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Chapter 4: Release the Lancers
Second Officer Petra crashed through the door of the Unbound Pleasure's cargo area, a not-so-subtle dildo gripped in her hand. Sergeant Featherthrust looked up from where she'd been massaging the input data to her five leather-sheathed, tightly-belted lancers, working them to fever-pitch in anticipation to deployment.
“Quick,” the Slav commanded, dropping her truncheon-like sex-toy and ripping away her rubberized suit to expose her hard stocky body. “Bind me.”
“I am not here to play 'shore leave' with you...”
“Militarist flunky! I need to be lowered on a winch and can't have my limbs flailing about!” With that she threw great coils of rope to the commander of the Marylebone Lancers and fell prone of the deck in a posture of naked surrender.
Featherthrust shrugged. Well, if this was part of her mission, who was she to protest? Kneeling quickly, she sorted through the ropes with practiced skill, leaning close to rope-lock the Russian's shapely legs. She did her up right, cross-threading and knotting her ropes up shins, around knees, around tightly-clenched thighs to compress the buttocks which had driven Contessa Anna Oblonsky paddle-mad. She'd almost forgotten herself in collecting Petra's hands behind her back but the Russian, in a strangely-tight voice, commanded, “No, leave one arm free.” And so the Sergeant had reluctantly complied, tightening her up nicely from ankles to shoulders, line-laced and roped.
With her free hand (again gripping the plastic phallic toy), Petra gestured to the open bay window. “Attach the hoist hook to my ankle-ropes and shove me out. Then call the bridge and tell them I'm away.” This Featherthrust did, reluctantly watching Petra fall into a dangle below the descending airship, her own gloves still warm from handling heated Soviet flesh.
On the bridge, Captain Hoffsteder confirmed with the lookout that Petra was swinging clear below. Carefully flying the airship with fingertips and instinct, she eased down to 150 feet elevation, a touch higher than the length of Petra's line.
Bound and windblown, Petra swung back and forth like some sort of sexual pinata, her free arm extended, the hard sexual toy carefully positioned. Closer and closer came the waves but her hard eyes remained locked on the submersible's snorkel. She passed through a ribbon of steamy exhaust, smelling the cooped-up odor of the sub's crew, arousing her own passions.
Perhaps when we have forced them to the surface and captured them, my captain will give me one or two of them. For... interrogations. Yes...
Now she was right over the snorkel, the scent of sweaty femininity washing around her as if she were locked in some woman's thighs, or prone beneath her rank feet, or bound within her laundry basket.
Focus, Petra! Focus!
The head of the dildo thudded against the lip but didn't pop in. She swung clear, dipped nearly into the water, felt the airship correct through her long line. Then the snorkel was back and she thrust. The vulva-stopper went home.
A moment latter, too quickly to be attributed to the plugging, the Kraken began to rise. With a thump the three-quarters bound Second Officer rolled in muscular nudity across the brine-washed deck. A nearby hatch swung open.
“Odin Rolled In A Bearskin And Placed Before A Roaring Hearth!” came a shout. “Boarders! Naked, bound, succulent boarders!” A moment later a net was thrown with slaver's skill over the rope-locked second officer. She cursed and struggled one-handed but Featherthrust's ropes and Viking's nets proved too much for her. From their hatch, the horned defenders paused (for who wouldn't, with Petra rolling about in roped-wrapped glory) but then their captain's shout reminded them of the peril of running on the surface. With dutiful eagerness, the sweaty blonde Uboat-fraulein hauled in their netting, dragging their struggling prize across the wet deck, the hoist-line still attached. Clutching (and groping and fondling) hands dragged Petra below and the hatch clanged shut, its rubberized seal compressing around the hoist line dangling from the airship overhead.
“Dive! Dive!” shouted Captain Hallerna. Through the boat echoed an alarm that sounded like a manni being goosed.
The sub burrowed into the tossing blue sea. The hoist line went taunt. Aboard the Unbound Pleasure any woman not bound to their bunks sprawled across the deck in squeals of concern and rubber. Captain Hoffsteder gripped the staves of the wheel as if in some desperate orgy. Around her the airship groaned as it slowly descended. They were being dragged towards the milling sea.
