Chapter 2: Escape?
Colette and Cindy, the two maids, wrapped each other in tight embraces and shared a good scream.
The subject of their scream, Van (one a cocky little engineer girl, but now an engineer with a cock, complements of Sasha the vengeful sex-changing witch), winced. It didn't help that the girls' lusty distress was making his doggie sit up and beg.
The two girls gripped each other all the tighter, inhaled as one (their thinly clad bosoms pressed together like a sack of soccer balls, further provoking Van). With scarlet lips “O”ed in terror, they let out another scream.
Van did the only thing he could – he bolted.
There was no time to grab up his cloths, his old tomboy things that he'd worn as a she and were much more appropriate now. Rather, he vaulted to the dumbwaiter that stood against the far wall, crammed himself inside, unhooked its line and let go. The box dropped down the shaft.
The two maids, still locked in their shrill embrace, fell silent at his departure. It was Cindy, the busty English maid, who spoke first.
“Oh, we should have tied him up.”
“Merde,” Colette agreed in disappointment.
Meanwhile, the dumbwaiter spooled down to the bottom of the shaft, its crash spilling the naked young man across cool kitchen tiles. Shaking his head (the on one top of his shoulders), he became aware he was not alone.
In the center of the kitchen stood a chair, and draped its back, her arms bound down to its armrests, her legs to the vertical braces, was one of the cooks. Her long black dress had been flipped neatly back to exposed her upthrust peachy bottom, allowing Van to see that tight rope looped up though her crotch and between her cheeks, locking her firmly into place. On a nearby table lay a switch, ready for use.
The poor girl looked fearfully around her rope-locked shoulder, the eyes topping the thick cotton gag widening in surprise at the sight of a man in her helpless presence. Her fingers wiggled. She whined in terror and shook her ass, trying to get free. But she'd been tied too tightly and too well. She could not escape nor defend herself. She was as helpless as a lamb on an alter.
“Shh. Shhhh,” Van hissed, crossing to her. “I'm not going to hurt you. I just need some time to think and some clothing. Something amazing has happened to me.” He stepped up behind her, compassionately placing his hands atop her bottom to show his innocent nature.
But nature was taking its own course.
Suddenly a sense of urgent lust flooded through Van. The girl before him was tied so fetchingly, her expression so cute with its eye-goggling concern. Van hissed as his member doinked against her cheek, pressing into her soft flesh.
“Goodness, doesn't this thing have an off switch?”
It really wasn't his intention to grip her buttocks all the harder, his fingers kneading her flesh like bread dough, groping, gripping. And he really didn't think he should be bothering her like this, with his meaty shaft sliding so naturally along the trench of her rope-divided cheeks, the twists of cord so exciting against its underbelly. He really didn't give any thought to rising up on his toes, feeling his rod slowly shift up and down along her crack, the ropes so delightfully rough against his virginal skin. Up and down. Up and down. The girl's head now hung between her hunched shoulders, slowly nodding, her breath hissing in time to his rocking. Van's eyes were fluttering. A warmth was spreading through him. He found himself analytically wondering if his discharge would paint her bottom, spatter her back, or jet against his own chin. It didn't matter really. Nothing mattered...
“Merciful sliding slipknots! What ever is the meaning of this?”
Van plunked flat on his feet, distantly feeling the bound girl shudder as she first orgasms took her. He'd been so close himself. With practice, perhaps he could improve his time...
In the door stood an older woman as tight and stuffy as a Victorian brick house. It was Miss Anna, once Lady Petunia's cruel governess, now her enthusiastic head-of-domestics and chief disciplinarian. Van had witnessed her handiwork on one memorable occasion when it had taken her a half hour to untie a poor chambermaid Anna had left in an upstairs sitting room.
In this very house many years past, she'd kept the sex-and-science hungering Petunia roped up to instill ladylike values. So cruel (yet not unpleasurable) were her humiliations that Petunia rewrote the code that controlled the household MIs (automated claws). They fell on the cruel governess with artificial passion, stripping her, binding her, and humiliating her so very cruelly. Bound and helpless as she was, she made a perfect test subject for the cocky Goldwaith maiden to test her elixir on.
Even at a young age, Petunia understood enough of scientific method to know any test required many, many trials. Miss Anna had been most helpful (in a rope-straining, gag-gasping, clipped-titted, orgasm-denied way). When she was finally released, the matron became Petunia's most ardent supporter, running the household as tight as boat-rope.
“Stand fast, lad,” Miss Anna commanded, pulling open a drawer crammed with loops of ropes. “Place your hands behind your back, crossed nice and neat, and no monkeyshines, hear? Let's get you over a chair at Martha's side so you can be punished together.”
