Chapter 4: Pajama Party
With his new body and untested sexuality, Van was trying to keep a low profile and an even lower angle-of-attack on his fleshy fifth limb (which was becoming more difficult to manage than the pre-cursed gender-unhappy tomboy could have anticipated). Trapped in the Goldwaith estate by a hungry gypsy with a sweet-tooth for sweet-boys, the she-now-he had been forced to don wig, sleeper and girlish demeanor to escape notice by the amorous staff. He'd even had to trick the busty mature head-of-staff into a cold clutches of the mechanical intelligences (MIs) who were even now pluming her sexual depths in some dark crawlspace where her muffled moans and warbles would pass unnoticed.
But for all his plans to find a cozy storeroom to gain perhaps forty winks and twenty strokes (Van's kitten-curious nature still wanted to experience a male orgasm first pink-palmed hand), he'd found himself snatched up by the bubbly Colette who'd clamped onto his arm and was half-dragging him down a hall. And Van was trying not to notice the tight (yet girl-soft) clutch of her eager hand, the lines of her back beneath her stealthy continental lingerie or the bob of her exposed bums. For to notice her girlish charms was to inspire his spire to swell against his restrictive ribbons, bringing a bead of sweat to his brow and a flutter to his weakening heart. Oh, the dilemma.
“We would be zo happy to have you as, ow' you say, a new bedpartner,” Colette bubbled.
“But there is no need,” Van protested, trying to plant his feet and being nearly pulled off them.
“Oh, you stay with us or I'll tie you op ever so tight and not let you go. How would you like that, ma Cherie?”
Van's dry mouth clamped shut, hoping the question was rhetorical, yet his hope was not fully committed.
At the end of a slope-ceilinged hall, windowless from its below-ground-level location, was a door that the Frenchwoman tossed open and dragged him inside.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“Oh, it's that delicious new girl.”
“Hi.”
There were four other girls in the small room, all perched on the little iron bed Colette and her roommate shared. Colette, with her curled black hair, her slender frame sheathed in black silk, we know. Also known is her roommate Cindy, the peaches-n-cream midlands girl whose sweeping curves were covered with a sleeper much like Van's yet short enough to verify her cherry-hair was natural. Van flinched to see Martha in their company, the wiry girl with brown-black hair and face long in honesty. He hadn't seen much of her face earlier, given how he'd stood behind her over-a-chair bound body, tormenting her rope-parted cheeks with his throbbing rod. She now wore pajamas and hugged her knees but close examination could detect the pink bandings of ropeburn and the blush of tape.
The two other girls, a saucy black girl and a bubbling blonde, both revealingly garbed in beddie-bye-wear, were introduced but Van's misfiring brain did not retain their names. He quickly took a seat on the corner of the bed, iron bedpost to his back, knees up to conceal his bulge. Only then did he realize that the bed was covered with all manner of girlish things; soft silk ribbons and cotton ropes (useful for slumber party games), silky discarded nylons (still steaming from limber-long legs), and eye-popping French postcards of mannis bound in demeaning (and useful) positions.
“Do you see her, Colette?” Cindy whispered from the bed. At the door, the French dove peeped back into the hall. “No sign of Lady Anne. She ezz nowheres to see.”
Cindy nodded. “Good. She's always mad when she discovers a sleep-over and ties everyone up. Not that it's so bad, but she ties tight and always spanks. Puts a blush in my cheeks, all of them, I'll tell you.” She produced a tiny flask and after a sip, passed it about. Van found it to be apricot brandy, as bracing as a tight straightjacket.
“So, Vanessa,” Martha asked with the gentle kindness of a woman who'd been racked with back-door orgasms only a few short hours before, “what households have you served at?”
Van checked his first instinct to name some of Lady Goldwaith's highbrow friends, knowing that often ladies of noble birth exchanged servants (often in crates sent third class). One slip would unravel his story and bind up his limbs. Picking a distant Welsh research station and airship refueling depot on the craggy edge of nowhere, she said, “Oh, I've served at Cnotta on Gaggen since I first came to service. This is my first time into England proper. I don't know anyone, anything, anywhere.”
“Those Welsh girls,” Cindy giggled around the flask nipple. “Green eyes and laughing freckles, always looking to bind someone up with thick flower garlands to drag out into the windswept moors.”
“Aren't windswept moors chilly?” Martha asked, ever-practical.
“It's like sheep,” Cindy figured. “You know how they cuddle so close? You find an abandoned rabbit warren, slide your bound partner in, then slip in next to them, clutching their ropes, eye-to-eye, lips-to-gag, wiggling and squirming and thrusting. More than enough heat.”
“French girls, zey do this,” Colette informed, dropping onto the bed next to Van and throwing a friendly arm around his uncomfortable shoulders. “Zey trick their lovers into zee ropes, carry them out into fields and bury into zee haystack.”
“Did this ever happen to you?” the bubbly black girl asked.
“Oh yes, zere was a girl, next village over, who was always stealing me out of my bed and carrying me away over 'er shoulder. Into the hay I would go – shoom! Into the hay she should follow – shoom! Since I was all bound opp in tight ropes from toes to bosom, I could not push her away. Oh, the things she would do to me.”
