To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge
Continued from Part One
Chapter 2: Cossacks
They came for her the next day, a staggered line of rough horsewomen garbed in chapped pants and goat-fur vests. Their dirty and cruel faces, traced with Mongol heritage, smirked down from beneath greasy cylindrical caps.
The peasant women stirred in unease as their tall shadows of the irregular lancers fell over them. Only Petra stood tall. The Cossack leader drifted over, her cruel eyes so pale as to appear silver, licking her vision up and down the muscular blonde's frame as a wolf licks its chops.
"I am Velika", the dark rider pronounced, eyes on Petra's coveralls. "Are you the airshipwoman?"
"Do you think I am cowboy?" Petra snapped back.
"Seize her," the leader called. Instantly a lariat looped over Petra's shoulders. A second one joined it, the trained mounts maintaining their tension, pinning her arms at her sides. "Strip her," Velika furthered with a juicy laugh, leaning forward over her weather-beaten saddle to watch.
"You dare? Come at me one at a time, you oppressors of the people, you tools of nobles! I will lay you amongst the daisies! Stars, patriotic red stars, will spin around your head with the force of my blows!"
Of course, being Cossacks, they did no such thing. One of them jammed a dirty rag into Petra's mouth and tied it fast. Knives flashed and suddenly she stood naked before the leering Cossacks and bystanding peasants, her ruined clothing around her ankles. As Petra fumed and vowed, a large bearskin rug was tossed before her. She struggled, heaving her heavy breasts and rounded hips, but to no avail. She was tossed face down across the itchy and scratchy surface, her arms wrenched back and tightly tied, wrists to shoulders. More ropes swirled around thighs, knees and ankles. And all the time they tied her, the coarse women rudely trespassed, pinching her round buttocks, reaching under her to thumb a nipple, grabbing a gagged kiss. And then, as if she'd fallen into a wave-tossed black sea, she was rolled tightly in the hot, irritating blanket. Once it was tied tightly around her, it was thrown over the rump of a horse and they were off.
The blanket was a hell. With the rolling motion of the horse, she was shifted back and forth across the rough fur. Her nipples rubbed against her abrasive wrappings. Her muffin, heated in the close confines, was similarly agitated. Every inch of her flesh quivered as it was buffed and abraded. The ropes lacing up her limbs added to her discomfort, biting into her tender flesh with knowing devilry. Roped and wrapped and helpless, Petra felt her sexual responses gathering. If anyone else, Captain Hoffsteder, Lady Goldwaith, even Officer Drummand, had done this thing to her, she would have popped out distressed-triggered orgasms. But for these Cossacks, she would not give them the pleasure of forcing a reaction. She hoped.
She knew these women. They worked for the Contessa. In her name, they rode roughshod over the peasant women, plucking them from the fields, using them as bed slaves, taking their pleasures whenever they felt the need. No doubt this Velika, besides possessing a 'borrowed' serf-woman or two, had two or three mannis in her personal paddock, harnessed for instant riding. Cossacks like these grew content and oversexed while peasants relied on the rolling thrust of their mowing implements and the communal mannis passed around in true socialist fashion.
Contessa Anna was behind this abduction. Petra knew it. The very thought pushed a tiny climax from her overheated, fur-rubbed loins.
Anna...
She felt fingers worry around her ankles and snickered involuntarily into her gag. Lenin's Ghost - if they tickled her while she lay wrapped, it would be horrible. Yet had she known what was in store for her, she would have welcomed caresses bestowed by a trained Turkish harem trollop armed with a cruel peacock feather.
It wasn't tickling; someone was fastening a wide belt around her ankles. Then, before she could think, the ropes and belts pinning her wrap were released, the belt spun upwards on a pulley, and she was lifted ingloriously into the air, hanging by her heels, her flesh gloriously naked in the early morning sunlight.
She slowly spun, taking in her surroundings. It had once been a small village, this place, before the crude eastern mercenaries had requisitioned it for their quarters. Now every hut had a run-down look and the central hall was an open stable.
Her gag was ripped away. Velika smiled down at her, tucking the spit-soaked scarf into her pocket like a lover's token. Her cruel silver eyes flashed down at the dangling captive, her Mongol features warped into a smirk.
"Time. We have time to practice our skills before you must be made ready. It will be amusing, this practice."
