Sex Slave at Sea (3 page)

“Roll it,” Alice commands. “Put it in the
other side of your cunt.”

I obey, transferring the plate over the soft
hood of my clit to press it against my left valley instead.

“Deeper. I want to see it squeaky
clean.”

Alice seizes the plate and wedges it in
deeper.

I cry out as the blunt edge cores into my
wet flesh. Another exquisite spasm shoots through my pussy. Greg
tenses, his forearm muscles straining. Really, he’s a gorgeous man
and Alice doesn’t deserve one iota of him. I’m not sure if this is
Alice’s intent – to give me pleasure along with the humiliation. Or
maybe that’s the point – to make me aware that pleasure can be
found with humiliation.

After the fifth plate or so, Alice hands me
two plates.

“Rub them together in both sides. Make it
count.”

This is going to be a bit more difficult. As
I hold those two plates, wondering how I’m going to ease them into
my grooves, Alice does the unexpected. She helps me by peeling my
cloth-covered pussy lips apart so that I can insert the twin edges
into the revealed grooves. As soon as the rims touch my damp
furrows, they compress my already overstimulated clit.

A palpable blossom of pleasure unfurls from
my nub, and I almost squeal.

“Yeah,” Alice says in satisfaction, “squeeze
that little piece of meat in. Pound it. Knead it. Pancake it for
all I care.”

I don’t have to do much, to be honest. The
plates sort of decide between themselves that my clit is a massage
ball, and they clamp the nerve bundles inside my poor little hood
so much that I can’t help but moan in the deliciousness and
debauchery of it all. Wave after exquisite wave shoots from my clit
and splinters throughout the quivering flesh of my pussy.

I don’t want to climax. Not really. Not in
front of Alice.

Greg eyes me in concern. Perhaps he’s
thinking I’m enjoying my debasement a little too much. I catch his
imploring eyes, and give an almost surreptitious shake of my head.
Alice and Heather are too focused on the way the plates are
jostling against my external genitals to notice, thank
goodness.

My pussy creams are already soaking the
finger of cloth inside my vagina, so I don’t know how much longer
the rapidly drying dishcloth will continue to cling to me. Alice
senses this.

“Oh, don’t worry. We can always re-soak it.”
She smiles at me evilly. “You better be prepared for the long
haul.”

She waves at the stack of plates, and my
heart sinks.

Alice makes me clean all the plates that
way, until my clefts are raw with overuse. My legs and thighs are
shivering with being kept in that squatting position for so long.
Heather finally removes the cloth, which – as I suspected – is
soaked in my juices.

Alice says, “OK, Greg, you can help princess
here down now. We’re going to the sun deck.”

No. No. I’m really too tired, I want to say,
but I know I can’t. There’s nowhere in my contract that says I’m
entitled to a modicum of sleep and rest. They can Gestapo-torture
me with sleep-deprivation, and I’ll have to take it if I want to
see my contractual money.

Yes, I know. I got myself into this.

Greg has to carry me off the table – I’m
that shaky. He doesn’t ask me if I’m all right anymore. I’m not,
and he knows it.

“Take her up, Greg. Heather, go get those
whips.”

Dread pools in my stomach.

“Whips?” Heather asks.

“
Those
whips.”

“Oh.” Heather scrunches her face. “Are you
sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“But I thought we’re not allowed to – ”

“Just do it, Heather. I’ll meet you up at
the deck in five.”

4

Greg carries me up to the sun deck.

“You know,” he says, “I’m going to have
words with Max about you – about the kind of stuff they’ve been
putting you through.”

I shake my head. “Don’t. I signed up for
this. For cash. Don’t mess it up for me.”

Greg sighs. His arms are muscled and strong,
and I can smell his sweet, sexy sweat underneath his cotton
T-shirt.

“Yeah. I sort of signed up for it too.”

“What exactly did you sign up for, Greg, if
you don’t mind me asking?”

He sighs. “Something like what you did, only
it’s for the promise of a job instead of cash.” He looks wistfully
into the horizon. “It’s a helluva job.”

“But she doesn’t treat you like she treats
me.”

