Chapter 3: The New Maid
Van winced his way down the hall, inexperienced in his high heels. Even as a girl (before the curse had turned Van's world and chromosomes on their heads), she'd never liked them. Too tall, too unstable, a design with nothing going for it but ascetics. But now he had to wear them, along with the too-short skirt (another nervous hem-pull), the frilly apron and black wig. It was madness to hide in the Goldwaith Estate while Miss Anna and the others were beating around the bush for him. But it would be greater madness to slip through their lines with that sex-crazed gypsy woman laying in wait just beyond the estate's borders.
He'd been put immediately to work (with the search party out looking for him, it was 'all hands to the pumps' to keep the household running). Cindy and Colette (her giggling sexpot coworkers) had shown him the rooms to clean, the rooms to not clean, and the rooms to stay out of, no matter what. And so he cleaned, dusting this, arranging that.
And inside Van's pretty little head, furious plans were hatched.
He'd faked his way into employment, which would last until Anna returned from her fruitless hunt. Then questions would be asked, verbally at first, and then with a licking switch across his rope-locked bottom.
An idea came. Van straightened, thought, nodded. Carrying his feather duster as if there were dust elsewhere that needed to be feathered, he slipped into the servant's hall.
Downstairs was never as opulent as upstairs, of course. The halls where brick and mortar with dangling shackles to lock up slender wrists. Hooks jutted though heavy coils of rope, for one never knew when a call might come to assist in trussing up a troublesome guest. Petunia's maids were well-trained at subduing visitors, stripping and positioning them (and perhaps oiling them) for their Ladyship's needs.
The one bad moment came when he had to pass the open kitchen entrance. As he approached, sounds of muffled mirth drifted from the opening. He peeped around the corner to see Martha, the pretty little maid he'd flustered to climax with his newly-minted erection, still bound over the back of her chair, rosy buttocks high. Colette, the French maid he'd already met, was flicking her duster along the sobbing trench of Martha's vulva, tracing the ropes that subdivided her cheeks so smartly. Martha, still gagged, groaned as the tenuous torment flickered across her most sensitive and intimate places.
“Oooo, 'ow does zat feel?” Colette cooed as she worked over the helpless girl. “Do you like zat? How about zat?”
“Mmmm. MMMMMM!” Ropes and chair creaked as the poor girl rolled in her bonds.
Van watched, unable to risk crossing the opening. If Colette spotted him down here when he was supposed to be cleaning the straps and harnesses of the upstairs game room, Van could find himself tied in short order. Thus he could only watch for a chance, and watching made his ribbon-bound erection throb.
Then Colette daintily stepped around to double-pinch Martha's hanging nipples, so as to judge the effect of her flickering play. This put Colette facing away from him (and, of course, Martha's eyes are screwed tightly shut) and thus he slipped across the gap, down the hall, down the stairs and into the wine cellar.
In the back of the room was a large wooden door, locked with a combination lock. Van smiled and easily rolled in its combination. Stepping beyond, Van left the world of domestics behind and, however briefly, returned to the one he'd existed in when she'd been a brash tomboy.
The computational machines that ran the estate gleamed to all sides. Cards hissed down feed-slots, gears clattered. Sprockets probed punch holes like hungry erections. Looking through the storage decks, Van quickly located the staffing cards. Sitting at a typing station (the chair cold with his too-short skirt), he typed up a card for “Vanessa”, his current alter ego, listing hiring dates, Lady Anna's confirmation, all the reliant data. Tucking this into the correct stack, he turned his attention on another deck. Looking through it, he frowned. Then he removed some cards (ones with his old 'female' data) and moved other cards forward. This done, he sealed up the room and returned upstairs to continued his work.
The afternoon passed well enough. In one guest room he found a lady of quality reclining on her bed, her arms lashed to her sides, her legs pinioned together, her nightie rucking under her cruel and intricate bindings, her gray eyes bleary from enforced isolation. At sight of the maid she grunted into her gag, begging for compassion (or perhaps diddling.) Van blinked in recognition – it was Olivia Hammersmith, late ambassador to the Imperial Court (her tightly-roped role in the Japanese Crisis had put paid to that), now chief diplomat to the Pit. Her plight appealed to Van, particularly the way wicked ropes squeezed her breasts and compressed her wet crotch. Within his own dress, Van's ever-watchful companion swelled against its ribboned restrictions, nearly forcing him to hunch.
He couldn't take her – that was obvious. But he couldn't let her go – no maid of this household would release a guest without Anna's or Petunia's explicit orders (and often only to grant a potty break before another long spell of rope-locked suffering). If only to stay in character, Van settled beside her pretty ankle-bound feet. Smiling sweetly (wincing at the throbbing radiating from his crotch), Van slipped off Olivia's high-heels to reveal silky-smooth feet, fearfully arced as Olivia reacted to the perching threat. Van raised her feather duster, smiled, and swept it neatly across the captive's flinching soles.
