To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Serif
a Gai-Shift cog
She appeared like a ghost in a camera's negative plate, black, slender, silent, gliding through the British Museum's stacks. Her jet clothing was immaculate, decisively sharp, the tight ink-hued coat delineating her waspish waist and modest breasts, her legs collected by the tight knee-cut skirt, her pumps shimmering like polished ebony. Her hair was as black and sweeping as Japanese calligraphy, her oval face serene behind the heavy glasses. She was surrounded by books. She was in her element.
From the moment Serif Winterwood arrived in the morning, removing her stylish hat and going immediately to work, the other librarians left her alone. Early in her tenure there had been attempt to capture this night-shade icon. Snares had been set, transport bags readied and bedrooms prisoner-proofed, the usual games employed against newbies. In all cases the traps failed, their setters themselves waking from chloroform dreams, stripped and positioned in cruel museum displays to suffer the gawkings of blushing women and giggling girls while stretched on a medieval rack or trussed across an Aztec sacrificial alter. Some found themselves laced up in Victorian corsets, sealed up in display cases, wrists and ankles cuffed, their figures exaggerated by jackets of whalebone and strapping for the delight of the glass-steaming public. After several dismal attempts, the librarians left Serif to her own devices lest they be placed on more painful ones.
Serif filled this niche of silence with ease, stacking books on Manni Husbandry and The Decline and Bondage of Man to their proper shelves. Her face was always expressionless, her eyes the gun ports of her soul.
Briefly there was titillating gossip when someone spotted an untraceable royalty check made out to her in the museum's pigeonholes. The other librarians wondered what she could be writing in her spare time. Was it erotica? Was she casting them in wordy dreams of bondage and domination? Was she studying them dispassionately, the mind behind those heavy glasses and dark eyes imagining nude hogties on beds of straw, leather bodysuits with sinister access-patches, moaning figures trussed wide and open on chairs, watching the locked door, listening for the footfall of their cruel lover?
What was Serif Winterwood writing?
Nobody wanted to pry. Prying could invite a day lashed nude to an obelisk, nipples and pussy lips throbbing beneath Egyptian scarab beetle clips. No thanks.
Serif went about her days, silent, thoughtful.
She was at the desk when she nodded to herself. In her cool writer's mind, her latest story had clipped together. She was ready to write. And for that, she needed materials.
It was Saturday night, the heavy wall clock clicking off the final minutes before the museum closed until Monday. Serif paused at the corner of a shelf. The last visitor sat at a table pouring over books diagramming mid-century manni milking machines. She was as young and exuberant as a summer flower, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, her eyes as brown and sharp as Irish coffee, her figure compact, her poise causal. They were alone in the huge building. Serif should, in her official capacity, cough politely and then ask the girl to leave. The clock struck eleven.
She was no longer in her official capacity. The museum was closed.
Her cool hand slipped into her pocket, retrieving a bottle of chloroform and a rag.
The girl awoke, groggy and displaced, the fumes slowly releasing her from the captivity of unconsciousness. She shook her head and sensed her arms and legs were secured. Her first thought was that it was Sunday morning at home, that her roommate had snuck in and bed-bound her as she occasionally did, stealing her charms over the long lazy day. She blinked away the fog, looked around. Her exclamation was muted by the wide tape gag that sealed her lips.
She was naked and locked prone but not in her bedroom. She was in an office, a museum office by the array of books and artifacts on the surrounding shelves. She was naked, her young body tensed by pillows thrust behind her back. Only by feel could she determine that her wrists weren't secure, rather, her hands had been stretched well above her head and placed together, the fingers locked down with finger-straps, palms up. Similarly her delicate feet had been bowed forward over some sort of padded form, her toes laced down as well. She was tensed like a fiddle string, her breasts projecting, her hips elevated, her limbs taunt. Other than her arm-cradled head, she couldn't move a muscle.
The pinioned damsel's attention was drawn to the click of heels in the outside hall, the rattle of the key in the lock. Winterwood entered, seemingly unmoved by the fetchingly mewing captive. After locking the door, she pulled up a chair next to the quivering girl. From a desk she fetched a bottle of ink (which she uncorked) and a long feathered quill. With a penknife, she rasped the point to needle-like sharpness. The girl was fearfully mesmerized, seeing her own pinkish back-bowed reflection cast back from Serif's cold glasses.
