Part 8,
and Conclusion
The only other item I had taken any note of on my first visit had been
the "mummy case" leaning against one wall, although I now saw that there
were plenty of other interesting items. I looked over the harness
hanging in the corner, which I had neglected before. It seemed to be
intended to suspend a person in a relaxed, horizontal position, while
securing their hands and feet in soft leather cuffs. I grinned, imagining
a few uses for it, before turning to the sarcophagus.
With my imagination as jumpy as it was, I was reluctant to even touch
the thing, but upon closer examination, I found that it bore very little
resemblance to the Egyptian sarcophagus I had seen in the New York
museum.
The case was in the outline of a human form, perhaps a few inches taller
than I, but there the similarity ended. This artifact was made from the
same hard black material as the helmet on the other side of the room, and
had modern-looking metallic fixtures and hinges. It was not leaning
against the wall as I had at first thought, but was tilted at an angle on
a pivot anchored to the floor.
The lid was ajar. I froze. Had it been open before? I couldn't
remember. I told myself there were no such things as mummies, although
in light of the supernatural events surrounding me in the last week, i
couldn't be too sure. I stared at the thing, desperately curious as to
it's contents, deathly afraid of getting any closer to it. I reached out
for the lid. Slowly, gingerly, I eased it open.
There was no occupant, although the interior was certainly interesting
enough. It took me a few moments to discern the intent of the thing. The
whole interior was molded in the form of a person, even to the point of
separate channels for legs and arms. It was obviously intended to hold
the occupant motionless, and perhaps, to _do_ things to them in that
state. A female occupant I might add. The lid was molded as well, and
had two recesses in the appropriate place over the chest. I touched the
material tentatively, found it resilient but firm, not unlike the lining
of that head-sculpture bondage contraption that I had already experienced.
There were slots and holes here and there in padded interior, within which
additional restraints, or... accessories would be concealed, I was sure.
The thing was far too scary for me to try out, and I let the lid close
softly, slowly, before backing away from it. There was little else to see
in this room, so I went back into the hall.
I thought about all the rooms I had seen up here, and what was in each of
them. The huge glass tank still puzzled me, so I returned to that room.
I walked around the huge tank for a while, letting my imagination run
wild, but only improbable fantasies came to mind.
It was only after I looked through more of the cabinets that I began to
have an inkling. One of the things I found was a collection of helmets
or hoods, made of the ubiquitous black gum elastic, and equipped with
some very unusual features. I took one down and looked it over. It was
much like my own leather helmets in shape, but there the similarity ended.
This thing had three very long corrugated hoses attached to the front (so
long that they had been coiled up in a separate wooden box), and big glass
lenses over the eyes. It looked a bit like the things I had seen deep sea
divers wearing when I had visited the Naval Ship Yards as a child. But
this rubbery material was much softer and looked far more comfortable (not
to mention sensual) than the huge metal balls that the divers wore. It
had no laces at the back like my leather ones had, and I assumed it would
simply have to be stretched over the head. I peered inside and my eyes
grew wide.
There was a sort of padded cup at the front, obviously intended to fit
over the mouth and nose, but what really drew my attention was the short
plug, slightly phallic in shape, which projected inward where the mouth
must go. This was no diver's helmet! Then inspiration struck. I looked
from the mask to the tank, and back to the mask again. I walked over to
the tank. Some of the plumbing had elaborate connectors which matched
those attached to the mask. Aha! I tried them, and found that they fit,
although the connectors would only mate in one combination. The box on
the tank had two levers. I turned one, and heard a brief hissing. As I
watched entranced, the gag inside swelled to twice it's former size, while
the collar of the hood swelled into a fat roll. Hmm! I turned the other
lever and heard more hissing which did not stop. I put my hand inside the
mask and felt a flow of cool air.
Well, the intended purpose of the mask was fairly obvious. Now what
could be done with the tank? Fill it with water and practice one's
underwater swimming? In a house such as this, it seemed unlikely. I
turned off the valves and left the mask sitting on the floor.
I looked at the remaining plumbing, wary of activating anything quite so
massive. But in the end, I succumbed to curiosity yet again, my courage
bolstered by Lord Hargreaves' note that I would come to no harm. I
reached for the largest of the valves on the big pipe. To my surprise, it
turned easily, and immediately, a very thick, clear liquid began to pour
from the opening within the tank. It was as clear as water, but it looked
as thick as honey! Shutting off the valve, I clambered up the side of the
tank and down inside. Cautiously, I stuck a toe in the slowly spreading
puddle on the floor. It was slippery, and as thick as it looked.
