Chapter 3: Captain Hallerna's Organ Recital
The Kraken cleared the mouth of the Thames by midafternoon. At her periscope stood a fearsome armored figure, breastplated (the ample breasts required great amounts of plating), mighty thighs sheathed in cuisses, the horned helmet hiding all but icy blue eyes and a resolute jawline. The unneeded periscope was slapped down as one would an insolent manni’s rod. A barked command to the XO: “Hold this course and depth. And have the prisoner brought to my stateroom.”
Moving forward, the captain passed through the humid interior of the Viking submersible. Around her buff and sweaty shieldmaidens worked in the ruddy light, shoveling coal, braiding slave-rope or engaging in oiled grappling (more for tactile gains that tactical. Really, can’t you just image it?). As she moved through this orderly chaos, she quite missed the side locker where a hammock-trussed bundle hung in mute frustration.
At last she passed through a hatchway mounted in a heavy bulkhead, entering into a large stateroom. Opulent carpets (stolen from French chateaus) hid the metal deck. Tapestries (thieved from Kentish manors) covered the walls. Beyond the huge semi-globular portholes the North Sea rushed past, overhead wavetops golden in the long afternoon light. And against the far wall, her pride and joy, the huge ocean-going, steam-powered pipe organ.
She passed into the shower room from which rose a metallic clatter as if someone was dismantling a locomotive, but was actually armor being striped away. Then came the rush of a shower and contented moaning. Unfortunately our narrative point-of-view could not see what this was about, focused as it was on the entry into the chamber of Lady Petunia Goldwaith, locked in the merciless grip of two half-garbed, sweat-slicked, leering shieldmaidens.
Petunia was the worse for wear for she had very little ‘wear’ left; she’d been methodically and enthusiastically stripped down to her bra and panties, her shadow-casting breasts and thought-provoking hips on lecherous display for every Nordic eye aboard. She huffed in agitation which only exacerbated matters.
Her captors passed the time by fondling her up – after all, they were right there. And Petunia issued protests as expected, yet for ruthless barbarians they did have nice fingerplay. When the captain came in, the blushing trio arrested its activities, not out of fear but for her singular beauty.
What had once been a fearsome armored figure now poised in silken robes as a visage of Valhalla. She stood six-foot-three, her hips and breasts a match for Petunia’s yet proportional to her long frame. She smiled easily as those in total control are want to do, her eyes glimmering like the aurora borealis, her twin golden braids long enough to bind some lucky prisoner. Viking berserkers were known to bite their shields in combat – her image was why this was true.
She placed a hand casually on a robed hip, smiling down at the hapless royal scientist. Her voice was as cool and smooth as mead.
“I am Captain Hallerna of the submersible Kraken. You are Lady Petunia Goldwaith, my prisoner. There is something I wish of you.”
“I’ll never submit,” Petunia cast in defiance, throwing forth her breasts and hips to drop a strong hint.
“Oh, not that,” chuckled Hallerna, languidly strolling about the captive, running a dirk-like finger along trembling collarbone and flushing cheek. “I can take that from you any time I wish.” Stopping before the trembling Englishwoman, she cupped her captive’s chin and forced green eyes to meet her icy blues. “No, I wish the secret of Goldwaith Elixir.”
“Well, if its sexual agitation you wish, I’m sure I could accommodate…”
A firm shake ruffled the blonde locks. “As chieftain aboard a small submersible, I’ve got all the sexual accommodation I desire. I pull that bell-rope and a viking maiden will be brought in, ball-bound on a golden plate with an apple stuffed into her mouth. No, it's elixir I need, elixir so that I can manufacture orgasium at sea, so I can extend my range, so I can raid and ravage the world. Can you imagine what that would be like? Japanese geishas plucked out of their rice-paper houses. Mexican senoritas stolen off their gulf beaches. Lanky Polynesians, dusky Arabic traders, Indian princesses, even chubby, sexually uninhibited Eskimos. All of them roped into hammocks and carried off to our fjord-base, to be used or trained or simply played with. Long has such a dream burned in our cold hearts.”
“Of course, I’ll have to say no,” Petunia answered coyly.