Serif looked down at her trembling parchment, arranged her thoughts, composed her opening sentence, leaned forward, began.
The girl hissed over her gag as her captor draped over her, suited breasts pressing against her cheeks, the buttons chilly against her fear-heated chest. She cried out as a sharp point settled against the fleshy pad just beneath her leather-cuffed right pinky. She held her breath, feeling the quill's head slowly scritch across the flesh of her upper hand, its point whirling in intricate patterns. Serif's measured exhale, as gentle as a marksman's, played across the girl's face. She closed her eyes, feeling the needle work across the pads of her right hand, ending somewhere on the left.
Serif leaned back and read what she'd written. It was a very good opening, hinting at the debauchery to follow. She dipped her pen in the inkwell and continued, losing herself in her story.
“Mmmmph,” the parchment protested. “MMMMFPH!” Her captor ignored her, the quill tip itching its way across her palms, back and forth, back and forth. The prone girl moaned – there were many deviations in this Gai-shifted world but she'd never heard of this one.
Serif continued her story, moving from the opening paragraph to the description of her soon-to-be-deflowered victim. The pen whirled and swayed across the pried-open palms, henna-like in their coverage. The parchment moaned at the tickling-almost-pain, the needlepoint hissing back and forth, filling her palms and moving, back and forth, across her wrists. She felt vulnerability as the tip slid across her veins, tickling as it went. She snorted once at the sensation. Serif ignored her.
The next hour passed slowly, the parchment trying not to focus on her strained muscles, the pen crossing and recrossing the soft flesh of her forearms, the knobs of her elbows. She grunted at Serif, curious as to when the domineering woman would stop. She was running out of arm. A thought came and she warbled nervously against the tape. This woman wouldn't... would she?
Without preamble, Winterwood reached down and gripped a handhold of the parchment's golden hair, pressing her head into her pillowing arms, holding it steady. “Mmmph! MMMF!” the parchment protested as the tip scored its way across her forehead, a maddening contact. She screwed her eyes shut, whining into her tape, wishing it to be over. Description hissed across her forehead, dialog scored her cheeks, a perilous situation developed across her tape gag and chin. Opening her eyes, the parchment found herself looking into her reflection in Serif's glasses. Her face was shadowed by spiderlike lettering. She moaned at the indignity.
And then it got worse.
Serif's point leapt off her chin, working its way across the parchment's upper body. The parchment began to scream hysterically as the point worked across her armpits. The tickling of the quill tip was maddening. And worse, her tormentor seemed unmoved by it, focused on her writing, ignoring the misused girl who writhed in her finger and toe locks, her flesh a tablet for Winterwood's smutteries.
The torment grew worse – her ribs where achingly ticklish. The pen tip looped deep against her flank, slowly making its insect-like passage across her trembling flesh. The parchment tried to buck and twist but she was locked down too tightly for that. Then came the lung-filling gasp as the point began to ascend her breasts, its first pass promising torments to come, advancing like an inky glacier towards the nubbin-tipped summits. The parchment couldn't find succor, breathlessly trapped between mind-blowing tickling and grievous sexual stimulation. Then the fateful pass, Winterwood focused on her heroine's own struggles as the tip ascended towards the hardened nipples. An “O” looped tightly around one nub, a “K” scored the tip of the other. The parchment screamed, poised in this sexual oasis, surrounded by a sea of ticklish flesh. She needed this orgasm, needed it to carry her off, but she couldn't quite get it to fire. She hung for a moment, hopeful, yet now the pen was falling like a star, dropping down her sensitive flesh, distracting her from her wet detonation.
Serif paused for a moment, snapping up a tissue to dab at the parchment's frustrated tears. It wouldn't do for the ink to run. Then, with a quick dab to the inkwell, she was off again.
