to any treatment.”
Doctor Gayana considers. “Secure your patent to the paddling machine and administer thirty minutes of vigorous auto-spanking. I believe that should achieve the response you desire.”
“But so much paddling. Won't that have harmful impacts?”
“Nonsense. In my homeland, we paddle peasants for hours. I've a cream that will restore your patient's buttocks in short order. Stop by the asylum pharmacy – they can issue you some.”
“Very good,” the other doctor happily chirps. “I'll begin a vigorous regiment of gluteus maximus stimulation at once.” Her voice contains a beastly eagerness. Clearly she can't wait to bend her patent over the rack, to belt him or her tightly down, to peal away the buttock sheathing and expose the glorious peaches of an unblemished posterior. Perhaps she'll take a moment to run her hands along the smooth yet trembling flesh, her smile wide and dreamy. Ignoring the desperate grunts from her bagged captive, perhaps after her own playful slap across the pinioned posterior, she'll cock back the twin spankers and pull up a chair, her mouth dry as she pushes the activation button.
The tightly bagged figure opposite grunts and thrusts at this prescription, doing his or her best to wiggle free. But there are too many straps locked in tidy rows. You can read the realization in the desperate eyes: this person knows they are in helpless captivity of a spank-lusting dominant, that they are being dragged off to a rendezvous with a machine specifically devised to tenderize their meaty cheeks. Their fate will be cruel, painful and certain. You can only watch as the poor leather-clad sacrifice is dragged off, moans dominated by the thick gag.
But you have your own worries.
Once again, you are dragged along by Gayana, pulled down an endless hall towards heaven knows what. You struggle and twist, doing your best to maybe pull the ring from her iron grip and then, perhaps, inchworm away to safety.
“Oh, do stop it,” the doctor coolly reprimands over the metronome click of her cruel heels. “I've got something far more sophisticated then corporal treatment for you. Pure research, deep and wondrous research. But first, a side-stop.” A heavy door swings open on moaning hinges. Doctor Gayana drags you in and dumps you onto the padded floor, shaking circulation back into her hands.
“Ah, Sakujna, I see you are about to begin.”
“Yes, Ma'am. All is in readiness, Ma'am.”
The voice answering the doctor is richly melodious. Laying prone on the floor, belted up like a black hot dog, unable to move, you lift your head (Gayana's cruel pumps straddle it, close enough for her ankles to brush your leather-jacketed ears). An amazing sight makes your eyes bug out.
A woman lies on a bench specifically made to hold her, its padded side-bracings aligning her, its wide straps pinning her into place. Looking beyond the straps, you can see she is lanky and nude, her crazed black hair and skewed wireframe glasses conveying an air of frustrated madness. Her mouth is plugged by a round red ball with a dangling air-plug, her agitated breath rasping through the hole. Her feet, pointing towards you, are full and fleshy and horrible vulnerable.
Standing over these delicate feet is a slightly stocky Indian maiden of middle age, garbed in purple trousers and halter, her exposed waist fetchingly twisted in half-turn at the your interrupting entrance. Her round face is pleasant yet nanny-firm, her black hair drawn up in a bun lanced with long feathers. One feather is in her hand – she holds it like a torturer's tool.
And now you see it – she is a tickler. She has that firm expression in her jewel-like eyes, one that says “I do not wish to hurt you, but I do wish to torture you. As I have you, I will tickle you to the ends of your sanity. When we are done you will do anything for me.”
And the girl on the bench knows this. She knows what is coming and how excruciating it will be. She knows she will gain no mercy from this hard Indian dominatrix.
“Miss Sakujna is chief tickle-officer of the Pit,” the good doctor explains. “She came to visit two of her friends who have been committed to our care. Given her credentials, I asked if she would be good enough to provide a session for a troublesome patent and she was all too happy to agree.”
“All too happy,” Sakujna purred, the feather slowly spinning in her devious fingers. The board-strapped woman watched it with dread.
“The patient she is attending to,” Doctor Gayana continued, “is totally delusional. She thinks she was a witch. She thinks she was once bound to a post at the edge of a magical forest and tortured by fairy-folk until she was driven mad. We live in a scientific age, a high-tech age of steam engines and airships. Magic does not exist. And so we must convince this poor deluded woman to abandon her wild fantasies.”
Of course, with her head so braced, the poor woman couldn't shake a desperate denial. The gag plugged any retractions. You wonder when the asylum had stopped asking and started its malicious and excruciating treatments. How long had this poor creature been so tormented?
“Anyway, Sakujna, you may address her tootsies as you see fit. Tickle her until she pees, until she passes out. Then we'll stuff her sweaty limp body into a tight washing net and drop her into the auto-laundry. A few rinses will restore her cleanliness. Afterwards, we'll dangle-dry her sack from the rooftop drying lines.”
The moan and a dribble of saliva trailed from the plug hole. The haggard woman closes her eyes in grim accpetance, her cuffed fists balled. Sakujna leans closer, the feather just whisping like gentle kisses across the toe-tops, a promise for the trilling agonies to follow.
