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Chapter 1: Manni Surprise
Van lay in her broad bed, curled under the sheets like some languid golden-haired feline. It was a slow, sunny morning and nothing was pressing. All of the automated devices of the Goldwaith country estate were functional; the mail tubes, the rope sorters, the auto-winches. Even the woman-traps that dotted the grounds were primed to bundle up trespassing poachers.
She lay back, hands behind her burnished-bronze pixie-cut, the brilliant blue eyes framing the sweetly upturned nose focused on something beyond the opulent guest bedroom, specifically the events of the evening prior. Lady Petunia, her employer, had just finished packing for her trip to London the next day and suggested an evening ride. At Van's ready agreement, she'd set word to the stables to have two mounts readied.
It was odd to walk across the grassy glades of the estate in her riding togs, her Ladyship similarly attired and prattling away at her side. She never got used to mannitrian riding gear, the white blouse, the leather gloves, the crop, the breaches with no crotch. It seemed so decadent to stride along with her muffin exposed for all to see. The saddle, her Ladyship maintained, was not the place to be fumbling one's trousers down.
They entered the stables to find their mounts ready. The stablegirls had picked out a pair of studs, two meaty men brushed until their skin glowed pinkly. They had been placed across a set of saw horses and belted face-up into place with wide, strong straps. As the women entered, the two manni rolled their heads, snorting against their bright red ball gags in concern of the coming steeplechase. Clearly the stock of the Goldwaith's stables were well experienced with their mistress's hard-riding, sex-pumping needs.
“I'll take this one,” Petunia smiled, her gloved hand sliding easily along the climbing shaft of her reluctant partner. The poor manni shifted in his straps, flustered at being used with such sensuous practicality. Petunia giggled at his spirit, dragging her gloved finger up, up, up along his trobbing shaft.
Van saw to her mount, a compact manni of Mediterranean cast. She was not as experienced as Petunia with such things (no woman was; her Ladyship's exploits were legendary). His saddle horn (as it was called in riding circles) had to be made erect. Coquettishly she settled on his strapped thigh, her little boots crossed beneath her, taking hold of his crank with both gloved hands. She gave the poor fellow a series of pulsing squeezes, working her way up his column, a milkmaid trick. The man groaned against his jaw-straining ball, head back, slowly shaking his head in dreamy negation. Regardless of his wants or protests, his shaft slowly grew beneath Van's insistent compressions.
She found her exposed womanhood gaining a wet dampness as she watched the thing magically swell at her touch. It wasn't the thought that soon she would be riding this cobra head of sensation, that soon its creamy venom would jet through her silky purse. No, it was just the wondrous engineering of the thing.
As Van was an engineer, she appreciated such things. She marveled at the way this meat swung up into position like an inflatable battering ram. She nodded at the practical application as a lubricant bead formed atop its head. She loved the whole process of the erection.
But secretly, she wished it was her, herself, who lay uncomfortably on this beam, straps pinning her hands and feet and thighs and chest, while some sweet young maiden worked her projecting sex towards an unconditional climax that had nothing to do with Van's own blushing needs. Thus, she wasn't getting randy at the thought that soon she would be mounting this manni's poker. Rather, she was randy at the fantasy of herself in his place.
“Come, silly,” Petunia cried as she slid into the saddle, her manni grunting as her body ingested his pillar. “Let's be off!”
Van tossed a booted leg across her own mount. Taking hold of the overhead mounting ring, she allowed herself to dangle just over his cap, slowing moving herself this way and that, feeling her way into position. Then came that pressure like a monkey fist against her minky sheath and she knew she was as aligned with her reluctant partner like a nut atop a screw. Gingerly she lowered herself like a matron into a bath, slowly sliding down his meaty tower, feeling its erotic grind regardless of all the lubrication their bodies were producing. There was a moment where she didn't think she could accept any more but on a whim she just released her grip and dropped, her trim buttocks slapping against the firm hips of her reluctant partner, a perfect fit. As if the fellow's third fist had punched into her lungs from below, she tipped back her head and blew an appreciative, “Ahhhhhhh.”
“Come now,” Petunia called from her side, bounding away. Her crop cracked against her partner's flesh. Her mount squealed and drove harder. “We're not out for a trot. Gallop, girl, gallop!”
And so Van brought rose slightly in her saddle as her Ladyship had taught her, her own crop flicking, riding hard, hard, gloriously hard, feeling the flesh move beneath her, hearing her breath rasp in time to her mount's. The two women rode hard, Petunia measuring their pace to lengthen their duration. A few leaps, a near-fall or two, and then they were thundering home, blouses open, breasts thrusting, nipples hard, sweat flying, their partners gleaming with sexual lather. Then Van felt something flush within her like hot syrup and her own passions exploded. She reached down to grip the only handhold she had, her manni's nipples, lest she fall from her seat. This caused the man to shudder as his climax intensified. But Van was ready, taking his bit between the lips of her vulva and biting hard. They bucked like something out of an American rodeo, bouncing and shuddering, the wide straps only just containing the wild manni. And then, like the calm in the wake of a storm, they stilled. Van dangled forward, a bead of sweat trickling down her pug nose to fall with a splat into the manni's navel.
