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Chapter 1: Petra's Homecoming
Desolation. Nothing but grassy wastes and mudbogs all the way to its straight-edge horizon. Through it ran a dirt road that probably went to faraway, more interesting places. Overhead, the pale blue sky hung like a dusty cathedral dome. The steady wind carried a cool edge, hinting at a distant inclemency. If anything, the change of weather might liven up the pointless scenery.
Then came a ticking like some giant's pocket watch and a great phallic shadow fell over the land. Dropping from overhead, a mighty airship eased lower, engines just ticking over. It was huge and gray, with Unbound Pleasure painted in large letters on its even-larger flank.
From a doorway in its sleek gondola a rope unspooled, falling to dance across the dirt road. A woman in off-duty coveralls eased out, hooking her feet with practiced skill around the dangling line. From a portal just forward appeared a second woman, her trim form rubber clad, her black hair as curled as a baroque picture frame, her light blue eyes dancing behind her wireframes. She looked back at the woman now descending the rope with ease.
"Petra! We can drop you anywhere you want. You don't need to debark here in all this empty... Russia-ness!"
"Thank you, my captain. My leave begins now. The best way to return to my home village is to walk in along road, not drop from sky on rope."
"We could carry you in down the road, roped up," the airship commander noted hopefully. "That might make a better impression." Then, more seriously, she noted. "Look, we've come all this way from Japan and that Orchidental is still moping in her bonds. It seems all she wants is punishment, and you're the best disciplinarian in the service."
"Ambassador Hammersmith could say something to her," the blonde called up, not allowing herself to be distracted from her descent. "She speaks that lingo."
"Ambassador Hammersmith is still hooked to the orgasium extractor. All she can do right now is drool."
"Best of luck," Petra called as her feet hit the road. "Stand united against oppression! Unite!"
Captain Hoffsteder might have called something more but now the engines were revving up, the rope spooling in, the great form of the airship rising mannilike into the sky. Petra stood in the center of the endless road, watching as the cigar-like shape moved away until it was lost against the dusty haze.
"Do svidaniya, darling," the woman murmured with a venerable softness at odds with her strong-limbed from. She cast off a final sigh, hitched up her coveralls and made off down the road, head back, sniffing the air, remembering, readjusting.
She was strong and hale, her eyes small and sapphire blue, set between broad cheeks and level brow. Her blonde hair was dry and curl-hinted as if some hairdresser had made a desperate attempt at it. She radiated an air of blunt practicality, understandable given her bleak homeland.
But the land, like a cold woman fingered to arousal, lost its harshness. Eventually fields rose from the turf to either side, waving fields of late hay ready for harvesting. Petra's blue eyes tracked back and forth as if to reclaim this part of her life. So many years.
She came across a haycutting group, a collective effort of peasants. Near the road stood a line of carts, peasant girls leaning against them, their long bronzed legs crossed beneath their voluminous skirts, their black hair trapped like captive midnight beneath their sweat-stained scarves. From the enclosed carts came muffled moans as secured mannis were oiled up in preparation for the evening's entertainment. Nearby, a group of peasant woman formed up for the afternoon's labors. Country girls crossed to them, carrying scythes and scarves. They clustered around the mowers, binding their wrists to their tools, seating the handles properly. Petra stopped, catching a whiff of cut grass and excited femininity, triggering nostalgia. Locating the collective's leader, a hardnosed, chisel-eyed, middle-aged woman, she planted herself and demanded, "I wish to join mowers."
The leader looked at her, taking a draw off her nasty cigarette. "This not some tourist thing. You cut your leg off." A shrug followed by a frown. "Maybe you cut off someone else's leg off."
"I outcut all your bourgeoisie layabouts." With that, Petra shrugged her broad shoulders out of her coveralls, allowing them to spill about her waist, exposing her straining undershirt. Her boots were kicked away. Cockily, she crossed her wrists before her.
The chief tossed away her cigarette. "Saright."
A large scythe was brought to her, its wooden shaft as sweeping as a harp's neck, its steel blade sharper than criticism. She took it in both hands, holding it low, slipping its brace-rod down between her thighs through the coverall's slit, feeling it lever up against her thinly-masked crotch. A peasant girl smelling of hay and sunshine nestled up against Petra, binding her wrists to the smooth, hard shaft with a long scarf. She smiled crookedly up at Petra as she tugged the last knot home, her eyes telling the airshipwoman that she'd like to continue with her binding until the stocky blonde lay helpless amid the scratchy stubbled field, a toy of the working class. Petra smiled as she flexed her wrists, getting used to the scarf's snug compression. Work now. Lay later.