“Mm! Mm! Mmmph!” Olivia grunted, decorum be damned. The tingling torture that flashed across her distant feet forced her to jerk against her ropes. Her boobs were squeezed as if groped – one popped clear of her nightie, its nipple hard and agitated. The crotch knot dug in, riding her bucking, rubbing her pearl, making her all the wetter. Van continued his cruel flicks, enjoying the spectacle of her struggles, her head peddling, her hair coming loose from its tight bun. When her skin grew numb from the assault on the bottom of her feet, Van danced the feathertips along the tops, swirling around ankles and sides. Olivia went crazy, her fists balled, her body wrenching up and down in its ropish web, the heavy bed rattling against the floorboards.
And suddenly her thrusts where more rhythmic. She was throwing herself against her crotch knot, her eyes screwed shut, her cheeks flushing over the wide gag. Van continued his pattern, holding it steady and predictable for it was not seemly to distract a lady in mid-distress. Then came the final heave, one which nearly lifted the bed from the floor. Olivia remained arced for a long moment, moaned, and slowly collapsed back into her sweat-soaked sheets.
There was nothing more for Van to do. He collected her shoes from where they'd flown, tenderly kissed each foot and slid the pumps back into place. Then he left the room, abandoning the flushed, panting woman to reflective isolation.
He chuckled ruefully as he slipped down a back stairwell that corkscrewed down to the servants' floor. Poor Miss Hammersmith. Whenever she represented the Pit, she ended up getting dragged down into its automated grinders, getting bobbled, tickled, stretched and groped until she shuddered salty climaxes and filled the dark, echoing vaults with desperate (and blissful) screams. Following her most recent ordeal she'd retired to the Goldwaith Estate to recuperate. Of course, the closest Petunia came to letting someone relax was to tie them across a bed and then leave them alone.
Van paused in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, listening. A hubbub came from the servants' common area; the hunt had returned. Excited young servant girls babbled about the chase, how a gypsy had been sighted yet had eluded them, how everyone was upset that the cute little manni hadn't been taken. Van listened to them chatter about what they would have done with him, the pinches, the tickles, the squeezes, the tightly knotting of cord around his nuts until his rod became a purple truncheon. It was enough to dry his mouth (and bring back the pain of his captive sausage).
Then he heard: “What new maid?”
Lady Anna's voice.
“A pretty brunette,” Cindy responded. “Vanessa, I think her name was. Quite the cupcake.”
A pause. “And where is she now?”
“Upstairs, ma'am. She went straight to work, she did. Deviled Madam Hammersmith to no end; I popped in later and the lady was fast asleep, post-coital and all. You could smell it in the air.”
“Lady Goldwaith did not inform me about a new maid. I must look into this.”
Hunching in his shadows, Van listened as Miss Anna's footsteps crossed to the main stairs, the pause at the rope hooks and the hiss of cords being selected, then her ascension. With her departure the maids began to freely chatter, chirping about girlish dreams and smutty gossip. Van gave it five minutes and entered.
“Zer she is,” Colette exclaimed, pointing a white-gloved finger. “Mademoiselle Anna, she is looking for you!”
“She didn't know you'd been hired,” Cindy idled over her tea, her cupidic face showing a trace of base cleverness. “You sure you're not some sort of trespasser?” The smile deepened. “Maybe we should tie you up and sit on you until she returns.”
Van didn't have any troubles raising a blush, thinking of all those fleshy bottoms pressing into his rope-helpless body. “Oh, you girls,” he squeaked. “I was asked to fetch a bottle from downstairs for one of the guests. You wouldn't want them to go without, would you?”
Nobody wanted that. Guests knew how generous Lady Petunia was to her guests; no bottom would be spared, no foot untickled should a maid disappoint in any way. Unimpeded, Van descended into the cellar and crossed to the far side. Here, he sat on a low stool, his lanky legs sprawled before him, capped with their uncomfortable heels. He resigned himself to sitting bare-butt on the seat thanks to his short, short skirt.
And there he waited in the dim lighting.
Eventually the door opened and a heavy tread descended. Miss Anna paused at the bottom step, her eyes sharp, her face hard, her hands filled with rope.
“The girls told me the mysterious new maid had come down here.” A long pause. “You're that boy, aren't you? That mischievous little manni I caught bent over Martha, correct? Not that the little trollop wouldn't mind a little sausage-rattling in her back cupboard but there are proper attachments for that – we don't rely on dirty little boys for such duties.” One strong hand raised the loop of rope, the thumb fingering the slipknot. Four decades of dominating bondage looked down at Van, forty years of binding many young women (and not a few young men) into tightly-mewing packages that could be pinched and canned at long leisure. “I'll rope you up satisfactory, then have you carried upstairs to the common room table. I'm certain those giggling, pinching, tickling girls could force the truth out of you. You'll stay bound to that table for days, subject to the whims of lusts of any passing chambermaid or cook's helper. Every hustling maid will spare you a grope or duster swipe. And all night, they'll drift in in ones and twos, engaging in any corruption they desire, all night long. Even Martha might get revenge of sorts, salami in hand and anuses reversed. And once Lady Goldwaith returns from London, you'll be...”
In mid-threat, she stepped forward.