“Most invigorating,” Petunia managed as she whistled for the stablehands to help them dismount. They'd been borne back to their beds in sedan chairs, their weary bodies steaming in the twilight.
And so it was now the following morning the Lady Petunia already away on the first train down, and Van left to her own literal devices on the estate. There was nothing pressing. Yawning, she settled her head into the cradle of her arms, looking up at the ceiling, mussing on how that manni had conjured a thick hard wand out of seemingly thin air. Just the thought of the process made her hot again. Purring like a kitten, she cracked open her eyes and looked down the length of her sheeted body, wondering what she'd do with her day.
A moment later, those lazy eyes were wide open, their blue as surprised a hue of blue as could be.
Midway down her body, her sheets jutted as if propped by a tent peg.
In wonderment, she reached down and rubbed a finger tentatively across its summit, gasping as an exaggerated sensation rushed back through her body like a sensuous echo. It was just like, well, when she fingered herself yet in this case distant, almost external to her. In confusion, she cast off the sheets.
Her modest little breasts were gone, her nipples now flat on her chest. Her torso appeared longer, less curvy around her hips and ribs. And between her legs...
Between her legs...
A penis. A penis! Her penis!
His penis?
What had happened to her? Him?
Her/his deepest desire, and suddenly it had happened.
It scared the shit out of her/him.
What had happened?
(Of course, we know what had happened. He (we'll go with 'he', since Van most certainly was) had pissed off the wrong person, specifically a witch dangling in bondage in a smoky Viking hut. Van laughed it off then, repaying Sasha for unwanted advances during their imprisonment in the raiders' camp. And Sasha had thrown a spell, one whose affect was now obviously, testicle-dangling clear.)
So Van sat in his bed, looking in wonderment at this new thing of his, this mounted toy, this thing placed perfectly for masturbation. He ran his hand slowly up its length, shivering with joy as the hot icy sensation spiraled up his nerves. Wonderful. He lay back in his pillows, both hand settling naturally around his shaft. The whole day lay before him. Think of it as... experimentation.
Then came a sound of the outer door opening, the one to the apartment's ante-chamber. Low voices. Van slipped out of the bed (his semi-hard penis swaying so strangely) and crossed to the door, placing an ear to it.
“...like you'll ever get a manni,” a saucy English voice opted.
“I might. Perhaps I shall buy into one of zos, ow you say, collectives? Where many women own a man, to pass about for pleasure? Oui.” This voice was continental.
“And you wouldn't share it with me? Not with Cindy, your oldest friend, coworker, and snuggle-pal roommate? Just who untied you time after you first arrived, naked and hogtied in the straw of your shipping crate? And who chased the other girls off when they tied you up for sport and were ready to pass you about like randy gossip? And who bailed you out in London when you were arrested for being foreign – you were done out of your clothing and done up in straps, dangling from your heels, ready to go before the Judge-mistresses. And that time that vibrator ran amok...”
“Oui, oui. Yes, you 'ave pulled some tight jams out of lettle Colette, I agree. And oui, of course I would share a male, mon ami. I would not leave your muffin out in zee cold. But really, how will I ever get a manni? I am but a lowly maid in the employ of Lady Goldwaith. I only got to see one zat time zee carnival came and zey had a petting zoo.”
“Oh yes, wasn't that lovely though. The way the had that brute strapped up to the board, and how you could reach over and stroke him up for shilling.”
“But, poor poor thing. They spanked him whenever he came too close to cum.”
“Well, you wouldn't want spunk all over your pretty Sunday dress, would you?”
“Oh, I do not know. Perhaps we could, between us, maybe suck the stains out? You know, sucer-sucer?”
A round of giggling.
“Well, Colette, don't you worry your curls over this. We'll get us a man somehow. And when we do, you and I will tie the blighter up, nice and tight the way we practice on each other, then we'll nip him down to our bed below stairs, nice and isolated and alone. Then we'll rope him flat to the bed, and we'll jolly him in turns, one after the other.”
“Oh, magnifique! And when you get your zings to zis fellow, may I watch? I would love to see you two, 'ow you say, 'umping?”
“Perhaps we could get us a mirror, and do him together while we both watch.”
“Ooh la la!”
Van's hand on the doorknob chilled. There might be mannis who would fling open the door and let these two randy maids drag them off for servitude most carnal, but he'd only just gotten this new wick of his and needed time to figure out its care and feeding. It was too soon, much too soon, for total debauchery.
Carefully he backed from the door. He needed to get his clothing – he hoped it still fit his altered status – and find someplace to come to terms with this. And to grip. He had to see what an orgasm felt like from the manni point of view.
The hinges squealed as the bedroom door was cast open.
“Cindy, I shall remove zee sheets. You clean zee furniture with zee featherdooster and...”
A trio of gasps.
The two frilly maids, one round as a Cornish game hen, copper-haired and blushing cheeks, the other girlishly small, her black hair a ribbon of jet curls, gaped. Van gaped back, his only response the inappropriate rise of his wang.
The two servants screamed, loud and shrill and terrified.
“A manni! A manni! There is a wild manni loose in the house!”
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08.10.12
story continues in Gai-Shift - Some Like it Knot 2: Escape?
o0o