Nearby, her band was mounted and ready. Their lances jutted into the sky, so many slender shafts. Petra instinctively knew that they were made of the most flexible of woods, practical for knocking down a fleeing peasant but not for spearing - bloodshed was unthinkable in the Gai-Shift world.
But as she watched through pulsing eyeballs, she saw a curious thing; the horsewomen were dipping their lances to captive peasant girls, poor shopworn creatures whose ripped dresses displayed the rope burns of long (and agitated) captivity. To each lance, the peasants carefully banded a golden spear tip. Petra looked closer. No, not a weapon head at all; a banana! They were attaching bananas to them.
The first mate suddenly had a bad feeling about this. She pulled at her ropes but they were knotted with ruthless tension. She twisted but only induced a sickening sway. Across from her, Velika was clambering easily aboard her mount. "We took you before you had breakfast. Let us fix that." And suddenly her mount was thundering towards the dangling airshipwoman!
Petra saw the oblong produce bearing in on her and instinctively opened her mouth. An instant later, she was rocking back, cheeks bulging as the entire phallic fruit rammed into her mouth with rude impact. She muffed and tried to swallow or spit but the gummy pulp packed her gob.
She'd only managed to swallow a bit when hooves pounded from behind. A moment later, something long and nasty squashed between her muscular buttocks, an organic suppository of questionable value. Slowly spinning, she shook her head down at the churned mud beneath her, her threats lost against the pulpy mouth-pack.
The catcalling horsewomen circled, their comments rude, their banana-tips flourished overhead. Petra hardly had time to swallow and spit her mouth clear when a second fruit was obscenely thrust in, bulging her cheeks out. Hardly had she recovered when someone rammed one into the patch of blonde curls at the junction of her legs. She shuddered at the psuedo-sexual natural of the strike, rocking, moaning. More impacts followed; her breasts became targets. Then the pulpy mush was hooked into each armpit. Her upturned feet were quickly smeared with squishy strikes. She could only hang, slowly spinning, as the tacky juice trickled down her once-proud body, leaving her looking like something that should be lowered into a bowl of ice cream and covered with whip toppings.
Petra couldn't deny that base usage enflamed her. She had so little chance to experience it, given her build and strength, that it was a raw sexual novelty for her. Trussed and hung, spattered and ram-packed, she saw the humiliation of the situation and found herself slowly churning out a quiet yet lingering orgasm.
Still laughing at their sport, the Cossacks trotted off to the barn. The peasant girls looked at her as if to help but Velika barked, "Leave her. The best is yet to come."
And come it did. The sun rose higher, the heat of the day compressed by the coming cold front. The mud beneath her dried. Her mouth became tacky. Her body was little more than a dangling hunk of shapely banana-marinating meat. And then they came. The flies.
Petra's grandmother had told her of the horrible flies they had in the days before the shift, the ones that would bite and sting. Somehow, it seemed that the shift that had swept the world had affected these simple black flies as well. They still swarmed but they did not sting. No, they simply walked around, sampling the various juices of banana, sweat, and sexual effluence that made up the buffet that was Petra. They strolled leisurely about her body in their hundreds, licking and nibbling, pacing and prancing. They rounded the pylons of her nipples, they followed the hillocks of her ribs, they crossed the plains of her wiggling soles, they explored the chasm of her sex. Around her and across her they danced, a living robe with a thousand tongues and a million feet.
Petra hung her head downwards and howled in shuddering laughter broken by sexual gasps. It was like being assaulted by ten women who were divided on whether to tickle her to death or stimulate her to unconsciousness. She twisted and wrenched, throwing off whole squadrons of the tiny little molesters. But they would circle and touch down, their minute but multitudinous contacts driving the poor girl to madness.
Three walked down her nose. Four walked around the curve of her ear. A dozen paced her straining neck. And if all this was happening around her face, the reader can easily imagine what was taking place across her trembling, shivering body.
If the Cossacks had been murderously cruel instead of wickedly playful, they could have left Petra hanging beneath the prickling swarm until she coughed up the scarlet blood of interior hemorrhaging. But they didn't wish to kill her. Like cruel big sisters, they delighted in the shrill screams of her torments. After all, Velika had done this very same thing to each of them at one time or another. This made watching someone else suffer it even more enjoyable.