A wide MI claw, gleaming in mechanical perfection, snapped down around the older woman's waist, a girdle of steel. She might have cried out, perhaps bringing her army of maids down on Van but for the second clamp that snapped around her head and under her nose, locking away such vocalizations. Without effort, the struggling dominant was lifted into the air, booted feet milling beneath her petticoat, arms flailing. Secondary grabbers quickly locked up wrists and ankles and spread them wide, turning the older women into a star-shaped bundle of feminine frustration.
Van crossed a bare leg and bobbed a pump as snippers roved over the mature yet lush body, clipping away clothing and underthings alike. The brassiere, under long strain from the mighty breasts it checked, flew clear, Anna's sizable bosum freed. The devious snips tracked along her body, pinchers peeling each layer of clothing away. Suspended, lip-locked and spread-eagled, Anna could only glare as she was forced into a wide-open striptease for the young cross-dresser perched raptly on the edge of his stool. When the last inch of clothing was whipped free, she floated in glorious nudity before her audience of one, her eyes noting the erection that his ribbon could not retain. Van throbbed to have at her, but refrained given his primary objecting.
In Van's earlier visit, after he'd added “Vanessa” to the staffing deck, he'd reviewed the MI captivation targets. Petunia usually monitored this, sometimes passing the detail to Van. Usually Goldwaith selected a servant girl or visiting guest to be grabbed, bundled up and goosed, perhaps over a short interlude, a long afternoon or an endless night. Sometimes the target was randomized just to put some spice into domestic arrangements. Those selected were carried off into a “mini-pit” arrangement, held in some hidden nook for a given length of time and “amused”.
So Van had located Lady Anna's cards and moved them forward. The time she altered to “indefinite”. That would keep the old biddy on ice, if steamy orgasms and red-hot, non-stop action could ever be equated to ice. And Anna was not facing anything she'd not been ramrodded with before; when she'd first come to this household as Petunia's governess, she'd attempted to dominate the headstrong girl. But Petunia had proven too clever, reprogramming the household MIs to bind up and ravish her pedagogue. From that moment on, Petunia's star rose, with Anna her willing servant and head domestic.
What had given him pause was that his own targeting cards had been in the queue for tomorrow. Clearly Petunia hadn't wanted her young assistant to be bored in the county, to be lazy or, conversely, to be distracted with tinkering. No, she'd set it up so her limber little assistant would be snatched up, spooled in cordage and transported somewhere within the estate's maze-like crawlspaces. There the dildos would whine up, the feathers would fan out, the straps would tighten and her limbs spread, to be flailed and fileted and fondled and that f-word, until Van was weeping in every sense.
He had to smile at the thought – what would the machines have made of the fact that she was now a he? The dildos certainly would not have worked, not as intended. Would the mechanisms adapt to the circumstances? Would he have been released? Would the machine have faulted?
All hypothetical of course, for it was Anna who was being wrapped up for the ordeals to come. Held aloft in the grips of the mechanical, she could only glare around her muting band as her arms were pulled behind her. Ribbons of leather were unspooled, lashing up her hands and arms behind her. From there, it was round her tight tummy, criss-crossing up her torso, between her full breasts, across her straining shoulders. Then down, along the strong legs, looping and relooping until she was little more than a struggling bundle, her pink skin blushing red from the strip's tension. The last loop went around her lower face, an unshakable gag that finished off her captivity. The older woman had time for a final glare before the metal arms rotated her horizontally on her back and bore her off. Beyond her struggling toes, a grate popped open, the darkness within masking the things that eagerly waited. A final mute wail and then the struggling shape had passed beyond the access port which snapped shut behind her.
And thus Lady Anna was removed from Van's wig-hair.
Van tried not to think about what might be being done to the poor woman locked up in the darkened crawlspaces. As always, the machines started slow, categorizing responses. Anna faced hours of slow pinches and brushes and probings, each more insistent that the last. Strapped up, a plaything of the machines, she would be run through the erotic mill.
Van topped the stairs to find the common room empty. This allowed him to take a tinkle in the adjacent restroom, a new experience for someone used to a pistol now handling a rifle. Once she was done, she carefully rebound herself up with the ribbon then donned a long cotton sleeper. The horrible heels she kicked away. Back in the common room, she ladled herself a bowl of stew. Just as she was finishing up the French girl, Colette, passed through. The limber brunette was wearing little more than scant lingerie which allowed her breasts to bulge and her buttocks to pout. Van found himself sliding his lap under the table.
“Did you find Miss Anna?” she inquired with a sparkle.
“Yes. Yes I did. All is well now.”
“And where will you sleep zis night?”
Van blinked. He'd not thought that far. “I... I don't know. The topic didn't come up between us.”
“Zen you will sleep with Cindy and me! Zere is jost enough room in our litty bed, you know? Come come!”
Numbly, Van allowed his hand to be captured, for himself to be dragged off his bench, to be pulled along the hall in the wake of the bubbling continental.
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19.10.12
story continues in Gai-Shift - Some Like it Knot 4: Pajama Party?
o0o