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 3
Chapter 4: Anna's Toy
Petra's sky blue eyes eased open. She wasn't in her airship bunk; she was on a huge white-sheeted bed, larger than her stateroom aboard the Unbound Pleasure, vast and soft and crisp. She shifted slightly, felt the nibble of the ropes the maids had applied the night before, ropes pinning her wrists behind her back, her feet together, with a loose link between them. Then it came to her: she was lying helpless in the bed of her enemy.
Naked, too. Other than some frilly French underthings, all lace and elastic and tiny bows, she was stripped. Her dress, that opulent satin straightjacket from the night before, had been whisked away by giggling chambermaids.
She'd thought she was going to be spanked the night before (deep down, she'd hungered for it). But no, regardless of Anna's stated intentions, her calls for switches, crops and paddles, the lusty Russian noblewoman had simply slid into a close cuddle with her bound bed-guest, seemingly content to stroke her gently through the night, her long fingers exploring the buttocks she'd so recently threatened. Ballgagged, eyes screwed shut, Petra could only lay in silence and feel her traitorous pussy nearly burning a hole through the sheets. Pulling at her ropes, grunting before Anna's forced passions, she yearned for attentions that should have disgusted her. Eventually Anna had drifted to sleep, her long limbs draped over the blonde airshipwoman, her snores angelic, her body warm and soft.
And now, seemingly in an instant, morning.
In the strange pale lighting, Petra noticed the paddles and crops, all lined up on the bed table, ready for Anna's use. She was not out of the woods yet, it seemed. She pulled at her ropes but the maids had been too thorough in their efforts.
"How beautiful the snow is, darling," came Anna's voice. Petra lifted her head to peer back over a captive shoulder, seeing her keeper standing against the tall window, the softly refracted light blurring around her wispily garbed form. Unlike Petra's white lace, Anna's underthings were midnight. Clearly the black queen had taken its white counterpart.
"It must be ten feet deep outside. You'll not be leaving, not for a while. It will give us time to become reacquainted. It will be ever so much fun."
Petra sighed and lowered her head to the cloud-soft fabric. Anna crossed over, her peach-like buttocks sinking into the mattress nearby, a warm hand placed with trespassing familiarity on the bound girl's hip.
"You needn't worry about your little Mongol friend. She went downstairs during the ball, sulking and drinking, finally passing out. I understand the maids have her bound to a little bed in the coal room and are taking turns dallying with her. Perhaps later we'll go and watch her being tormented. There is little else to do. We are all tucked up, snug as bugs in our small little cottage."
Petra shook her head faintly at this downplay. The Oblonsky manor was so big that if one removed its inner walls, there was a good chance of easing the Unbound Pleasure inside. You'd have to lubricate its long surface, of course.
"And now, darling, perhaps we'll play a game. You think of a number from one to one hundred, and I'll try to make you tell." A manicured hand took up a rounded paddle. Petra found herself rolled onto her belly, the linking rope removed. Firm fingers captured her hands, pushing them up and out of the way. A knee settled across her thighs, pinning her down.
"Ready?"
Petra braced herself.
Crack! Crack!
The paddling went on for some time, roving across her posterior, working it from every angle. Petra found herself grunting to time with the strikes, flexing at each impact. But Anna was experienced in such matters and held her firmly down against the soft bed, working her as methodically as the paddle machines in London's Pit. Forty-five minutes passed, the pain swirling into a mist that seemed to intoxicate the bound airshipwoman into a pre-orgasmic state, her pussy so wet it pressed a damp spot into the spread. But the pain also kept her from climaxing, a nagging interruption that disturbed her sexual focus six times a minute. When it finally ended, Petra groaned in frustrated relief, feeling her muscles relax. Anna remained sitting over her, running a finger in idle curiosity across the reddened ruins of Petra's posterior. Time passed, for time they had in buckets, snowed in as they were. Anna was in no rush. She could play with her toy at her leisure; there was no need for haste and permanent injury.
"I must get dressed to see to estate business. I'll return later to resume our play".
Petra could only lie there, her buttocks smoldering from the abuse, feeling Anna loop a rope through her ankle-bindings, hitching the other end to the far bedpost. Then she bathed, dressed, kissed her groggy captive on her balled plug, departed.
