Chapter 5: Cindy the Rubenisque Maid
It was Van's moment. In a body now his (rather than hers) he was finally going to experience an orgasm in the configuration he'd long fantasized about. Between his naked legs an unmasked erection throbbed. On the bed before him, Cindy the Rubenisque maid languished in her tight ropes, her arms lashed up behind her, her straining legs frogtied back, her eager body quivering like a racehorse in harness. This would be no rape, no, rather more of a joint explosion of lust with her body pre-positioned by ropes applied by her giggling departed girlfriends. The only possible witness of this illicit act (illicit for the fact that Van was now an unregistered manni) was Colette the petite French maid, but seeing how she, herself, was tied in humiliating restriction and locked in a nearby wardrobe left her not in a position to interrupt.
Kneeling on the bed next to the helpless girl, Van ripped away her sleeper with blunt practicality, revealing her body in blushing-pink splendor. Leaning close enough to feel the heat off her tightly corded flesh, he ran an exploratory hand along her shapely flank, up over the curve of her globular breast, flicking the swelling nipple with a devious thumb. The very contact arched Cindy's spine, raising her moistening snatch, her gag thrumming before her lusty moan. She wanted him now, more than anything in her life. This was no petting zoo manni, no blindfold-pretend game. This was the culmination of her own fantasies, a reckless forcing of manliness on her tightly bound body. She twisted and heaved, if only for the frictions it caused.
Van had come close with Martha this day, rubbing his hardened head along the chair-draped girl's weeping crotch ropes. But this time there was no obstruction, no distraction. He ran a finger down along her silken purse – it came away wet. She was ready. He was ready. The blood was bounding in his ears. Moving carefully in, he shifted his hips forward, locating her more through feel than vision. Godesss it was hot, as hot as a steel out of a furnace. He hunched, poised at the gates of heaven, his knocker just touching her door. And then, with desperate insistence, he pushed. As he scabbarded into her, all along his grand length, she husked into her gag, moaning in sheer bliss at the glorious violation, her flesh tight and sweaty behind the tight ropes. Had she been free, she would have thrown legs and arms around him and pulled him into her, never releasing him. But tied as she was, she could only receive, not take. But that was good enough for her.
For Van himself, he swam in a strange sensation of expectation and exploration. It was just what he thought it would be, the mounding, encompassing rush. But also it was like nothing he could have imagined, this perfect fit, this wondrous friction. Van's engineering side knew that to gain maximum surface utility, a shape like a cylinder was ideal – that same fact applied to the male erection. But his passionate side, raging in the glory of the act, bound up his engineering side and locked it into his own interior wardrobe just as Colette was bound inside her physical one.
It (and he) came too soon. One moment he was there, right on the summit of the high sexual drop. Then he was shuddering and pulsing. Under him, Cindy quaked in creaking ropes, blind to anything save the overwhelming pleasure nailed through the center of her being. She couldn't bring her hands around. She couldn't touch him. The gag prevented her lusting kisses. She could only lay on her back and feel her climaxes rage through her as they wound down the corkscrewing tower of passion.
Van blinked back to existence, sprawled across his captive, his face pillowed between her warm and generous breasts. They gasped against each other, their superheated flesh wet and close. He didn't move, happy to lay in the outthrust of her legs, still hangered inside her.
For her part, Cindy was only to happy to have him crashed across her, feeling his warm yet slender frame keep his waning woody deep within her.
After a while, Van played with her a bit. He fingered her bangs into order, kissed her round nose with his slender lips, nibbled an ear. Cindy giggled and moaned, content by the attentions of her lover, her arms and legs numbed in nonexistence, her body nothing but a nerve-sack for Van to provoke with his elfish fingers and serpent tongue. But touches and caresses around her rope-locked flanks could not be ignored – the bed-pressed maiden felt laughter chortle against her soaked gag as fingers strummed her ribs. She tried to dislodge him, giggling pettishly as he bedeviled her, but between her wide-locked legs and his firm weight, she couldn't move. She could only look up with teary vision into Van's looming smugness as his fingers played along her heated flanks.