“Blow ballast!” she cried out.
The Kraken shook from a sudden upward lurch. Captain Hallerna's arctic eyes looked up from where her steamy scantly-clad deck crew trussed up the writhing Russian in even more rope, up to where the hoist line fouled the main hatch. In an instant she realized that her submersible and the airship were joined.
She spun the wheel through a hard turn, trying to corkscrew out from under the airship, thrusting her ship downward like a hooked marlin. Overhead the airship turned the opposite direction, elevators back hard, every gallon of ballast overboard.
Hoffsteder cursed as her airship trembled above the waves. An experienced captain, she could feel every vibration tormenting her airship's hull through her rubber-clad fingertips and high-heeled boots. It felt as if she'd herself had been bound, tightly and totally, by some madwoman who was dragging her by a leash down a long flight of stairs to some subterranean vault where feathers and paddles and other discomforting aids-to-discipline awaited. And all she could do was pull and twist in most spirited resistance.
On the other end of the line, a similarly experienced Hallerna experienced similar fantasies. For her, it was like she was bound head to toe by a mad monk-woman who was trying to raise her heels-first via a pulley up into a belfry where fearsome monastic toys (created by lust-deprived nuns) eagerly awaited her helpless flesh. She was doing all she could to wiggle free, to resist, anything to keep from being dragged upwards to an unthinkable fate.
And so the two women battled on, each trying to drag their counterparts into their exclusive realms.
While the Kraken and the Unbound Pleasure fought like huge mythical beasts, Van fought her own battle against the Mark 42 torpedo belt-tucked against her tacky pearl. She still hung in her hammock, still strapped naked and tight in its hempish webbing. The air she slowly rocked in was jungle-steamy, laced with the tangy reek of agitated Norsewomen, growing even hotter. She felt as if she was a turkey in an oven, basted with excited secretions and left to cook.
But the torpedo! The mechanical dildo ran on cunning cog logic. It had started slow and easy, bringing its user to a gentle stage of climax. Then a catch tripped, arresting its agitations until Van's slightest movement reactivated it, releasing a torrent of trembling torment upon its surrounding flesh. Each time it re-started Van was assaulted with even more brutal vibrations, ones which left her dripping in her webbing, the catch again active, the unit again stilled. Three times now she'd involuntarily shifted, setting it off. Three times she'd been racked with wretched muffin-explosions. So now she hung in the stiflingly pungent air, the blood-warm dildo tucked tenderly against her crotch, trying not to move, trying not to cry.
“I want to be a manni,” she sniffed. “I don't wanted to be used like this.”
But her body betrayed her, her slick-lips eagerly cupping the hard intruder, her hair mussed, her face flushed, her passions purring like a big fat tabby. She didn't dare move. If she moved the torpedo would activate. It would kill her this time. She just knew it.
Without daring to turn her head, she rolled her eyeballs to the woman who'd been carried in during her last lust-wrenched interval. The woman, as strong and blunt as a Clydesdale, hung in a similar hammock, belts straining and buckles groaning as she fought her bondage. Her blonde bangs were pasted down against her sweaty forehead. She looked across to Van and grunted against her wide leather gag, demanding action, teamwork, mutual support, who knew?
Eliciting no reaction from the perspiring yet motionless Van, the woman began to rock. At first Van had no idea what she was trying to achieve. Then it came to her.
She wants to jostle me, to gain a response.
Van whined through her gag, shaking her head minutely, trying to warn the bigger girl off.
No, don't bump me! Don't...!
And then their hot, sweat-tracked hips smacked together. A buzzing cut through the steaming air. Van arched in her perspiration-soaked bonds, squealing into her gag, shuddering, shaking, mad with the passion that ignited her unwanted pussy. At her side Petra stared in rapt amazement, watching her strange little comrade writhe towards a wet explosion.
Forward of this sexual sweat-box, Captain Hallerna struggled with a sweat-slipping helmet, watching as two of her bridge officers began humping each other on the deck with the help of a message tube (which could hardly be seen at this juncture). All around her, discipline seemed to be breaking down. The air was pussy-hot and reeked like panties. Her XO was really starting to look good, but ropes would make her look better...
