Replacement MummyIt was a beautiful day at the local college. Ms. Johnson, the local history teacher, was busy giving another one of her usual lectures. During the course of it, she seemed to be looking at one of her students, Christina, a bit more than usual. Like she had some interest. As Christina brushed a back a lock of her short blond hair from her eyes, she pondered what the teacher could be looking at her for. For now, she just brushed it off as nothing. Eventually, class ended and the students began to file out, but Ms. Johnson approached Christina.
"Excuse me, but could I see you after class for a bit?"
"Umm.....sure, Ms. Johnson...."
Inside, Christina began to worry - she was worried about that recent test and was terrified that this is about that result. In the office, Ms. Johnson simply sat at her chair. Near her was a roll of medical bandages and a large sarcophagus. She looked at Christina with a sly smile.
"Christina, how would you like to help me with a little something?" she asked cal
Babysitting ZoeSierra looked at herself in the mirror skeptically, wondering if she should change yet again. It seemed like nothing she tried on looked right!and
It might not have been so bad if it wasn't so hot out. This wasn't her first babysitting job by a long shot, but it was the first one that felt professional. It was the first that wasn't just for one of her neighbors, and that was meant to be long term, so she wanted to impress what sounded like the single mother of her hopeful new charge, but at the same time, the mother had told her she was a bit of a handful, so she really didn't want to be stuck chasing a toddler around in the heat in anything too fancy.
She was pretty sure she'd gone too far in the opposite direction this time, though. She'd picked out a pair of black denim shorts, the pockets on the rear shaped like hearts and colored red, and a sleeveless pink button up, tie front shirt with a white lace collar, and a matching pink bow in her hair. She thought it looked pretty cute, and
Yes, Sierra - A Christmas Story"What do you have there?", and you might also want to read Alisa's Adventures in the Diaper Dimension, since it ties in, too, and also just because it's awesome!
Sierra looked up, biting into the bulb of her pacifier at the sound of the voice booming above her, the question sending a chill down her spine as she recalled what had happened the last time she'd been asked that. Quickly, she tried to slide the envelope into the pocket of her coat, but a huge hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled it back out, revealing the front, and the words crawled across it in crayon. Sierra's cheeks darkened as her eyes travelled up the arm attached to the hand, staring up at the girl standing beside her in her pink snowsuit.
While she wasn't as imposing as the forest of arms that had introduced her to this world, the girl was still quite intimidating, her high, childish voice almost worse than the smooth, mechanical tone that had come through the speakers that first day. After what felt like hours of oatmeal and juice of various kinds - mostly apple and prune, though there were a couple taste she didn't recognize - her pacifier gag
This is Annie's diary, and I'm Annie.
I decided to start this diary the moment I heard the amazing news I'm going to Africa for missionary work! Wow! Except I couldn't write anything at the time because Mother Superior was cording my hands firmly into the small of my back and calling for the carriage to carry us to London.
It all started a half-hour before that. I was sitting neatly in my cell in the Salisbury Temple to Astarte, my wiry form sheathed by a night dress (rumpled from my recent nocturnal fun), combing my page-cut coppery hair. The mirror reflected my small dormitory cell: the wall-mounted figurine of Astarte, the slit window with the tiny vase with its single flower, my narrow bed with Madam Johnston roped up so neatly across it. She was adorable, tied up so nice and tight. And even though she's something like twice my age, she carries it well you can see that her body is firm and shapely under her sweat-stained nightie and my coils of rope.
I'd set her up pretty well the night before, using soft number five cotton rope to gain comfortable security. Her wrists were palm-to-palm behind her back, her arms locked to her side with thick coils to give a feel of coziness. I'd X'd rope between her breasts and over her shoulders so she wouldn't be distracted with silly thoughts of getting loose. As for her firm and shapely legs, I looped my lines down thighs and shins, whirling up her feet, making them fast. A final line linked her ankles to the footboard.
I'm sure she would have complemented me on my detail if not for the thick cloth gag. The only sound she made was a sleepy moan of satisfaction.