Petra lay in bed, musing that Anna never even asked for the number. Of course, Petra would have agreed to the first number chosen.
Or perhaps she never would have admitted to anything.
It had felt so... domineering.
Eventually a somber older woman with short graying hair and steel-rim glasses entered, her tray containing onion soup and a tube of cream, a balm for her buttocks. The soup was good, the cream even better. By the time Anna returned, Petra's rear end was as pink as peaches.
"I'm glad to see you're feeling better. Do you remember this crop? It's very much like the one I used on you all those years ago, back when you refused my simple request." Anna looked down, flexing the crop. Then she reached back and let her long dress fall to the floor, revealing her expectant patch. "I'd like you do to service me again. Do you agree? Do you, my dear?"
Petra, of course, had to shake her head. She simply couldn't give in. Even though she hungered for the taste of Anna's sin, she knew she couldn't just surrender. Lenin and Marx, mannis from before the Shift, glared at her from their imaginary afterlife in silent disapproval. This was class warfare at its most base. And if anyone could cool adore, it was those two.
And so the crop flashed. It took several hours and a reapplication of the tube's cream, but in the end, Petra lay headfirst between Anna's shapely legs, the noble's boots cool against her shoulders, her pussy burning beneath her nose. And she licked, licked hard, for whenever she faltered, Anna would crack a coaxing strike across her unprotected bottom. Frustrated, ashamed (and secretly turned on), Petra's tongue pestled Anna's twat, her drool mixing with the juice of love, a sauce for her private feast. Overhead, Anna leaned back and moaned contentedly, twirling Petra's ballgag lazily in her hand, as content as a cat whose cream is lapped.
And so it continued, day after day in the isolated house bound in coils of tight white snow. Over long quiet hours, Petra lay trussed on the vast bed, Anna's toy, a sounding board for her various artifice de impacts. The Contessa would smile her wintry smile as she worked across Petra's strong buttocks, making the airshipwoman flinch and blink with every expert stroke. And then would follow the quiet time when the poor abused blonde would lay in her ropes, her upthrust posterior glowing, a 'reflection period', as Anna called it. And in the end (and to her end), Mistress Gayana, the older bespeckled woman would call, to apply her cream and see to Petra's general well being.
It was the third day, after a wicked, prolonged application of a ping-pong paddle across her upraised rump, that Gayana took particularly good care of her. Petra was face down on the broad bed, her ankles trussed apart on either end of a stout pole, her wrists pulled down between her thighs and roped to the pole's center, her cheeks glowing like rising binary suns. Gayana's fingers spread cooling cream across her hurts, a balm that caused the cleave-gagged prisoner to moan in contentment.
"I shall have to ask the Contessa to go easy on you for her afternoon session. Should she rupture too many capillaries, I would have to recommend a temporary cessation." Her voice was as cool as her cream. "We couldn't have that, no? Now, while you are presented so nicely, allow me to conduct a minor physical."
There came another squirt of cream, a different type, the slosh of fingers rubbing it into their flesh. Then Petra's eyes opened to their most bluish extent as these fingers, long and knowing, probed down between her legs, slithering into her womanly place, tracking her trembling lips, rubbing her pearl-like nub.
Petra moaned in delight, gasping at the sensation of being serviced with loving gentleness by a trained professional. With her medical knowledge, the silent Gayana knew just how to touch her, to stroke her and manipulate her. Petra found herself wishing to break free, to shatter the ankle rod and tear apart the ropes, to take up the Contessa's personal physician and hug her in lusty gratitude for the soul-wrenching sensations that were flowing through her. But tied fast in Anna's ropes, gagged by Anna's ball, she could only shuddered and sway and Gayana pulled orgasm after orgasm from her, a magician with hat full of rabbits.
Every day or so, Gayana would conduct her thoroughly sexual inspections, emptying Petra of her pent-up lusts. Petra never did find out if Anna knew of these activities and never asked (in those infrequent times when she was ungagged). After all, there was a certain confidentiality one shared with one's physician.
There were other activities besides paddlings that took place in the snowbound estate. One day, Petra was clothed (if the application of French-cut lingerie was considered clothed), then lightly bound and silk-ribbon gagged. "I wish to show you what has become of your little friend," Anna confided as she took her arm and walked her down the long halls of Oblonsky manor.