She gave the tool harnessed to her an exploratory sweep, checking its balance, gauging its heft. The brace-rod rotated against her twat, bringing a flush to her ruddy cheeks. Oh yes. This was how it was. One never forgot this feeling.
"You climax and fall over, we leave you there," the chief laughed. "Maybe make you toy for mannis."
"You watch," Petra called back as she joined the mower's line. "You learn."
She positioned herself properly against the cutline, planting her bare feet, the grass tickling her soles in brash familiarity. A glance to either side. A girl to the right, her youth-soft hands thickly trussed, smiling worriedly to Petra. The other side, a grim middle-aged woman with cropped hair and ballbearing eyes, her wrists easy in her bondage. Someone called the advance. With a smooth motion the mower line advanced, blades whicking as one.
Petra slipped easily into her stride. The tool became an extension of her, balanced off her braced body, supported by her shoulders, fulcrumed off her twat. With every sweep of the blade, the brace-rod bucked against her, flickering across her lips, pressing her pearl, occasionally slipping playfully home. When the latter happened, she rose up on the balls of her grass-stained feel, shuddering away the sensation, focusing on her work.
With each swipe, the line of mowers gasped aloud, thirty women simultaneously goosed by their tools. On the backstroke, thirty grass-stained feet stepped forward, thirty pulses raced.
Mowing was a feeling like no other. Her wrists were bound before her. Hay-stubble whickered across her feet like playful scrub brushes. Her heart raced. Her blood pounded. And with every motion, the huge brace-rod - nothing more than a timeworn dildo - swept across her pert cavern.
It was slick with her juices now, this shaft that violated her with its rhythmic certainty. That made it worse since without friction to hold it back, it thrust into her with ever-bolder violations. She gasped, trying to focus on her swing, trying not to think of Hoffsteder's trim body rubber-clad and rope-coiled. She tried not to think of Lady Petunia trussed up on her bunk, moaning with terrified gratitude as Petra punished her for her various onboard transgressions. She tried not to think about what they'd done to that manni, Bert51 in reward for his quick thinking and quicker molestations in the Andean prisoner hut.
But it was hard. Around her, the woman wailed with each stroke. The hard woman to her left tipped her head back and muttered as the shaft rammed her unmercifully again and again. To the right, the young peasant girl swayed, her eyes screwed shut, her cheeks flushing, her breath fluctuating. There was nothing more dangerous than an orgasming mower; the helpers were quick to act. The shuddering waif was tipped back on the grass, her green-stained ankles scarfed tightly to the lower shaft. Left behind, she moaned as she rubbed up and down her tool, whittling it against her throbbing pussy, bursting with shameful orgasms.
Petra gasped through a backswing, nodded to a busty redhead next in line. Instinctually they closed the gap the climax had caused, moving forward, riding their passions though the long afternoon.
It is not to say Petra didn't climax. No one could mow for hours and not do so. But her climaxes were controlled. She opened her legs and let them go, sighing in contentment as she head-flicked the sweat from her eyes. The hard woman to her left nodded to herself with a "Mmmm" noise, her face hinting a contented smile. The redhead to the right chuckled with every climax. The mowers were finding their pace, riding their sexuality, getting their labors done.
At the end of the field, they turned and started back. Helpers stepped up behind them, warning them what was to come with a sharp tap on their shoulders. A moment later, gags were pulled into their mouths, thick water-soaked gags that quenched their thirst and magnified their arousal. Muffled and bound, dildoed and tickled, the line advanced, sucking on their gags, pressing ever forward.
Women were dropping out now. The redhead began chuckling nonstop, the tickling grass overcoming her, the lurching of her dildo distracting her. The helpers stepped in, the scarves flickered. Trussed hand and foot, she lay in the grass like a crash-landed broom-riding witch, shuddering against her shaft.
The hard faced woman nodded to Petra. It was as if they were tied together in some dark dungeon, sisters in suffering, open and exposed to unending sexual penetrations. Petra's nipples scraped against her undershirt; she wished she could tear it free and end its wicked aggravations. But with every sweep and ever step, fabric burnished her tits, driving her to boiling.
The hard woman at her side grunted into her gag, a concession to a wracking climax yet continued onwards, heedless of the methodical tickling that tormented her bare feet.
Ten women made the final turn. Behind them, the fields were littered with trussed, slowly climaxing women. The mowers tightened up and moved forward, the sun low in their eyes, the helpers moistening their gags. Petra sighed into her gag and gave her scythe a broad sweep, pleasuring herself on its expected feedback. She rose on tip-top, grunted at the popping detonation within the concavity of her sopping wet thighs, lost a step, steeled herself, regained the line. The hard woman at her side smiled to her under the gag. "Enjoying yourself, sister?" her bright eyes seemed to mock.