Her quivering, his appreciation of her pretty distress, granted its own rewards. Without realizing it, suddenly Van found himself swelling within her once again. Experimentally, he shifted slightly, watching Cindy's laughing eyes flash open in oh-my! fashion. Like a monkey-fist-trap, his meat somehow had locked itself inside her, his fleshy barb planted. Every shift dragged her passions out of her. It was no longer about tickling – it was about provocation, reaction and friction.
Once again Van found his head spinning as the girl beneath him began to twist and roll. Grabbing breast ropes like a cowboy would a bronco's reins, he rode her as she pitched beneath him, He couldn't believe he was getting to experience this again, this wonderful, all-encompassing bliss. Now experienced in the sensations of his new body, we was able to hold his burst longer, playing his roped partner along, lingering out their joint reactions. Cindy was crying through her gag, curses, pleas, grunts, who knew? There was something she wanted, and Van was holding off giving it to her.
But he couldn't hold off forever. His fire hose bulged from its desperate containment; every shift of the damsel beneath him brought him nearer that edge. And then he was surrendering again, throbbing into her, their animalistic grunts timed to their shared captive/captor dance, their eyes screwed shut, their attentions inward. It went on until neither had anything more to give – like an angry storm, all that was left was for them to subside.
For a goodly portion of an hour, the perverse couple lay in the rumpled disorder of their bed, he as captive as she to their post-coital descent. Van had rolled off her, laying at her side, studying the ceiling in dazed fascination. He'd found the difference he'd dreamed of as a drifty cog-girl, he'd drank deep from the manni cup. And that was nice. But looking at Cindy, so cute in her ropes, so disheveled, he found himself struck with something that could only be termed as homesickness.
He realized she was looking at him with those sweet eyes, still mute behind her gag. Pity, perhaps foolish pity given his precarious masquerade, took him. With tender motions, almost sisterly motions, he rolled her on her side and started to untie her. It took a while – her friends had been insistent with their knots. But soon enough Cindy was free, the cords coiled around her glorious body like sated snakes, her pink pouting flesh scored with a road-map of ropemarks. She tipped her head back and gusted a sigh at the ceiling.
In shared silence the lovers took care of each other, cleaning the sex-sauce from each other's bodies using a basin and towel from the sidetable. And as they cleaned, they touched each other, delighting in the sensations they gifted, exploring and being explored. Finally, Cindy cocked her head impishly to one shoulder, gave Van a long look, and picked up some of the discarded ropes. Her meaning was clear.
Van would gain nothing by allowing himself to be tied by her. Already his actions had been foolish. He should have left her bound and unmolested, he should have slunk off into the night. But he'd stayed and diddled her and revealed his strange identity. Bad enough. But giving in to her silent request would be foolishness indeed.
But any man, even a neo-man, sharing this sex-rumpled bed with a plump goddess like Cindy, with sparkling eyes and eager ropes, would be powerless. She was a Siren who sought his captivity for whatever dark depravities still churned in the deep recesses of her randy soul. And so Van, like any man, turned and looked at the wall, feeling her scooch in closer, feeling his arms collected, feeling the breath-stopping sensation as the ropes organized around his wrists and elbows, knees and legs. He could only pant as he was placed on her side, she kneeling to his back, working the ropes home so cunningly. And last was the gag which his gaping mouth accepted. She pulled it home with snug firmness, tying the last knot hard behind his head. And he was trapped.
If betrayal would come, it would come now.
But her actions were to slide next to him like a well-padded Venus, face-to-face and breath-to-breath, her pinching fingers and soft-palmed hands roaming across his eager body. Van strained at his ropes but Cindy had been tying up sisters, guests and coworkers for years – she'd tutelaged within Petunia's ropes, on Petunia's bed, after all. She could tie a hank and cleave a line. And Van, no stranger to the ropes (for he was Petunia's employee as well) could find no escape for his doomed struggles. Whatever Cindy wished to do with him, she would do, and he could only lay and endure.