From the ballroom there came the sounds of girlish squeals. When they entered, three maids stood in a corner, waiting. Another rode a small Shetland pony about the room, clearing small jumps in a laid out course. It was only when Petra looked closer that she realized the pony was Velika the Cossack.
The Mongol's arms and legs had been folded into sheaths, her elbows and knees padded with rubber hooves, forcing her into a mule-like subservient posture. The rest of her tan flesh was wrapped in tight burlap; Petra could only imagine how infuriatingly hot and itchy it would be. A horse's tale jutted from her buttocks, requiring no imagination to figure how it remained thus. And her head was covered with a cruel leather mask, the nose tapered to suggest equestrian lines. Petra only realized it was Velika when she saw the dark tapered eyes trapped within the mask, eyes dilated in lust yet downturned in shame.
The maids were enjoying their little jaunts, the jumps and trots. With semi-sharp spurs hooked to their high pumps, they would clamber aboard with chirps of excitement. After their brisk circuit, they would climb off, abet more slowly, their eyes drowsy with contentment from their bare-backing. Of course, the wet stain in the burlap on Velika's muscular back would be even larger.
"Petra must try," Anna said suddenly. "She must go for a ride."
Petra shook her ribbon-gagged head, not wishing to contribute to Velika's humiliation but that made no difference. Giggling, the maids easily lifted her up and set her in place on the Cossack's burlapped back. At first, the wetness of prior excitements was discomforting, but the burning heat and muscular shifting of the girl beneath her suddenly made it less disagreeable, more erotic. Petra still hummed her protests as the spry little servants trussed her into place, her legs cocked back, a line from her behind-her-back wrists looped loosely through the horse's tail. Before her, Velika looked up, her eyes widening as she saw who the next rider would be. Petra felt the girl tense up, readying herself. It was as if this girl who'd rammed bananas into her a week past now wished to share something glorious, an experience most women could only fantasize about.
It was Anna, of course, who started it, slapping the mount across her eager rump with a small hand-paddle. Velika shot off, Petra thumping and bumping, feeling the burlap tangle with her pubic hairs, feeling the ripple and play of the strong girl's back beneath her vulva. A low rail; Velika sailed across it, coming down hard, the impact shuddering up through Petra's cocked thighs. The airshipwoman cried out, head back, swaying yet locked in place by the tight lanyards. So off they went, jumping and galloping, every move of the Cossack shuddering up through Petra's sex, exciting her through both the raw physical motion of the thing as well as the indecency of the act. It was deliciously corrupt, and bound as she was, Petra could only endure the base deviance.
Finally they completed the course, swaying like a weary dispatch rider and mount. They collapsed before Anna's feet, the abused Cossack shuddering from the sensation she'd absorbed from her rider, the rider likewise, a sexual feedback that screamed through the psyches of both women, leaving them shuddering in their rope-locked situation. Anna and her maids watched the two women share their joint-orgasm, a confused ball of burlap and lace, ribbons and straps. And then, finally, they were still.
"Take Miss Petra to my bedroom," Anna said with mocking concern. "Secure her for me. As for this one," a toe nudged the horse-mask, "you may do with her as you wish."
Petra hardly remembered being carried upstairs between the two maids who discussed with great practicality how she should be bound. She luxuriated as she was bathed, the maids washing away the many scents she'd acquired: spank-cream, burlap, maid-juice and her own wet arousals. Then she was laid in bed, hardly able to move as her hands and feet were collected before her and bound together. Watching with lazy eyes, she observed the follow-up tie, that of her knees and elbows being similarly roped up. A ball nudged against her teeth and she yawned to accept it, feeling it firmly buckled. Then she was left on her side, her limbs collected before her, her buttocks as exposed as market produce.
She heard Anna enter, saw her standing overhead, watched the shapely arm reach over, saw the manicured hand take up a paddle, one with efficient air holes.
"After a brisk ride, there is nothing like a good brisk stroking. Do you not agree? And then when I am finished with you, perhaps one of those little midnight snackings you perform so well."
She felt the bed stir as Anna settled behind her, felt the light touch of a positioning hand, heard the faint whisper as the paddle arched downward...
21.05.10
story continues in Gai-Shift - Snowbound Chapter 5: The Prussian Maid
o0o