The parchment's tape-sealed caterwauling as Serif crossed the equator of her tummy worked its way into the story. In her mind, the writer envisioned her own heroine locked in stocks, her feet poised, a cruel noblewoman flicking her hat-plume across straining soles. She'd actually been anticipating a good spanking for her character but perhaps the sounds of mind-straining merriment had influenced her plot. In fact, it influenced more than just her story. Sensing her own distracting wetness, she crossed one long leg over the other as if that would seal up her throbbing pussy. She'd deal with her own needs later, in her own particular way.
The parchment knew what was coming. The story was drawing towards its literal climax, descending past her naval, sweeping back and forth across her hips. She realized, from the unhampered sensation that her masking pussy hair (which she'd been counting on to defend her) was gone. She'd been shaved while unconscious. The violation of her privacy actually made her hotter still. She knew, primed as she was, horny as she was, that there would be no staving off the coming sexual concussion. Even Winterwood noticed it, dabbing at her parchment's sex with another tissue, preparing the surface for literal storyline.
The parchment was doomed and knew it. She settled her ink-scored head into her arms, tipped her chin up and waited. The inkline swept just north of her pearl. The dialog trailed down her hip. Winterwood paused, inking the tip. The parchment closed her eyes. The pen touched her right hip, began to climb. She tried to close her fists but the strapping across her lower fingers prevented this. She breathed deeply one final time, set herself. Like day following night, the wet tip of the invasive pen, truly mightier than the sword, bumped over her lips, pressuring her in just the right way. She began to hiccup orgasms, little popping bangs that shivered her breath and brought a hum into her gag. Serif, caught up in her story and breathing in the wet fumes of her parchment's passion, raced the tale along, line following line. Each time her quill tip bumped over the parchment's damp lips she would quiver, her moans louder than before. Her existence was a steady drone of climaxes, one following another, elephants on parade. She half-swooned by the end of the paragraph.
The story, like its parchment, wound down. Serif took her time, closing the plot points, allowing the heroine to cleverly escape her ropes and turn the tables upon her captor. She wrote in a nice follow-up bondage punishment session, silently thankful of her parchment's long legs – the extra space could be put to good use.
The closing paragraph roused the parchment to a pitching squirm. She'd known herself to be ticklish – her roommate and more than proven it. But that had been on the bottom of her feet, not the tops. She screamed into her gag as Serif wrapped up her story, her ink painting its way across the tender creamy tops of the locked down feet. And then, finally, mercifully, she was done. Carefully, using the tips of the inner three toes of each foot, she wrote “T... H... E E... N... D...”. The parchment, crumbled from the flood of sensations, hardly stirred.
Serif warmed a cup of tea. Then, standing over the barely conscious parchment, she allowed her cool eyes to read the story she had set down, focusing not on the weary flesh but the tale adorning it, feeling her own nipples rise at the situations she'd set down. At the end she nodded to herself. Perfect. Tight ropes, tight cunts, tight predicaments. Erotic drama guaranteed to heat any woman's box. Cool pride flowed through her at her achievement.
The parchment grunted slightly as the surface she was fastened to was tilted vertically, shifting her weight, putting painful pressure on her digits. She hung erect for a long moment, meeting Serif's eyes, silently asking what came next. Wrung out from orgasms, tattooed with pornography, she couldn't imagine anything further that could be done to her.
Serif Winterwood could.
Her trim high-heel kicked aside a hatchway on the floor below the parchment's feet, one that yawned darkness. Without a word of consolation or farewell, she pulled a side lever. Instantly all the digit-straps opened. The parchment, with nothing to support her, slid into the dark hole, the sounds of her sliding descent drifting from the hole like a lover's last lusty sigh. And then it was done.
Serif closed the hatch and returned the table to horizontal. She hoped Petinna Pitt, the mechanical ruling the world below, enjoyed the effort. Like all works of literature, the parchment would be bound. Following this, she would be examined, read, transcribed, translated and typeset. When her story was finally recorded for the Pit's enjoyment (perhaps to be read by the melodious Olivia Hammersmith herself), the parchment would be cleaned. It would be a grueling session. The parchment would be belted wide to a wash stand, the center of attention to spinning brushes, jetting streams, hot sticky soap and abrasive blocks. She'd likely be enemaed, if only for completeness. Serif felt no distress for her part in bringing this about. It was just part of her job.
Her job as a freelance writer.
The end.
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12.12.12