Van found himself nearly obeying. How easy it would be to feel her strong fingers at work behind his back, the ropes locking up his wrists. Then she'd force him over the chair, perhaps even tying his rod against its back-slating to hold him into place. Pitched forward and helpless, he'd only be able to concentrate as ropes looped around him, as Anna tied him tighter and still tighter. And then he'd be fixed, his buttocks thrust high, his ropes tight, his bound meat throbbing and the fearful Martha oogling his plight with not-so innocent eyes. He could almost feel the tenuous kiss as Anna lay the crop against his cheek, getting the range and distance just right. And then...
And then he bolted.
“Come back, boy! Come back and take your ropes!”
But he was already through the open window, dropping through the hedge (which ripped across his flesh just like lady Anna's crop almost had) and scrabbling away. From behind he could hear the head domestic calling for assistants and ropes, her voice as high-pitched as an air-raid siren. But Van raced on, ducking through hanging lines of drying clothing, crossing the lawn and pushing into the lush undergrowth that surrounded the Goldwaith country estate like bedsheets around a reluctantly rolled maiden. In short order he'd put good distance on the house. There was no sign of pursuit yet. Likely Miss Anna had to untie enough of the staff to form a posse.
He was near the border of the estate, his thoughts on clothing and cross-country evasion, when his button nose picked up the smell of cooking. Even though he wasn't hungry, he found himself stiffening at the curious smell that wafted through the close woods. He pushed though a hedge.
A cart top-heavy with a small cottage built onto its bed stood in the center of a clearing just off the main road. Before it were two women who looked up at his unexpected, blushing, naked, male arrival.
The one holding the handle of the spit was a raven-haired beauty of exotic cast, her hair contained by scarves, her heavy skirt parted to reveal long legs. One hand grasped a long basting brush, its bristles drooling with syrupy sauce. Her lusty eyes widened with calculation.
The one on the spit, bound head to toe and slowly being revolved over the coals, was heavy-breasted, big-hipped, auburn-haired, her cherubic face stained with the low heat, her body gleaming with sweat and basting.
The gypsy girl still looked at Van while her hand kept turning the spit. Her other hand ran the brush across the slowly rotating and tightly roped body, curling it over erect nipples and through her pubiced valley. Even overheated, even over-stimulated, the trussed temptation managed to grunt around the thick rope which semi-gagged her and kept her head locked to the wooden shaft.
“Oh, look, Otka,” she observed huskily. “A cute little boy.”
Otka patted the log at her side, her voice as syrupy as the sauce she generously applied to her victim.
“Come, come, little master. Come sit next to your auntie. Soon Tameran's sauces will be cooked to a sugary crust, locked into her pores. Licking her clean makes for quite the meal, one that will fill you up and have you begging for more. Of course, it drives her wild, all these slow tongue-draws, but the ropes will hold her in place until we've eaten our fill. I will even let you have her most tender spots, the ones that make her tremble and heave. So come, sit.”
Her bare foot discreetly shifted a coil of ropes within easy reach. Her eyes reflected the low fire's glow.
Van stood, mesmerized. He could easily imagine sitting at this wiry woman's side. Of feeling her strong hand slip over his shoulder as she continued to rotate her meal-slave. Her strong fingers would play across his shoulders and back, lulling him into drowsiness, making him miss her predatory smile, the hand slipping to the spare ropes, the murmurs coaxing his hands together, the nibbling of his earlobe as a noose eased around his wrists with a thief's grace. Near-hypnotized, he could only lay in the grass as she stood over him like a dark spider, her dress wide on her splayed legs, the ropes multiplying around him as she made him fast. And on her spit, the woman Tameran would watch, wondering what boyish leftovers her mistress might grant her. Just the thought of them both hanging suspended in cleverly knotted and positioned ropes as the cart creaked off on its endless journey caused the basting around her vulva to run.
Against his better interests (we could agree on that), Van took a step back. Otka realized this tasty morsel might slip from her pickpocket fingers.
“Boy, come here!”
He turned and ran, diving back though the hedge. Life on the road had made Otka quick; she grabbed up the lines and tore after him, lust in her heart and bondage in her eyes. Van heard her pushing though the hedge, screeching Romani curses. He knew that in the open, with her longer legs and lusty ambitions, she'd catch him. And once she caught him, he'd be bound and dragged back to that odd little cart and Van, boy or girl, would never be seen again.
Van barely caught sight of something hidden in the thick foliage, something dimly perceived, something webbish. With the same lack of pause that had seen him attack a submarine-load of Vikings on the Thames to defend Petunia, he kicked to one side. Otka, her own gypsy instincts confused by her womanly lusts, did not evade. There came a sharp twang, a rumble of pulleys, a cry muffled to a grunt. With curiosity at odds with survivability, Van retraced his steps.