The tickling of grass across their feet was the worst. Every step was self-torment. It served to break their willpower, to make them even more susceptible to the shimmering knobs grinding their tender flesh. They shuddered and laughed like mad-women but they continued on, the tuna-like reek hanging in the dusty air behind them.
Suddenly a hand caught Petra's shaft, arresting it, bringing the unending torment to a stop. It was the leader, looking at her with concern, cooing, patting her gag-strapped cheek. "Calm, sister. Calm. We are done."
They were not immediately untied. Instead, two helpers came forth and lifted each grass-wetted scythe-head, leading each mower down the long hill towards the encampment. Here and there, abandoned mowers lay on their backs, still bound to their tools, still gagged. They would be left until later, a tender punishment for their weakness.
Groups of older woman and younger girls of age clustered around the bearer mannis, ones who'd been tapped out in the prior night's activities. These poor fellows stood like dumb oxen, their arms tied down to their sides, thick cloth wadded into their mouths and tied home. Forced to lean forward, huge bundles of hay were arranged upon their backs until the fellows could hardly stand. These bundles were tied fast by the mocking women overseers. Then they would be driven towards the faraway barn by whimsical peasant girls with flickering hay-switches.
As she sauntered lazily along, led by the chief and another girl, the sex-stained shaft rubbing her tenderly, Petra cracked a weary smile around her own damp gag. She drew a long inhale of late-summer air, her loins purring at the gentle sensations. The dusk was cathouse crimson, painting the precession of half-dressed, sex-drowsy women with its warm glow.
When they got to the area near the carts, Petra was happy to see the evening's mannis were trussed and readied. They'd been stripped, ropes locking their wrists behind them, their feet tightly roped to pegs. With their arms locked thusly, they were forced to lay half-propped, watching the approaching aroused, sweaty women. They gleamed like statues in their oil, their units already swelling, Pavlovian training.
Petra's gag was pulled out by the chief, who then tipped a glass of vodka down her dust-dry throat. Friendly hands untrussed her wrists, gentle words bidding her to step off her tool. She sighed in reluctance as if watching a lover depart through a dawn-speckled window. It had been so nice.
"We save big one for you," the chief told her. "Boris13. Strong as ox, big as one too." Petra followed the gesture. A brawny fellow, his broad shoulders gleaming in the last light of the day, his seeming strength at odds with his pinning hemp ropes, looked up at her, thoughtfully chewing his gag. Petra smiled. Oh yes, this one would do nicely. Still reeking from the fields, she kicked away her sweaty clothing and sank down on him, pinching and slapping, nipping and kissing, feeling her body glorify with its second wind. If anything, the intense sensations she'd felt had built her into a female sexual engine, as unstoppable as the Unbound Pleasure's orgasium extractor. Boris13 groaned against his gag, attempting to wiggle clear, but Petra wouldn't take no for an answer. In lustful punishment, she crawled up his body, ripped away his gag and rammed his face into her sex-pungent crotch. He knew his place, this manni, and tongued her in servile desperation. She tipped her head back against the newly minted stars and moaned, a sound echoed by the other mowers around her and they, too, coupled lustfully with their offerings. Out in the fields, the abandoned girls whimpered like sad dolphins but nobody gave them any mind. Stringed instruments were produced. Bottles of vodka and bowls of thick beef stew were passed. Petra ate and drank, looked for Boris for a second dance and found him already taken. Not an issue; there were other mannis staked out for the taking, and thus she took one.
Later, after she'd washed herself using water from a barrel, she crossed the camp, looking for her discarded coveralls. Around her, peasant women lay in each other's arms beneath thick blankets. Nearby, the finally freed mowers were having sloppy seconds with the staked down mannis, their begging whines falling on deaf ears.
Where the music played low and the fire burned high, she overheard some discordant conversations. Snippets about the growing dominance of the nobility, including their own Contessa. Of the repressions of her Cossacks, including (oddly) their blatant train-robbery of a shipment of bananas, up from the Crimean ports. But still, peasants grumbled and peasants feared. It was how peasants were. This was one of the reasons Petra had left. One of them.
She eventually found her coveralls and looked around, absorbing the memories of this other life. So simple. So pure. She didn't have a cover-friend for the night, but she supposed she could don her coveralls and curl up under a cart. Then she saw the older woman, the hard-bodied, close-cropped mare who'd matched her step for step and climax of climax across the long afternoon. With a wolf's smile, the older woman opened her blanket, revealing a trim body kept firm by ample amounts of exercise and passion. The smile was so inviting.
Petra figured she might have one last climax in her.
21.05.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Snowbound Chapter 2: Cossacks
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