You are ready to watch this tickling in rapt fascination, unable to peel your eyes away, no matter how cruel and unjust it is. Something about a damsel in distress, tickle-tormented by a stern nanny, sets your base passions pumping. But Gayana has seen this before (daily, most likely). Strong fingers lock around your tote-ring and you are pulled from the room. The clang of the door seals off the first plugged gasps of forced laughter.
“We've got a tight deadline,” Gayana calls over her shoulder. “I need you to facilitate a treatment, and then you've got that off-site study.”
All but lost in your tight hood, your eyes blink at this. Off-site? Who were they giving you to? What would they do to you? You wrench your bag-locked arms in desperation but the strapping easily nullifies your efforts. The encasement-designers of the Gai-shift world know how to keep a struggling sweaty slave in tightly-wrapped control. Still bobbing in Gayana's hard grasp, you are dragged along like an oversized suitcase.
A door swings open. One again, you are dropped into a padded floor. Weary and defeated, you don't even bother to look up.
“Oh, come now. Certainly you wish to meet your playmates,” Gayana chides. A moment later her heeled foot plants itself in the small of your back. Both hands pull up your head-ring, forcing your back to arc. Your lungs empty through your nose-holes.
The room is ten feet square, heavily padded. In opposite corners dangle two women perched on their buttocks, their fists locked overhead in leather mittens. Their knees have also been captured by thick cuffs, jacked up to the side-walls, turning them into living “M”s. Their lower faces are banded by cheek-bulging leather gags. Their breasts and vaginas are displayed like goods in a shop.
Closer inspection shows one girl to be white, her black hair needling out like a starburst. The other is coffee-hued, Indian perhaps, with eyes as calm as a temple idol's.
“Let me introduce you to Sybil and Rani, two would-be overlords sent to us from the Pit. These silly girls have a love/hate, one-upswoman-ship thing going, constantly trying to gain the upper hand over each other. I wish they'd just sort it out, dom and sub, but so far all they do is fight. And that's where you come in, my leather-locked friend,” she gives your head-ring a shake, “You're going to teach them to share.”
She lets go and you flop to the floor. Behind your head, a scrabbling of fingers and then the horrible cock gag is pulled away in a trail of drool. Before you can use your newly-freed lips to question or comment, you hear Doctor Gayana's voice.
“Let's see. Who first. Sybil, I think.”
You hear a muffled protest from the locked-open brunette but already you are being dragged across the padding, Gayana straddling you, heaving you into position. You get a last glimpse of Sybil shaking her head before your face is dropped into her twat, soft and warm against your lips.
You gasp in surprise, your senses filling with her fleshy scent. Certainly she can't be expecting you to...
“Start licking,” Gayana says. “Amuse the girl, won't you?”
A cruel pump presses between your shoulderblades, driving you deeper. You can't see anything and your lips are pressed against hers, horizontal to vertical, a perverse kiss. Her pubic hair becomes your goatee.
“Mpppgh... Mrufh...”
“Start licking,” Gayana repeats.
And so you do. It's so easy, and honestly you're tempted. Everything has been provoking your sensations, your tight leather capture-suit, Drummand's inquisitive nipple-pinch, Gayana's womanhanding, the paddle-fated slave in the hall, the delusional witch belted and sole-bared before her dusky tormentor, and now these two wall-dangling girls. You have been belted up, dragged about, owned, made helpless. Its been working at you. And now grade-A prime-cut has been shaved into your face. You take a deep musky breath and wiggle in your tongue, just a bit.
Though your ears are leather-hooded and thigh-clenched, you hear the woman gasp from high above where angels dwell. It is a gasp of surprise and, perhaps, hope.
“That's it,” Gayana instructs. “She wants it. You want it. And you're going to give it.” The pump drives in deeper, its heel insistent.
This time your tongue goes in deep and wiggles. The flesh around you shivers, a sweaty, cloying taste coats your tongue. You drag your tongue up, find the hard knot of her pearl, give it a flick.
“Omph! Omph! Omph!” grunts the gagged girl who's thighs are clamping around your head like a nutcracker. Subliminally, you swear you can hear a frustrated whine rising from the neglected Indian girl, the insistent jingling of her mitten-chains. But your attention is focused on the task beneath your tongue. You are learning (through the desperate feedback rocking your head from side to side) what works on this poor dangling lass. And given the fact that Gayana shows no sign of letting you up, that your body suit is now impossibly tight across your own tender sex, that you're fit to bursting yourself, you drill deeper and more insistently, nailing poor Sybil to the wall, thrusting, panting, licking, eating...
“That will do,” Gayana says, physically lifting your head clear of the weeping valley. “Mustn't spoil her.” Actually, this premature cut-off has done more than spoil Sybil; it has ruined her. She hadn't quite cum, not quite yet, and now she watches you being dragged off her with eyes brimming with unfulfilled anguish.