Cautiously I touched some of it where it dripped from the pipe. It was
the consistency of molasses, and quite warm to the touch!
Now I knew what the purpose of this tank was! My head swam as I imagined
the sensations of swimming (if one could even call it that) in the
gelatinous goo, perhaps even frolicking with a lover (or two) in it's
slippery embrace, struggling against the resistance of the viscous stuff.
In the grip of my libidinous vision, I determined then and there to
sample this pleasure. Then I looked down at my clothes. As wicked and
pleasurable as this corset dress was, the patent leather would surely be
ruined if it got wet. I would have to change.
I returned to my room, divested myself of collar, gloves, corset-dress,
and boots, and then looked through the two armoires for something
appropriately decadent to wear. What was in vogue for splashing about in
syrup? I found the tight amber bloomers (with their wicked rods) and
could think of nothing I'd like better. I found more of the lubricant in
the chest, and put them on, shivering with guilty pleasure at their
intimate invasion. Despite the state of exposure in which I had spent the
better part of the day, modesty forbade me from waltzing about as naked as
these bloomers left me, however. I looked for something to cover up the
rest. And found the same tight suit of gum elastic that had made my life
so entertaining the day before. What could be more appropriate? The idea
of combining it's close embrace with the thick and slippery liquid in the
next room thrilled me to no end. In minutes I was dressed. It seemed
wise under the circumstances, to leave off any corset, boots or other
additions.
I returned to the room with the tank, knees shaking slightly, and opened
the big valve fully, watching with impatient fascination as the tank
slowly filled. I put my hand on the glass as the thick stuff crept slowly
upward. After a moment, I could feel the warmth coming through the glass.
I wondered idly where the goo was stored, how it was pumped, what kept it
warm, before the rising tide of my perverse desire forced my attention
back to the task at hand. Speaking of rising tides, the liquid was almost
ready to overflow the top! I turned off the valve in a hurry. I was sure
my host wouldn't appreciate such a mess.
Putting on the "diving helmet" involved borrowing a bit of lubricant from
the interior of my suit, as it fit quite tightly, and would not otherwise
have slid over my head. Once I had it on however, the feeling was
exquisite, much closer and sensual than my leather hoods, and the gag
invading my mouth was an added bonus. Cautiously then, I opened the first
valve to the mask. The tubing twitched, and simultaneously, I felt the
plug swelling within my mouth, the collar swelling around my throat. What
if it was too tight? Would it choke me? The gag got bigger and bigger,
until I feared I would have to turn it off and abandon my little
adventure, and then the pressure eased. The collar had swelled to a huge
soft roll around my neck, sealing the helmet to my suit, but not exerting
undue pressure around my neck. Indeed, the net effect was to hold my head
up much like the high collar I had put on that morning. Only then did I
realize that I had been holding my breath with excitement. And I couldn't
breathe! Panicking, I flipped the other lever, and relaxed as a flood of
cool air flowed into the inner mask covering my mouth and nose.
I looked up at the tank through the lenses. I felt like some adventurer,
an intrepid explorer of unknown sensual frontiers, and I for a moment, I
deliberately delayed, savoring the moment, fantasizing in a vague sort of
way that I was about to be subjected to some fantastical, perverted test.
My sex clenched involuntarily around the wiggling firmness within me.
I climbed up the ladder, pulling my hoses behind me, ensuring that there
was more than enough length for me to enter the tank safety. I stood
teetering at the top for only a moment before jumping in.
Or rather, jumping ON. The goop was so thick that at first, I didn't
penetrate much at all, but lay on the surface, sinking into it only
slowly. But gradually I sank into it's warm embrace, (not so warm as I
had thought it would be) revelling in the strange, viscous feeling of
entrapment. It was clear the just trying to move around in this stuff
would be tremendously fatiguing after only a short time.
Having never swam under water before, I endured a brief sense of panic
as I the surface closed over my head, but I breathed deeply and quickly
as I sank to convince myself that I really was safely breathing under
water. That facet alone was a novel experience, but an altogether
pleasant one, and I suddenly suspected I knew what moved those Navy
divers to don their clumsy equipment and walk about beneath the waves.