“With her fingers?”
“Non. With 'er teeth. Nip nip nip, all along my body, across my bums, down my legs. She'd nip my nose and eat my toes. And all through this, I could not defend myself. And so it would go on, all night long. Even when I climaxed into her face – which she loved – she'd start all over and make me do it again.”
“How beastly,” Martha judged, her warm eyes aglow at the shameful imagery.
Cindy leaned back against the heaped pillows, curling her short yet shapely legs around her like snake-coils, her muffin a glimpsed, pouting promise. Under her ruddy bangs, eyes flashed as she raised her flask in toast to Van. “We'll, there will be no time for rabbit holes or haystacks for you, m'girl. We work hard, play hard, tie tight and climax right. You'll find yourself tying servants and guests fairly frequently in her Ladyship's employ, so be ready.”
The other girls muttered, secret smiles playing across her catty faces. Van was conscious of their long legs and scanty bedthings, the heat of their bodies and the sheer femininity of the moment. He raised his own knees, hiding his reaction, knowing that if the girls around him suspected, they'd tear him to pieces in a desperate orgy. His blood pounded in his ears. Across from him, Cindy passed the flask on and continued.
“The thing about Lady Goldwaith is that she loves to tie, and whoever she ties, she loves. She binds like an artist, turning her plaything, man or woman, into a object of pitying, blunted sexuality. Often she'll tie you up and just leave you to boil across the long hours, knowing that when she does return, she'll do you silly. Other households, the below-stairs girls cross their wrists reluctantly for their mistress, knowing it will be something wet or unpleasant, and they'll only do it then to get out of their work. Here, our pretty missy is just a treat. You'll find yourself screaming into your gag in rapt pleasure as she runs her smooth knowing hands across your roped-fast bottom, pinching your titties and murmuring the most indecent things to you. Really, the only reason she employs mouth-filling gags is not because she's afraid her playmates will scream for rescue – rather its to keep them from yodeling their huzzahs and calling for seconds.”
Van nodded as he sipped his turn of brandy, knowing it to be true. As a she, she'd been Petunia's guest more often then she could count, and had spent many a day roped across a bed, sweating out her mistress's return, the flashing eyes over her wide leather gag taking in the creams and dildos and pinchers on a nearby tray. It was a perk, and as Cindy noted, nothing perked a person up like the attention of Lady Petunia Goldwaith.
Across from him, Cindy upturned the flask and frowned prettily at its emptiness. “I guess that's it for the booze. I guess there is one thing left.”
Around him, the girls beamed widely, clapping and leaning forward like Romans at the arena. Van felt dread fall over him. “Um, what's next,” he asked tightly.
“Spin the bottle,” Martha laughed, hopping up and down and clapping.
“And whoever loses gets... a kiss?”
“Oh, more than that,” Martha husked, her long brown hair sweeping around her homely-pretty face. “Much much more.”
Van raised his knees higher and clasped them tightly. Cindy looked to each girl impishly, placing the flask atop the glossy surface of manni bondage pornography. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the empty container spinning.
Around and around it went, flashing goldfire across eager womanly faces (and one dreading male one). Flick flick flick. It slowed. The girls leaned in, their fists clenched tightly, their breath rasping. For one awful (and perhaps wonderful) moment the incriminating end of the flask looked to be ready to stop dead at Van. However, a raised photo of a manni bound across a beam, oiled and fearful, dragged at the flask, slowing it to a fateful stop.
“Oh, non non!” Colette cried. “I'm not in zee mood for such a thing...!”
“You will be when we're done with you,” Cindy shouted. “Get her, girls!”
What occurred next mesmerized Van to the core of his ribbon-bound wank. The pajamaed girls piled over the lingeried damsel, bearing her down beneath a wave of soft womanflesh, their hands gripping for wiggling limbs, talking hold of their victim, sorting her out. Colette was still shaking her head, begging yet laughing as her assailants pulled her limbs out, hauling her spread across the bed, each to a corner. Long legs draped across her heaving black-silked body, pinning her down. She tried to cry out again but Cindy leaned out to smartly clap a hand across her ruby lips.
“Mmmffph! Mmmmmph!”
It was Martha who showed a surprising degree of limberness, reaching a long pajama-panted leg forward, catching one of Colette's critical ribbons with her toes and pulling the bow open. The night-silk parted, opening a clear path of opportunity to the Frenchwoman's puckering sex.
Cindy jerked as the girl beneath her bucked all the more, her desperations exciting the lot of them. Glancing up through a break in her bangs, she rasped, “Vanessa, be a dear and get that dildo from the cupboard. Yes, that one. Please service Colette; I think she really needs it.”
“Mohh! Mohh!” the nimble yet pinned girl moaned through the clamping hand, but her eyes were anything but frightened or reluctant. Even with heated hands gripping her wrists and ankles and long legs tossed over her, her hips were raising to meet her fate.