The womantrap had been set by the Goldwaith groundskeepers, a devious collection of ropes and weights. In their center, dangling spread-eagle and face down in the air, hung Otka. Her curses were blocked by a loop of thick line between her teeth which pinned her head back. On every line was a cowbell. The captive didn't dare move, lest she ring the bells and summon unsympathetic guardians.
But prey playing possum had been considered. A moment later a clever slipknot released a low sapling, allowing it to slap against the captive's suspended, wide-open crotch. Tied to this branch was a clockwork vibrator, now activated. It buzzed merrily in the folds of the gypsy's skirts. Otka shuddered, the bells rung. Realizing her peril, she tried to hold still, sweat beading across her forehead. She couldn't hold out much longer yet the dildo had an industrial-strength clockspring. It would run for hours.
Van thought about settling down and watching Otka's test of pussy-chafing willpower. He even considered stepping around between those strong out-thrust legs, to flip up that skirt and slide in, hands on her thighs, picking up where he'd left off with the chair-bent Martha. A tinkle of bells alerted him; Otka was compressing her wrist, slowly worming her hand from its pinning rope. Trust of gypsy to know such things. She'd soon be free.
He couldn't just run away; with their woodcraft, Otka and Tameran would find him and take him. He had nowhere to go. Another tinkle. Then a mad thought took him. Turning, he dashed back towards the mansion, back towards Lady Anna and her pursuit.
Dodging the outbound group was easy – there were yells and sequels and cries of excited maids. Mounted on the back of a strap-harnessed manni, Lady Anna blew resounding notes from a hunting bugle. Yes, easy to hide under a hedge and let pursuit thunder past (with any luck, they'd find Otka and Tameran and expand their hunt-lusts on them, but Van couldn't didn't count on it. Otka seemed a good escapologist). With the way clear ahead, Van moved towards the manor. Towards it, but not to it. Not yet.
He knew he couldn't try to get away, but just yet. Not with that rope-happy gypsy wandering the woods. He'd have to hide in the Goldwaith estate until they moved on. And for that...
He paused at the clotheslines he'd ducked through in his earlier escape. Rows of maids clothing, underclothing, and other curious things hung in the sweet summer breeze like a glimpse of heaven. Slipping into a silky avenue to mask his presence from view, he picked through the offerings.
It felt decadent somehow, this act of putting on lacy panties and nylons. Van normally didn't bother with such, happiest in a jumpsuit or trousers and a working shirt. Sissy clothing always felt odd, yet somehow the effect was magnified. The nylons hissing up his legs, the panties cupping his crotch, the brassiere (with rolled-up stockings filling it out) tight around his upper body like a silk harness. All of it agitated him in ways he did not fully understand.
His wang would be a problem, excited as the clothing made him. There was no way these frilly panties would contain him – he'd pop right out. The only solution was to pluck a long strand of ribbon from the line, snugly looping it around his belly, tying his member flat to his stomach. Even doing this made him shudder; he found himself thinking of Otka and Tameran doing this to him (as they certainly would if they caught him, and probably a great deal tighter) and found his penile bindings snugging, which made him even more excited, a dangerous feedback. By the great Philips-headed god, how did mannis cope? He felt like he was about to explode.
All of this was hidden by a black maids outfit, topped with a brunette wig he found (clearly something used by Petunia for spirited role-playing). He examined himself as best he could in nearby sequins – the image returned was of a gangly maid, her horizontal banged hair utilitarian, her cheeks flushed, her stance stiff (for how could it be otherwise?). Pulling his too-short dress down, a new-found gesture of nervousness, he crossed the lawn to the front door, ringing the bell.
Cindy, the cheeky English maid, opened the door, looking out at her with eyes merry and questioning. “Yes, chickie? Can we help you?”
“I'm the new maid,” Van offered in a squeaky falsetto that wouldn't fool a five-year old. A moment's quick thinking. “My name is Vanessa. Miss Anna set for me.” Anna, of course, was currently crashing about the grounds with her high-heeled troop.
“I didn't know about this, but that's nothing new. Come in, sweetie, come in, and we'll show you the ropes.” A throaty giggle.
Exhaling nervously, Vanessa willed his high heeled pumps across the threshold to Goldwaith Estate, entering the most kidnap-likely orgasm-likely ending-up-bound-in-someone's-bedroom-likely manor-house in the county, if not the whole of the Isles. And as he did, his ribbon bound erection throbbed, afire with the danger and passion of his mad gambit...
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08.10.12
story continues in Gai-Shift - Some Like it Knot 3: The New Maid?
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