But I had, I was sure, a far more entertaining suit to wear! As I
rolled and squirmed (with difficulty) in the thick liquid, the weighted
rods within me wiggled in turn, slowly churning my libido to a fever
pitch. I relaxed, slowed, putting off the inevitable. I didn't want to
become jaded (or fatigued) of this wonderful new experience too soon.
For a time I simply lay relaxed and still, arms and legs floating loose,
and meditate on the fantastic situation, indeed the almost unbelievable
house and host I found myself a guest of. It seemed a dream come true.
The thick, warm liquid supported and relaxed me, such that I gradually
gave up my pursuit of pleasure for the moment (after all, I had the entire
afternoon), and my thoughts drifted to my past, at the events in my life
which had culminated in my trip to this house, even to this priceless,
delicious moment.
All my life I had had to carefully lock my thoughts and desires away
from those around me, lest I lose the respect of my peers, perhaps even
lose my freedom and my inheritance. I had often wondered what made me
different- why I revelled in sexual pursuits while many of my peers
condemned such behavior. Or why even in my sexuality, I was grossly
different than the majority of those around me. From the earliest age I
had had a fascination with bondage, with immobility, with tight,
restrictive clothing. My guardians had been horrified when I was caught
tying up my dollies as a little girl, and I had been spanked for that and
other perversions on more than one occasion. I learned later in life that
they thought my parents responsible somehow, although no one would speak
ill of the dead, at least not openly.
I had thought on that many times, and could find no behavior on the part
of my parents that might have contributed to my unusual tastes or
licentious behavior. Perhaps the theories of the naturalist Charles
Darwin held some answers. His treatise, "On The Origin Of Species" had
been a popular subject of debate among my circles when I had left America.
Perhaps there was simply some process of selection, something like the
process by which blonde hair is selected in the progeny of blonde parents,
that might account for my unusual interests.
At first I had thought myself a freak, for as I grew older and braver, I
dared to mention my passtimes to playmates and found to my chagrin that
they did not share my interests. Indeed, I was branded a Jezebel at best,
a monster at worst until the spoiled brats forgot and forgave me, as
children so often do. It was not until I was in school (where again I
found myself outcast, for it was considered unseemly for a woman to seek
education at that time) that I met a man who made me feel human again.
My young Lothario (who I shall not identify, he is now a promising young
attorney) not only pursued the pleasures of the flesh as enthusiastically
as I (while retaining at all times the appearance of a gentleman), he was
only too willing to indulge in the forbidden pleasures which I gradually
revealed to him. More than once I had expressed my concern that these
perverse desires of mine set me apart from all humanity, and he assured
me that not only was I not unique in that regard, I was without knowing
it, part of an entire subculture of secretive libertines who pursued
practices as bizarre and wicked as my own. In fact, I learned later in
live that there were some who went rather farther than I thought prudent,
and some who were cruel, unpleasant people, who had fallen from the path
of pleasure and revelled instead in the suffering of others, whether those
others enjoyed such suffering or not. These persons I shunned, feeling as
I did that they had embraced a morally indefensible avocation.
The fond, heated memory of my first lover to indulge me in bondage and
other games (although not my first partner by any means) rekindled the
flame of desire within me, and brought my attention back to the present.
The unnatural sensation of having my movements restricted sent a surge of
heat through my loins, and I struggled to bring one hand up to caress
myself. To my surprise, I found that the liquid in which I was immersed
now seemed significantly thicker, more glutinous than before. I noticed
that was somewhat cooler than before as well. Under the assault of my
rising passion, those thoughts were dismissed casually, however.
Naturally, any liquid thickens as it cools, such as honey.
I arched my back and gave in to the increasingly insistent sensations
emanating from my groin. Ahh, the novelty of these sensations! I could
move about, but only in slow motion, the thick gelatin surrounding me
fighting my every gesture. I slide my hands along the form fitting skin
which enclosed me. The liquid felt slick, almost greasy. Again, the
texture of thick honey came to mind. I was beginning to lose the ability
to think coherently, as the onslaught of physical delights overwhelmed my
senses.
Something nagged at what remained of my rational mind, however. Has some
aspect of my environment changed? I glanced out through the glass walls
of the tank, to be certain I was still unobserved. Then I had it. The
room had grown darker, dimmer. I squirmed in the goo, struggling into a
position to look at the windows. Sure enough, there was little light now
coming in between the drapes. Was it so late already? Had I daydreamed
so long? Then I felt a familiar yet creepy sensation. The rods within
me, despite my nearly motionless state, had begun a slow gyration,
accompanied by the faintest of throbbings. Of course! The sun was going
down, and since I was outside my room, without the amulet, the ensorcelled
bloomers begun the same mischief they had played before.