Hallerna didn’t rage or threaten. She simply smiled, padding over to her great pipe-organ. Pulling a lever on the side caused the huge back row of pipes to swing down horizontally like naval guns. She looked to one of Petunia’s handlers. “What say you, Vella?”
Vella reached for Petunia, stopping to gain her captain’s approving nod. Then she squeezed the captive’s bosom, patted her hips, fondled her buttocks and groped her private areas. Petunia, still helpless, could only dilate in rapture.
“I would say pipe fourteen, Captain,” Vella gauged.
“You think so? Seems rather big for her.”
“She’s a short girl but her dimensions are ample. It'll be tight but fourteen’s the best for her.”
“You’d better be right, Vella, or you’ll be in number eight yourself. Very well. Feed her in.”
With that the two Vikings ripped away Petunia's final underthings and lifted her, forcing her belly down and feet first into the gaping maw of the pipe. When she was half in, Hallerna restored the lever, tipping the pipe stand back into place. Petunia slid further in, her eyes flashing open as she realized the interior of the pipe was carefully milled to allow for unlikely dimensions such as her own. Her pointing toes slid into ten little pockets. Her arms neatly slotted against her sides. Her crotch wedged against a smooth brass saddle. Her buttocks were cupped within twin indentations. And her breasts, her glorious breasts which had triggered riots in art galleries, slotted neatly into perfect concavities, her nipples popping from the organ air holes.
“You may leave us,” Captain Hallerna ordered, fanning out her robe to sit before the vast organ. Petunia looked down upon a nice visage of cleavage, unable to move in her metallic confines. Around her the vast musical device swelled into life.
Then Hallerna leaned in and with great lusty gestures began to play “Sequidilla” from Bizet's Carmen. As her long fingers spidered across the keyboard, as her bare feet worked the many pedals, she tipped back her strong Nordic face and sang in resonating tones and with no little operatic training. It was a lusty song, a bawdy Spanish drinking song, rendered into alien translation by a full pipe organ.
Music appreciation aside, Petunia was just coming to grips with her situation. The first gust of wind whistled up between her legs, fluting across her vulva. Very disconcerting. But as Hallerna found and leaned into the tempo, the entire bank of heavy pipes, including the one Petunia was bottled in, began to vibrate.
It was like being helpless before a thousand long-nailed fingers. Every inch of flesh was stroked by vibration. Her cupped buttocks shook. Her pussy shivered, pulsing to every beat. Her nipples, locked in their pipeholes, swelled which made the sensation infinitely worse. She trembled all over at the sexual overload shaking through her core. It was like she was a blushing, fleshy component to a huge vibrator.
Through slitted eyes, Hallerna looked savored the sight of her captive’s confused face just visible over the lip of the great pipe, moaning though clenched teeth as every note shoved its cursive tail into her weeping crotch. Such was her joy at Petunia’s sexual distress that she tipped back her head and bellowed lustfully at the ceiling.
“I'll dance the Sequedilla and drink Manzanilla...”
=< O >=
Elsewhere in the ship, a group of sweating Vikings looked up from their various labors, the full-throated musical chords reverberating down the hull.
“She’s at it again,” muttered one.
=< O >=
With spayed fingers, Captain Hallerna of the Kraken thundered out that lusty opera's final note. Overhead, Petunia shuddered as if her pipe was attached to live current. Then she tipped her head back and groaned through saliva-glossy lips, a long exclamation that floated on the echoes of the terrifying music. Her shaking actually caused the pipe to creek.
“Well, I see you are satisfied,” the Viking captain quipped, rising from her bench. She dipped a long finger into a runnel which drained off Petunia’s pipe, smiling at its fishy odor. “Very satisfied. And we can keep at this until you yield the secret to your elixir. With a half-dozen women secured in that bank of pipes and a full program of music, I could take my Kraken round the world. And so, Lady Petunia, will you divulge?”
She could only moan.
=< O >=
Van’s arrival was poorly received.
The pixyish girl had lain in her sack trussed like a piglet, gagged and seemingly abandoned. But soon as the Kraken was well underwater and underway, they came for her.
With little fanfare she was upended onto the floor of the food storage locker. Five lust-filled Viking maidens looked down at her, blue eyes gleaming with ill-intent beneath blonde bangs. “Our own little manni,” moaned one. As noted, it was a case of mistaken sexual identity.