It went on for hours, her playful caresses. Van shuddered and yelled and twisted – the ropes, thick and fast, did not even creak. His gag was soaked with her saliva, her hands were on his tenderest body-parts, her face broad and cheerful. He found himself weeping, perhaps partially because of his once-girlish emotions, perhaps also due to the vastness of sensations that ripped through him. “Please,” he wanted to shout, “Please finish me!”
Finally, in the long hours before dawn, she lay against his thighs and tucked her head close, her burgundy hair fanning across his hips. Her face nuzzled in, her breath heating his rod to incandescence. Van knew he was dying then, that this raging lust that was topping his soul would kill him. Thus positioned with her victim primed and ready, she began to slowly suckle off him, gnawing and tongueing and nipping him, her face buried in his crotch. Van was now humming into his fraying gag, his voice an outpouring of emotion at the sweeping orgasm building within. He thought to scream to her, to tell her to discontinue her efforts, that she might get caught in his coming blast. But Cindy, daredevil that she was, kept the pressure up.
And then Van was quaking, his most mighty climax to date. Not only did Cindy remain at her post, brave under fire, but she also found herself shivering from her own orgasm. She was enough of a lady that she did not bite down instinctively.
And then they were through, tapped out physically and emotionally, unable to move. They draped across each other like broken things, steam rising off their overwhelmed bodies, crumpled and still. They didn't sleep so much as they lay in post-explosive comas, just content to lay within the low glow they shared.
Eventually Cindy cleaned them up (so many towels used) and untied him. Van didn't move – his freedom mean nothing. He simple couldn't react. She cuddled up to him, sharing her warmth with him, holding him as her ropes had held him. Perhaps they dozed.
Nobody seemed troubled about the wardrobe-trapped Colette, still trapped in her ropes, huddled in the cramped bliss that all masochists know. In her own way, she was content within her confinement.
Distantly, a bell broke across the early morning air.
Cindy was up, wobbling, gripping a bed-post, rubbing her eyes. Van groaned, not interested in anything until Cindy gave his ass a crack. He yelped at that, sitting up.
“Come on. We've got to get up. That's the lookout bell!”
“Lookout bell? What are you talking about?”
“Lady Goldwaith pays the station-mistress at the railhead to keep an eye on all those who disembark from the train. She runs up a flag for people of great interest who start down the lane for this estate. Someone of great importance is coming. We must turn out!”
They fumbled through their quick toilets, cleaning each other with whatever water and dry towels remained. Cindy actually had to dress Van – he was too slow with his unaccustomed maid's outfit – even as a girl, he'd tended towards trousers and loose shirts. Only when his frillies were on, his heels popped home, and his wig centered did they open up the closet and drag out the semi-conscious Frenchgirl. Peeling her out of her ropes, they tidied her up as best they could. Leaning on each other after their long night of captive debauchery, they stumbled and clattered down the hall, joining the other servants who were emerging from their rooms. In the central room stood pots of tea and cornmeal muffins, thrust between multitudinous gaping red lips with haste. Within minutes, the maids lined the hallway entrance, as tidy and proper as two ranks of black chess pawns, the red carpet deployed between their arrayed black pumps. Looking over them, one would have no idea of the strenuous games and play many of them had engaged in overnight. Goldwaith girls knew how to bounce back nicely.
Van did his best to look girlish.
A sharp rap on the door. A footwoman stepped up and opened it smartly. Through the gap stepped a woman garbed in the black boots and skirt and white blouse of the London Metropolitan Police force. The face atop the trim, tight body was pinched, defined by a sharp nose and short red hair.
“I'm Chief Officer Drummand. We were wired by a Miss Anna concerning a rogue manni loose about this property.” A long pause. “Miss Anna?” With steel in her voice, Constance Drummand demanded, “Which of you is Anna?”
Cindy curtsied. “Ma'am, she seems to be missing.”
To be concluded? Depends on Van and Constance...
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19.11.12
story continues in Gai-Shift - Some Like it Knot 6: from Manni to Maiden
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