But Rani, it seems, is delighted by the literal turnabout as Gayana rotates you around. Expectantly she opens her bronzed legs as wide as her cuffs allow, yielding her dark charms to your leather-knobbed head. You catch a last glimpse of her knowing eyes, smell her pre-heating twat, and then the silky darkness is yours again. Gayana's firm shoe is hardly felt in your back as you dig in with relish.
This time there is no exploratory wiggling, no flirting flickering. Locked in your prison of belts and buckles and coffee thighs, unable to move or touch or masturbate, hot with the passions of all you have seen, you are desperate to drink deep from her cup, to bring yourself to climax. You can feel sweat trickling along your flanks, steaming your crotch which grinds against a padded floor which yields like a lover. From your leather-locked sex, the hint of wetness, a premature lubrication to a situational orgasm. From Rani's gag, a warbling of approval. Gayana, looking down her long pinning leg, no doubt smiles in cruel amusement. But all you know is the taste and warmth of the girl you have been forced into, the heat of her loins and her own coming satisfaction that will kill both of you, likely everyone in the room, perhaps even blowing the roof off this asylum...
“Very good,” laughs the doctor as she lifts you away. You share a rippling groan with poor Rani. Sybil sounds like she is weeping in frustration.
“Please,” you croak with your weary tongue. “Just a minute more...”
The gag is thrust between your teeth, riding over your seasoned tongue, filling your mouth like a plastic airship. Placing a knee in your back, Gayana hauls the gag tight, tighter, making your eyes bulge. Worse, the basting smeared across your cheeks by ying-yang clitori fills your senses. You now carry the scent of two near climaxes.
Doctor Gayana decides to drag you by your heels, tucking them under her arm. This allows you a final look at the two shattered women still hanging in this tiny padded cube in the center of this moribund institution, prisoners of their cuffs, their gags, their chains and their passions. As one their gazes follow your withdrawal, their eyes desperately sad. You realized that if it wasn't for Gayana, if they were free, they would literally tear you out of your suit like the juicy center of a succulent fruit, using your body to scrape the irritating orgasms from their souls, grinding you beneath the weight of their passions. Together they would rape you, and each other, senseless. But there is nothing that can be done. They still hang in forlorn suspension and you are still belted fast. The door closes. That part is over.
“There is a reason,” Gayana explains as she pulls you along the smooth linoleum, “that I am not to know your gender. Oh, I'm curious, of course. I'd love to unlock that tight crotch-padding of yours to spread my agitating creams across your skin, to watch you wither as the sensory passions flood through you. I'd buckle you down and open you up if I had my way. But you are part of a study. You see, we believe the Pit is now taking both women and mannis. It's curious and perhaps signifies a new development. So what we are doing is placing... tidbits... where the Pit can access them. We check to see if it rejects these offerings, either immediately or in due time. So far it has not. But we don't want to influence the test in any way. Only after the research is complete will we examine the paperwork, yours and all those many other sacrifices we've made to science, to determine your gender makeup.” A laugh. “Then I'll know what was under that cowhide codpiece of yours.”
Your eyes flash open. You can't believe what you are hearing. You wrench your arms in their bag but its too tight. You try to kick but the many straps hold you fast. Gayana, smirking in her cool matronly way, continues to pull you down the hall, perhaps enjoying your agitation.
A small door at hall's end is opened, another tiny padded room. She tugs you in with clinical insistence, arranging you neatly on your back in the center of the room. You look wildly about, desperate for escape. You've heard about this Pit – who has not? Adventurous woman lottery to get taken by it. Frightened women are occasionally snared by it. The straps and clamps than yawn for unwilling limbs, the sexual devices that drool lubricants in dark grottos, the lines of women (and mannis now?) that dangle in processing lines, eyes wild as they are climaxed over and over and still, over again. All of these things are legendary. And now this cool woman from the windblown eastern steppes is surrendering you to this mechanical whorification? You wrench. You strain. You scream. And she ignores you, crossing to a metal grate set low against a wall which protects the room from a shaft dropping into the sinister depths. She looks at you, her steely eyes behind her cold wireframes measuring your spirit. Her pump presses down a foot-peddle. The grate drops open with a dull clang.
Those pumps, those cruel pumps, walk back towards you. It is almost like Death wearing high heels, striding over to you, sealing your fate. Now she is behind your head, kneeling. You grunt around the cursed gag, trying to plead, to claim your rights, to reveal your gender if only to spoil the test. But you are nothing but a sample to her. There is a final glimpse of her hard smile, her cool eyes, and the leather blindfold. Then darkness.
A faint brush against your forehead. A calming pat? A farewell kiss? Distantly the sound of a heavy door closing, locking. Silence.
You try to move, to roll, anything. The suit is impossibly tight around you. Everything is dark. Your grunts fill your head with useless noise.
You freeze.
Something sinuous, some cable or rope or tentacle, is slithering around your ankles. You grunt in panic, try to kick, try to shift away. The steely noose draws tight, locking up your belted legs.
Then the padding behind your back shifts as you are dragged slowly across the cushioned floor, towards the maw of the shaft and the waiting Pit...
The end
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22.08.12