We'd played away the night in my own particular style, cuddling and nuzzling in the dark. I adore snuggling like that, tossing my arms and legs around my captive, just loving away the long night. And in the end, as dawn lanced my narrow window, I'd smiled into her weary eyes and slowly massaged a relaxing orgasm out of myself, watching her as she watched me. Only when I had her full attention (and I was finished) did I slowly ease my slick finger against her own thinly-sheathed snatch, rubbing it through her nightie, building her up slowly, wearing away her reluctance. She tried to struggle but she was helpless trapped in my arms, my legs, my ropes. In the end, she gave me a nice class-three side-grind orgasm, her hips parodying the invasive rhythm of my fingertip.
And outside, it began to snow.
You see, Madam Johnston had been a witch when she came to us. Through some sort of coven fallout, she'd been dropped off with our order. We didn't hold it against her we don't care about anyone's politics or paganisms as long as we can climax them for the pleasure of the Goddess. Usually the sisters of our order spend their night either bound up or hosting, with occasional tight-knotted travelers and guests. The goal is to wring out as many orgasms as possible overnight and our order dosn't care who gives them up, or even if they wish to.
It's a goal I don't necessarily follow. You see, I like long cuddlings and smoky climaxes. Its a quality vs quantity issue. The other sisters rampage their tethered guests, trying for six, even ten climaxes. They'll even force a dry eruption. Me, I like a comfortable build up and slow carry-though I'm sure Astarte really doesn't mind. To my favor, our ex-witch had been most stubborn until now, doing her best to deny us the benefit of her pleasure. I'd managed to drag a nice one out of her this morning, resulting in this freakish snowstorm (her occult specialty was weather control). Hardly had it begun to stick when there came a sharp rap at my door.
"Sister Annie? Mother Superior wishes to see you. Now."
I doubted she wished to have a snowball fight with me.
No doubt she knew (from the timing of the snow fall) preciously when I'd gained Madam's trust and trap. And this pointed towards excessive cuddling. Frowning, I tossed on my black robes and habit, gave Madam Johnston a kiss on the nose, and left.
I was shown in immediately. On the window sill, the snow was already melting clear.
"You did that snuggling abomination of yours again," my superior demanded. "Astarte is not interested in artistic devotions. She wishes orgasms, strings of them, wrenched out of roped and positioned partners. We have tools and toys for the reluctant and resistant."
"None of those have yet worked," I softly forwarded, eyes downcast. "The witch was... resistant."
"Regardless, something must be done about your... excessive degree of intimate contact." Eyes as hard as excited nipples held me. "I'm sending you on missionary work. To Africa. This very day."
I didn't know what to say. The thought of all those unsaved souls, those unclaimed orgasms, those unteathered limbs beneath my robes my body blossomed its reaction. But there was no chance of argument on this she quickly spun me around and lashed my wrists nice and tight in a reverse-prayer arrangement. I stood there, feeling every inhale press against the gathering, tightening ropes, wishing I could write down my thoughts of the moment. I vowed to document my adventures henceforth.
In short order, I was loaded into a carriage, five bags pressed into its boot (one with clothing, holy books, and various toys, the others stuffed with rope missionary work can be very hemp-intensive). And with that, we were off for London.
Late in the day we drew up before The Quivering Quill, a press club two blocks from the Savoy. The Mother Superior took a firm hold of my cocked elbow and escorted me across the sidewalk and into the club. I was happy to be back in London if only for a short time. The Goddess Astarte loves this city so many of its population spends its nights in tight, heaving passion. And what goes on beneath the streets...
The room we were shown into was a private wood-paneled chamber at the end of a long lonely hall. A huge desk, a massive globe, the street below shrouded behind thick curtains.
Then I noticed the long leather couch against the far wall. My eyes widened, and behind my back, my upthrust fingers trembled.
The woman on the couch was as black and curvy as a club on a playing card. Her coffee-hue skin was set off by a tight, immodest bikini, her nipples and snatch quite obvious against its creamy whiteness. She couldn't rise and greet us; she was wrapped in a thick, thorough leather harness, one that pinned her strong arms to her sides and her lanky legs together in a multitude of straps. Her lower face was sealed beneath a multi-buckled leather gag.