The ropes came away. Eager hands gripped her ankles and wrists and stretched her wide on the blood-warm iron floor. The last Viking stood over her, gripping her shirt front, a cruel hooked declothing knife clutched in her hand. The air was filled the agitated pheromones. Helpless, Van tipped her head back, enjoying her private fantasy as long as it lasted.
With a long rip, her clothing was torn away.
“Odin Hogtied At My Feet!” cursed one in the shocked silence. “He’s a she!”
Van’s girlish body, her breasts hardly hinted, her pussy misted by a dusting of pubic hair, lay starkly exposed in the red combat lighting.
The Vikings were put out to say the least. They had a whole boatload of aroused female bodies. Any moment they wished, they could whistle for companionship and three shieldmaidens would be in their bunk. But they’d hungered for that other white meat, the glorious rod of a manni, the pulsing column which sword hilt or lance shaft could not quite duplicate.
“I’m of legal age,” Van cried. “Card me if you wish but have at me!”
They looked down at her with frustrated annoyance.
Her eyes teared. “What, are you afraid of a girl?”
Suddenly she found her newly-nudified body lifted in sweaty arms and dumped into a hemp-rope hammock. Thick belts snapped around her, wrenching tight, flattening across her young heated skin, turning her into a suspended pink bundle. One of the warriors, tired of hearing that voice that had sounded so boyish, stuffed a rag into her mouth and belted it fast. And there she hung, swinging gently in the humid side-chamber in net and belts, cabbage heads like swollen testicles below her, sausages like engorged erections above. The warriors left her to her gloom.
She wept bitter tears.
Why had her mother chosen as she had when she’d wished the wish of conception?
Why had she not wished for a boy?
For Van was a deviant in a world of deviants. Where most women enjoyed being women who tied up and were tied up by other women, to be fingered and tongued and dildoed to climax, Van’s desires ran along a different vein. She was fascinated with the idea of being a manni. She adored the entire construction of that sex. The idea of having an extendable flesh rod jutting like a cooling fin made perfect engineering sense. The thought of what it must feel like to have a half-foot cylinder of blood-hardened, nerve-tingling meat thrusting out, accessible for masturbation, mastication, or copulation made her head swim.
When she’d seen mannis in the streets, she looked after them with an envy others mistook for casual lust. And when she’d taken employment with her Ladyship, Petunia had been nice enough to loan her a mount from her stable. Van could still remember that night she’d entered her room in the Goldwaith country estate, her blood pounding in her ears, her knees knocking. And there was the manni, left wide and spread on her bed by the maids, wrists and ankles buckled hard, head captured in a cruel strap-harness holding the bright red ball in place. And he was naked, gloriously, perfectly, openly naked, his rod rising at the sheer drama of the moment.
She’d smiled a tight smile, willing herself not to laugh out loud, unbuttoning her blouse to allow her rising heat to vent. Still loosely clothed, her impish blue eyes burning like gaslight, she slipped into bed next to him, staring with wonder at that thing she wished she had.
And then she explored it with perfect scientific method.
She ran her finger along its spine, its belly, its flank, observing how it reacted. Then she toyed her fingertip across its cap, noting with pleasure how it swelled. She determined what made it harden the quickest, how to make it retract, all the manner and ways it absorbed pleasure. But of course she did not engage its messy final state, the eruptive step. Not yet.
From an ice bucket she fetched cold cubes and brought them in contact with the pulsing rod, watching its pain-filled fall, listening to the moans of its ball-muted owner. After a few rises and falls of his Roman column, she found a slender cord in a drawer (many of the drawers in Lady Goldwaith’s estate had ropes, of course). This cord she looped around the beast’s base, tying it tight. Then she curled in a chair and watched the manni groan and swell, unable to control himself, held just short of climax. She cooled him down with ice as she released him from that cruel rope, intensifying his moans.
It was a quarter til dawn when she determined she understood how this marvelous thing worked. Only then did she step out of her baggy pants, slipping over him, hands splayed across his chest, feeling that magnificent thing burrow within her. How she wished she had one so she could fill and fulfill women, looking up at their blissful faces, knowing it was all because of her.