What is happening?...??
And then it hit her – the intruder they'd captured topside a short time ago. Slapping her forehead (and sending her helmet flying), she ran up the periscope and spun it around to look stern-ward. There trembled the rope that linked the craft together, spray flying from it. And there was their snorkel And there, jammed into it, was a huge dildo.
The Kraken could no longer exhaust. All the heat and fumes off her crew were being backfed into their systems. They were literally cooking in their own juices. If she didn't do something quick, the entire crew would soon collapse into a sweat-soaked pile of trembling, pumping womenflesh.
“Blow the tanks,” she yelled. At her side a slender top-naked midshipwoman shuddered at the imagery her own tanks being blown yet her trembling hands managed to pull the appropriate lever. The deck lurched as the submersible rose.
At the other end of the line, with long leather legs thrust out for balance, Captain Hoffsteder observed the sub rising from the inky depths.
“Featherthrust! Activate your lancers! We're going to need them now!”
“Are you certain, Captain? Once they deploy, they can't be ordered to stand down! They'll lace up and lick down anyone they can, foe or friend!”
“Deploy! Deploy!” the airship captain called. “Get them onto the boarding nets, now!”
The Kraken broached like a woman rising out of a hot tub, sea-water streaming down her passion-heated flanks. When the hatch blew open (venting a fish-scented cloud), the hoist rope shot clear, flinging back and up, slapping down the starboard side of the Unbound Pleasure, blowing out a number of stateroom windows. Hoffsteder ordered a damage crew to check the compartments for broken glass, not because some of their trussed occupants might cut themselves but rather than they might cut themselves loose. When you were tied on Hoffsteder's ship, you stayed tied even in the middle of combat.
From the Kraken's hatch spilled a handpicked team of stripped, frenzied Vikings (handpicked simply because they were the few not rolling about in sticky embraces). Naked, sweat-streaked, animalistic, they scrambled over each other. It was critical that the dildo lodged in their snorkel be cleared!
One of them looked up, gaped. The Unbound Pleasure had recovered from the rope's snapback. Now it was descending, looming over the Kraken. From her flanks long nets dangled and from these, like flies in a web, hung the Marylebone Lancers in their white panties and blue jackets, their faces twisted with repressed concupiscence. In their hands glimmered their dreaded bolomuskets (which could truss up a target at fifty yards). Heedlessly the Vikings swarmed around the snorkel-pipe, one of them shinning up it, the others planting themselves in firm defense, shields and battle-paddles at the ready.
The dangling lancers let off a disciplined volley (and who knew more about discipline then women who spent much of their time locked in leathery cocoons, stimulated to mind-crazed agitation?). The Viking atop the snorkel shrieked as she was thrown to the deck, her arms webbed to her sides, her breasts line-pinched, her tanned legs lashed up, little more than a human salami. But then her look of frustration turned to glee. “I've got it! I've got it!”
In her hand was Petra's dildo, a condensation of woman-scent dribbling off its bulbous head.
“Below with her! Below!”
The lancers touched down on the decking with passion-flamed eyes and rushed the conning tower and the succulent, basted Vikings. Having emerged like over-sexed butterflies from their pitiless stimulation-enhancing cocoons, they sought the nectar of excited femininity. Once a battlefield (and every living human within it) was secure, they would ply their fevered lusts on the rope-wrapped fallen, using them as a canvas upon which they would paint whatever fantasies popped into their estrogen-muddled heads. In their most recent deployment they'd completely destroyed a small French fishing village. Oh, they hadn't broken so much as a teacup, but the women and mannis left tightly bound and glisteningly ravished had been utterly ruined.
But the Vikings were reluctantly quicker, carrying their rope-locked companion below with the intention of rewarding her with the very prize she'd recovered. The hatch clanged and the lancers found themselves on a deck awash, their booties wet, their howls anguished. They leapt back to their nets as the Kraken nosed below the waves.