I'd have loved to lay down on her flesh-heated leather couch and see how well we could cuddle, sisters in bondage, like two tightly-trussed peas in a passionate pod. I'd have loved to linger over long hours with her, exchanging coddles and kisses. But the Mother Superior would not permit such. She'd likely force us alternately to our knees before the other, butter-churning out tongue-tied tremblings, a tit for twat exchange.
That could be nice, too.
At that moment, the door opened and a compact woman swirled in, crossing to hook a jodhpured leg over the desk. She had an attitude as sharp as cheddar cheese and a body as compact and shapely as a soda bottle. Her sea-green eyes swirled towards us, demanding answers to questions yet asked.
"I'm Burke," she shot. "Adara Burke of the Sun."
"An accomplished writer," Mother Superior allowed. "The girls have been passing about that collection of Pit Erotica you compiled while on your subterranean sabbatical. It's given our sisters much to dwell on."
"Thank you," Burke replied with an offhand wave. "Pitinna Pitt really didn't give me a choice in taking on the assignment, but it was nice of her to grant me the rights. Anyway, on to our agreement."
"Agreement," I asked, timidly yet confused. I felt like I was coming into the middle of something.
Burke's eyes fell upon me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to find myself in the position of possessing information she desired. She looked... persuasive.
"Is this the missionary who will accompany the expedition?" Mother Superior gave her nodded confirmation, introducing me. I curtsied as best I could with locked-up arms.
"Fine. Okay, Sister, here's how it stacks up. Back in the wild and woody manni days, many expeditions were sent into Africa. Sometimes they were hosted by explorers, but often the press or missionary concerns funded them. And that's what you've found yourself roped into, a joint expedition funded by Sun Publications and the Temple of Astarte."
I shifted my shoulders, hoping Adara didn't notice the way the Mother Superior's ropes projected my modest breasts. She was just so skillful at tying someone to best effect. Licking my lips (and glancing to the black goddess who watched the proceedings with cat-calm eyes), I asked, "But Africa's been long mapped out by airships. There is nothing left to be explored."
"There's this," she said, cupping something from her pocket and thrusting it under my nose. I blinked.
"That's quiet a diamond."
"It's not 'quite'. It's perfect. They call them 'carbon-aligned' - every molecule is lined up like ropes around a taunt tummy."
"We want to find diamonds?"
"No, we want to find the party that went looking for the diamonds. Doctor Stone, a top gemologist, was dispatched by the Crown to find their source. She went missing." A picture replaced the cold rock a compact, confident women with chestnut hair dusted with silver, a noble nose and cool eyes. "She vanished into the Amahagger region. We go there and locate her. I get my story. You get access to villages of long-limbed women. Everyone wins."
"Speaking of long-limbed women..." I nodded to our cross-strapped mahogany-toned beauty reclining in bands of bikini and leather.
Adara nodded. "May I introduce Miss Chespeake, late queen of an Andes tribe, degreed translator of the Amahagger tongue. I managed to snatch her up from the airship service who'd intercepted the slaver carrying her into cruel bondage in America. We made a deal."
"If you made a deal, why is she strapped up?"
"That's part of the deal. She likes her situations simplified."
I nodded, looking up and down her long lanky body, its curves and concavities made all the more exciting by the array of straps holding her in place. The thought of tucking into bed with such an ebony beauty, hobbled and helpless beneath my fingertips, ignited my zeal. I'd love to find out what she tasted like. Sometimes, over the long night, the flavor would actually change...
"Anyway, we leave on the morning tide aboard the Lola Montez," Adara Burke exclaimed. With that, we were sent to our rooms, to ready ourselves for tomorrow's departure.
The Mother Superior was firm. I was only released after I'd performed my penance (three sloppy orgasms, made all the more juicy with thoughts of that black, bikinied, buckled beauty somewhere nearby). Once she was satisfied (she must have been, given her glow) Mother Superior untied my wrists and departed, locking the door behind her.
I found this empty diary in a disused desk drawer. Even exhasted, I managed to get these words down.
Tomorrow we sail.
Final note: It's snowing steadily outside. Just what is going on back home at the Temple?
(Continued in the "Gai-Shift - In to Africa" folder")