How she'd arched and twisted on his pivot point, her young face ecstatic with sensation. After this, she always looked forward to trips to her Ladyship's country estate and a session of midnight bareback riding.
Alternatively, there had been that silly Baroness Manchester who occasioned Lady Goldwaith's functions. She shared Van's desires but not her outlook. While Van wished to share the rapture of perfect coupling with another woman, the Baroness sought the dominance of the pre-shift males, the brutal thrust, the usage. Once when Petunia had the Baroness tied up sharp and tight in the wine cellar, Van snuck into her room and investigated her unique pump device. While it was certainly clever, it did no more for her than a double-ended dildo.
And so now here she was, suspending in this dank locker, stripped of clothing, wrapped in hammock netting, belted tight. She tried to shift and felt the burn of the lacings across her bottom. She tried to pull her hands free but the belts over and under her breasts trapped her arms tight. She could only look down the bowed length of her body to where her ten little toes jutted in the uncertain lighting.
Had she truly been a manni things would have been so different. The Vikings would have been lining up to use her, one after the other. They would settle onto her like some sort of swing, pumping away, pleasurable rapture. Van, bound and gagged and male, could only be used, and used, and used. And when she could no longer go erect, no doubt Viking mistresses would be happy to gnaw her nipples, stroke her ass and whisper sweet obscenities into her ears. She might never be let out of the submersible. And that would be peachy with her.
She sniffed to herself. The world was just so wrong.
A dark shape slipped through the door, a Viking maiden garbed only in bear-fur breaches, her firm breasts sweaty in the industrial air. She came over to run a strong hand through Van's sweaty short locks.
“You looked so sad. Do not worry. I have brought you something to help you pass the time.” Then came the ratcheting noise as she wound up a clockwork dildo. Van watched it with uncertain discomfort. She was a little nervous concerning her actual genetic sexuality.
“Mfff. Mmmmmph!” she protested, her head shaking amid the hemp webbing.
“Oh no. You'll really like this. Its a mark 42 torpedo, great for long cruises. Here, let me tuck it right under this belt.”
“MFFFPH!” spouted Van, jacking up in her swaying bonds. But the damage was done, the dildo in. With a knowing smile the shieldmaiden toggled its arming switch.
The room filled with a buzz of cogs and a scent of musk.
“MFF! MFF!” Van swayed in her netting. She shook her head in denial, at odds with these jangling sensations that confirmed she was truly a woman. From the door, the blonde warrior watched her rocking antics, her own exposed breasts showing signs of interest.
“I'll come back later, little nightdove, and swing with you in your ropy nest.”
“MMFFFF-FF-FF!”
=< O >=
In the above-wave world it was early morning. In the perpetual ruddy glow of the Kraken's interior, nothing had changed save for a cessation of organ music a short time ago.
Captain Hallerna wandered onto the bridge, her helmet crooked, her grin wide and goofy. She'd spent the night playing every song in her repertoire, savoring her captive's vibrant reactions. Occasionally she would let Petunia nap, during which she'd throw herself on her vast bed and finger-pleasure herself. Sometimes the two would chat like schoolgirls, giggling at daring admissions. Or she'd sit on her organ bench, looking up at Petunia's face, sighing. But before long, she'd unfold another sheet of music, set her hands wide on the keyboard and begin again.
Petunia Goldwaith now hung in her pipe in a sort of sexual coma, her hair mussed, her cheeks flushed, her eyes blurry. Hallerna had left her thus; she had a ship to run.
“Status?” she yawned.
“Still at periscope depth,” the XO replied with a trace of jealously. “Only the exhaust snorkel is up.”
With it bit more symbolic pleasure than the situation warranted, the captain thrust the periscope up, nestling close, peeking into its eyepiece.
Shadowed waves and open skies. Nothing on the horizon. Hallerna was just about to slide the oiled shaft back into its well, perhaps to return to her stateroom and saw how her guest might react to “chopsticks” when something caught her attention.
Shadowed waves and open skies...
They were in the shadow of some vast overhead object.
“We're under attack!”
10.01.12
story continues in Gai-Shift - Thermocline Chapter 4: Release the Lancers
o0o