Hunching in a concealing fashion, Van fetched up the indicated sex toy and scooched in between the wide-tossed legs. Not wishing to harm his new friend, he slid the long cool rod into his mouth, lubing it up. Colette watched him in breathless fascination, blinking slow, hovering just above a pre-orgasmic swoon. Van leaned forward and placed the rounded torpedo just so against the moistened lips that kissed it in friendly fashion. He moved it up and down, working out the angle, making Colette bark in hand-gagged frustration. Then, pop, the shapely shaft was sliding into her as if it was the most natural fit in the world. Colette arched higher, the girls laughed more lustily, and Van began working her in the way of a piston-driven steam engine, back and forth, up and down, thrust-thrust-thrust.
The ring of girls was distracted, trying to maintain their hold while dividing themselves with pinching and stroking themselves or their captive. Martha was moaning, clearly wishing the flask had picked her. Cindy lazed as if half asleep, her nipples bold against her night slip. The black girl at Van's side slipped his bottom a squeeze – he should have feared a followup grope and perhaps a terrible discovery but his entire attention was on the girl spread before him. He continued his thrusting, feeling her sexual juices back-spatter across his wrist, feeling his boner throb within its ribbony web. If he came now, it would be obvious – no woman could make that big a stain. And then it would be him gripped across the bed and the women taking turns riding him across the jumps.
Then, with a mighty heave that nearly set them all flying, little Colette shuddered and shook, the bed rattling down to its bolts, its legs dancing across the floor. Van kept it up, pumping every last climax from the poor prone girl, exploring her tacky cavity. Then, finally, it was clear she was fin. He pulled the blood-warm sex toy out with a pop and tossed it into the corner.
“Wow,” Martha shuddered.
“My,” the blonde gasped.
“By the goddesses of my mother,” the black girl moaned.
“Coor,” Cindy explained. “What should we do with her now? I suppose its time for bed.”
“She's too good a thing to let go,” Van noted, mind whirling and boner pounding. “Let's keep the cute thing tied for the night.”
Colette moaned about suffering enough but the other girls were still grooving at her distress. With the quick efforts of Goldwaith staff, they trussed the weary worn girl up in ribbons, hands behind her back, feet together, knees and elbows looped. A wide ribbon went around her mouth, catching her eyes on a secondary pass. Dumb and blind, she was easily lain into the floor of the wardrobe amongst rows of foot-scented pumps. The closing door sealed off her final squeak for mercy.
“And that's it for her,” the blonde giggled, throwing an arm around her black roommate. “I think we'll retire ourselves. We're rather... inspired.”
“And my roomie went to town with our Lady,” Martha moped. “Poo.”
“Maybe you could help me with one more thing,” Van asked sweetly, his blood thundering in the ears beneath his overheating wig.
“Of course,” the blonde said. “After your floorshow with Colette, anything.”
Van unrolled a finger in disinterested ladylike fashion towards Cindy. “Could you tie my roomie up?”
“Gladly,” the black maid lustily laughed, leaping forward with the others.
“Wait, what? No!” cried Cindy as she was quickly overruled, overcome and overpowered.
She was pressed into the superheated female-fragranced bed, her legs collected by coiling arms, her wrists shackled by clutching hands. Her squirming earned a knee in her back. As inevitable as the coming dawn, her arms were pulled behind her, ropes were fetched and wrapped with overabundance around her straining limbs. Her forearms were crossed and locked up. Her elbows webbed. Her legs were force-folded and tied fast, twin frog-ties. A thick cloth gag broke her tight lips, wedging her teeth and leaving her gulping and glugging in blushing agitation. In the end, the three girls looked down at her, savoring her bound body and punitive struggles. Van, witness to the spectacle of battling bedclothed beauties, stood with an iron bedpost masking his iron erection. His own ribbons were cutting him in half.
“Would you like to be bound face to face with Cindy?” Martha asked sweetly. “We could do you up nice and snug, and I've a lovely two-headed dildo I could fetch...”
“No,” croaked Van, sweat running under his black wig. “We're good here.”
“Then we'll leave you to settle things between yourselves,” the blonde giggled, easily catching her black roommates arm and sweeping it up into the small of her back, driving the gasping girl onto tiptoes. The three girls departed. The door closed. Van and Cindy were totally alone (not counting the soft moans emanating from the base of the locked wardrobe).
With a hard thrust, Cindy managed to toss herself onto her back, her knees jacked wide, her bedclothes up around her tummy. She moaned into her gag, looking at Van with half-closed eyes, her breath quickening with expectation. But expectations occasionally fall short.
Van stepped around his shielding bedposts, looming over the bound woman. With a flick, he tossed his silly black wig aside, his blonde mop crazing out.
“That's all I can stand,” he declared as he ripped away his sleeper, “and I can't stands no more!” With that, he debowed his ribbon. His meat-ram locked into attack position, swollen and throbbing and ready. He took a step closer. Cindy goggled the looming thing, eyes wide as saucers. With confused acceptance, she cocked her knees wider to receive the battering to come...
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08.11.12
story continues in Gai-Shift - Some Like it Knot 5: Cindy the Rubenisque Maid
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