And as for Velika, smearing a helplessly trussed and hung victim with sticky fruit juice and watching the flies turn her into a climaxing madwoman was her favorite fetish. She might look like a cruel Cossack, but beneath the vest and baggy Jodhpur pants, her little body was ripe with desire. If not for the presence of her riders and the need to maintain discipline, she would have given into her passions, stripping away her own clothing and leaping up to latch onto the dangling Petra in an explosion of startled flies. She could only imagine burying her own face in that sticky, sweet snatch, tonguing out the gobs of fruit while somewhere below, Petra instinctively serviced her in return. Panting, heaving, swaying, they could have found primordial bliss in the unlikely circumstances.
Velika blinked and realized she was rubbing a tit with her riding crop. Carefully, she lowered it, hoping the others hadn't noticed. With almost a sense of relief, she shouted to the onlooking peasant girls.
"Wenches, clean her up! She must be readied for tonight, on orders from the Contessa!"
The buckets of water thrown against Petra were a blessing from heaven. The flies, disturbed and put out, winged off in search of other staked out offerings (and there were always plenty of those, given the coarse entertainments of bored village girls). Bucket after bucket splashed her, washing away the yellowish goo that had covered her. Petra moaned in relief.
But nothing was ever easy in this cruel, cruel land.
It was understandable that the role of the peasant girls beneath the Cossacks were subservient. By circumstances (and by the application of tight ropes at bedtime) they were used as toys and playthings. Understandably, when they got a chance to dominate some poor captive or manni who came within their grasp, they would with a passion.
Thus, three of them, their thick dresses bundled high on their brown thighs, their dark eyes flashing, advanced on the dangling, dripping Petra, long-handled scrub brushes clutched tightly in eager hands. From the bristles of these heartless tools of hygiene, soap foamed like froth the muzzle of dangerous dog.
As the brush heads settled across Petra's flanks, her belly, atop the soles of her upturned feet, she suddenly awoke to the peril of her situation. Part of her was apprehensive about what was coming (the flies had been bad. The touch of the stiff bristles was bound to be worse). Another part of her was burning with desire; she wasn't often on the receiving end. But the part of her that was true-Petra raged at them, her blue eyes crackling like electrical fire, her trussed hands straining to come to grips with them.
"You running-dog harlots! You tools of the aristocratic elite! How dare you lay your brushes against my tender flesh. You best not scrub and tickle me! Do not dare! For I am Petra, and I will ... ha ha... have my revenge... oh, nohoho, not there.... You will feel my wrath... HA! NO! STOP!"
The peasant girls, their dark hair hanging across their flashing eyes, their strong brown legs set wide, lay into the screaming airship officer with a passion. They'd experienced similar torments from Velika's outriders and now desired to inflict it on another, scrubbing and soaping and swirling and swiping until the woman before them was reduced to lung-pounding hysterics. As for Petra, she shook and shuddered, throwing soapy water all about, spattering her cruelly laughing abusers, straining against her ropes, her soap-traced breasts heaving. Brushes ran down her sides, around her armpits, behind her legs, across her feet. Her face purpled from her inverted torment. It was worse than anything Captain Hoffsteder, with her straps and windup toys, had ever inflicted. It was worse than that devil-machine that churned its female fuel rods through their cycles, up in the airship's main body. It was worse than anything she'd experienced.
Which is why she was rapidly climbing towards a heaving, rocking orgasm of titanic, no, Petranic, proportions.
A brush head settled across her pussy, soaping it, settling in to launch her into the climax she knew was closer than a dozen fevered heartbeats. "Da!" she screamed. "Da! Da!" This was what she wanted, more than freedom, even more than getting Velika bound up in some quiet place for some airship discipline. She wanted it. She needed it! And now she would...!
A strong hand gripped the critical brush. "Nyet," Velika barked as she pushed it away. "She has had enough. It is time to get her ready. Douse her. Fetch forth the package that arrived from Paris. Contessa Anna desires she be made to wear it."
Petra tipped her head back and moaned in despair for her lost orgasm. Then, like a rivet cooled, she was doused with several buckets of chilly water. Blinking, gasping, blushing and tingling, she was lowed into the collective arms of the peasant girls and carried into the barn where the Cossacks waited with cruel eyes and snickering laughter...
21.05.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Snowbound Chapter 3: Anna Oblonsky
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