Zana felt frustration as she watched the untethered submersible vanish. While they'd managed to recover their lancers, the Kraken was gone, Petra and Petunia Goldwaith with it. Without Petra's plug, the Kraken could run far freer, able to pop up and vent before submerging again, slowly increasing the range. The chances of a successful outcome had plummeted dramatically. With a sigh she eased the wheel back, coaxing her long shiny airship into a gentle climb.
“Captain!” came Featherthrust's voice from the speaking tube. “Lancers recovered! But...!”
But?
Nothing.
Zana lifted the tube. “ Featherthrust? Sergeant? Are you there?”
She was just about to send a crewmember aft to check when the door to the hold suddenly burst open. Five lancers, their faces flushed, their eyes gleaming with arousal, crashed in. Featherthrust's tawny legs and tight butt dangled over a shoulder, her rope-lashed fingers milling, her bound feet pedaling. It came to Hoffsteder then, the warning that the lancers would find release wherever they could regardless of alliance. She reached for the alarm switch, saw a bolomusket coming up, heard its discharge. The impact threw her back against the airship's wheel, the whirling lines looping her against it, arms at her sides, feet looped up behind. She tried to pull free but the spin-lines had locked her up into a neat package, pinning her fast.
The Marylebone Lancers made quick work of the bridge, lacing up Zana's leatherclad crew in tight hogties and ballties, leaving them mewing into their gags. Their rubber suits were parted to expose them for visual effect (for now) and access (for later). Even with her airship being seized, even with herself lashed to her own wheel, Zana had to admit that her crew looked quite good like that. White ropes always went so well with black bodysuits.
The one carrying the trussed Featherthrust appeared before her. The following moment the deposed Sergeant was dumped to the deck, grunting into her gag from her impacted buttocks. She looked up through a tangle of beaded braids, her eyes resigned.
While the other lancers moved through the ship, trapping and trussing and tracing whatever crewmembers remained for the rapine to follow, the soldier who'd carried in Featherthrust, a long-faced brunette with a hooked smile and smoldering eyes, remained behind. Stepping up to the neatly—pinioned captain, she fetched a ball-strap gag from her pouch. Zana's clip-on glasses were dislodged as her nose was pinched and forced back. “This is my ship! You can't Glug!” Trained hands buckled the wide black gag in place, leaving the captain to dangle from the ship's wheel, her arms locked at her sides, her legs locked back, her rubberized breasts bulging out over their underpinnings of tight cords. She could only glare through her spill of black curls, shaking her head in fury.
The lancer smiled and unzipped the airship captain's leather bodice, allowing her generous breasts to blossom from their tight confines. Heat from indignation and sexual frustration rose off her heaving bosoms, bringing an easy smile to her dominator. Fingers, curious and insistent and growing ever bolder, began to explore her gondolas and thumb her airspeed nubs. Moaning, Zana could only tip her head back and accept the trespass, her crotch growing hotter by the second. Hands cupped her breasts, sliding down into her suit, flat against her ribs, sliding deeper. The lancer leaned closer as she groped deeper into the suit, her breath wisping across Zana's cheek, their breasts pliantly pressed together. Then the hands, the hot splayed hands, were pressing down across her flat belly, between her back-bound thighs, into her soaking crotch. Helpless, Zana groaned, her lost command forgotten, her full atttention on those long feminine fingers that wiggled into her juice-slick cunt.
From the deck, Featherthrust witnessed the furious molestation with her own gathering flush, knowing her turn was next. Her finely trained troops could go through a dozen orgasms apiece following deployment, meaning the crew of the Unbound Pleasure was in for long hours of base usury. With a sigh she shifted on the floor to get more comfortable, watching as Captain Hoffsteder shuddered and rocked on her wheel, sending the idling airship into long swanning curves. From all along the airship's corridor rose cries and whines as women were used, abused and confused in the most base manner imaginable.
And the Kraken, with Van and Petunia locked in their hammocks and Petunia stuffed into her pipe, churned away unseen and unpursued, accompanied to the moan of an organed sea-shanty and a noblewoman's husky sighs.
23.01.12
story continues in Gai-Shift - Thermocline Chapter 5: A Fire on the Sea
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