I grinned to myself around the gag filling my mouth, and attempted to
add my own gyrations to those coming from within. But I now found it
nearly impossible to move my limbs, so thick and stiff had my bath become.
Was the stuff solidifying around me? I began to panic, struggling to
crawl through the stuff toward the ladder and safety, freedom, but even
raising an arms was now a monumental effort.
More over, my ability to care about movement or freedom was becoming
increasingly diluted as the activity inside my most private spaces changed
from sedate to frenetic. The soft rods inside wiggled and throbbed in a
mad, implacable dance, and the small bumps on the interior of the pants
rubbed just enough against my most sensitive spot that I soon felt an
explosion coming on. But the build was slow, gradual, and in terms of
intensity, of intolerable sensation, it soon surpassed the point where I
would normally of climaxed, until I was quite unable to breathe from the
suspense. I realized that I was approaching a paroxysm of monumental
proportions, and it both frightened and thrilled me. A tiny part of me
wondered if I would even survive with my sanity, it built and built
without letting go, until I was quite mad with impatience and frustration.
I struggled against the soft but unyielding gel which now held me fast,
trying desperately to move something, even a finger. It was impossible.
I was weightless, suspended, like a fly trapped in amber. I tried to arch
my back, thrust with my hips, anything to hasten the arrival of my orgasm,
even opening my clenched eyes to stare wildly about at my surroundings.
And stared straight into the eyes of a man who could only be Lord
Hargreaves. He stood on the other side of the glass, a sardonic grin on
his face, his hands spread against the tank. Nor was he alone. I had
only enough time to notice what seemed a veritable host of women standing
behind him before the first wave of my climax broke over me, in a searing
flash of vibrating heat. I had never felt anything so transcendent in my
entire life, and I was helpless to stop it or to affect the outcome. I
floated, frozen in place, staring into his deep, deep eyes, as wave after
wave of unbearable pleasure swept through me, each one taking with it a
little of my sanity, a little of my consciousness.
The last thing I remembered was his eyes, his eyes alone, existing
without a face like the Cheshire Cat, peering into mine as if to pierce my
very soul. And as the last convulsion shook me, shredding conscious
thought, I knew that they had, and that I was lost.
-=*=-
The ceremony which made me a true member of the household, of the family
to be more accurate, was simple, brief, surprisingly unerotic (unlike
almost everything else in our lives here) and informal.
The ring I now wear binds me to my Lord and Master, just as it binds me
to the others, my brothers and sisters. We are individuals in one sense,
but we are one, in another. Our social dynamics and daily habits would
no doubt, seem inexplicable to an outsiders, but there are no outsiders
here, save for the occasional visit from Charles, the cobbler who lives
in town, the same who made my boots. He brings us our deliveries each
morning, supplying us with our few needs. It is a pity I shall not see
him again, as he never ventures out here at night.
We are sufficient unto ourselves, content, and very, very happy.
It is time to bring this tale to a close now, for the dawn approaches.
I hope that Ronald, our resident Librarian, will make a nice binding for
my little book, and give it a place of honor in the library. It will not
be the first such tale written by one of us.
I go now to my rest gladly, for tomorrow there are many preparations to
be made. The Master has revealed that we may expect a new guest in a few
days, and we are all excited. The place is a-bustle with activity,
preparing clothes, cleaning the seldom-used kitchen, even dusting books.
I greet Tristan, Ronald, and Felicity; Abraham, Annabelle, Glorianna and
the rest of my brothers and sisters in the hall as we take our places.
It is a great comfort to have each other, lovers sincere enough to be
friends at need, friends debauched enough to be the greatest lovers. The
first rays of light peek over the trees seen through the great windows at
the front of the hall, and I feel the change begin.
-=*=-
Within a majestic entrance hall, in a stately old mansion, in a beautiful
clearing, somewhere in a remote wood in England, stand eleven beautiful,
jet-black, and erotic statues.
Author's Note:
There are no doubt a few anachronisms left in this work, although I have
done my best to stay historically accurate. I have taken a few liberties
such as with the famous quote from Arthur C. Clark found in Part 6, which
I hope the reader will forgive.
I hope also that certain friends will forgive my appropriation of their
names for some of my characters. You know who you are, and I trust you
will take it as the compliment it is intended to be.