Greg hesitates as he puts me down on the
deck floor. The sun dips behind a cloud bank, and so the heat is
tolerable. A deckhand is arranging the deck chairs, and he gives me
a startled look. As soon as Greg favors him with a death stare, he
quickly looks away.

I almost want to laugh. Greg is so
protective.

“It’s different for me,” he says. “Alice and
I go way back to when we were kids.”

“Uh huh.”

He looks down. “We’re engaged to be
married.”

This time, the wind stops around us. My
heartbeat halts in its tracks. There’s a roaring in my ears as an
inexplicable dagger spears all the way from my gut to my chest.

B-but why am I feeling this way? I’m in love
with Max. What has Greg got to do with anything? Why should I care
if he marries Alice – other than the tragedy of a decent guy being
condemned to permanent purgatory? Yeah – why should I care at
all?

And yet here I am – my mind in a tornado of
unexplained emotions. It’s like I’ve been told my best friend has a
terminal disease and is going to die in two months . . . or however
long it takes for them to crawl with a death rattle to the
wedding.

“Yeah, I know you think the relationship
we’re having is sick,” he goes on, still not looking at me. The sea
breeze lifts my tresses and I shiver in my nakedness. “But it works
somehow. For us.”

“I’m not judging you.”

Who am I to judge? I myself am embroiled in
such a relationship – one that defies all normal decency and rules.
Or maybe that’s the sick, twisted world we all live in now, and
everyone has their secrets to hide.

Alice and Heather come up. Heather carries a
mélange of wicked-looking instruments. My world – already reeling –
takes a seasick plunge. The deckhand nervously makes to go, but
Alice puts up a hand.

“Stay. I want you to help us. Greg, go tie
her up on the railing . . . in the exact manner you were tied the
last time.”

Oh?

“I don’t think she can take it.”

Alice shoots him a frosty glare. “I’m the
one who decides what she can take. Do it.”

“No.”

“Greg, you’re
trying
me.”

The threat is thinly veiled. I can imagine
the purported fallout – no dream job for Greg at an office at the
top floor with blinding skylight and ceiling-to-wall glass windows.
My heart thuds in its fragile nest of a ribcage.

After a minute’s hesitation, Greg thins his
lips and gestures to the deckhand. “I’m going to need some
help.”

Of course. Why would he give up dream job
for me? He’s not even engaged to me, for Chrissake. I’m nothing.
I’m nobody.

Something inside my chest writhes like a
shriveled worm.

All the pain I’m feeling now is in my throat
as they bend me across the railing, head down. The railing is made
out of metal, with two bars running parallel all the way around the
sun deck. I am folded in almost double upon my waist. With the
ropes that Heather brought, Greg ties my wrists securely to the
middle railing.

My arms are strung wide. My stomach is
upturned, and so I feel really queasy. I’m staring at the
rollicking sea far, far beneath with its white caps and foam.

“Hold tight, Gina, I’ll make sure you don’t
fall.”

He raises my left leg to the level of the
top bar. I’m so frightened of falling that I clutch at whatever I
can with my bound wrists. The deckhand raises my right leg to the
corresponding position on the other side, and I let out a
scream.

“I’ve got you, all right?” There is distress
in Greg’s voice. “It’s OK, Gina. It’ll be over soon.”

Somehow, I don’t think so. I whimper as they
tie my thighs and ankles down against the top rail so that my legs
are stretched in an almost horizontal position. I think I’m only
able to maintain that posture because I’m still young and
limber.

My pussy and asshole are very, very open and
facing skyward . . . and the gazes of anyone who cares to study my
genitals in detail. I feel nebulous and imbalanced and very, very
scared. I swear I’ve never been so scared in my entire
Initiation.

I’m not afraid of water exactly, or heights.
But the combination of having my sense of equilibrium turned on its
head (or on
my
head) and being stretched so forcefully is
getting to me. Big time.

“Please, please don’t do this,” I cry.
“Please let me go.”

The ropes bite into my flesh at my wrists,
thighs and ankles. I understand that Greg has to tie me up quite
tightly so that I won’t fall, but my circulation – while not being
completely cut off – is certainly being squeezed and compressed so
that I can feel actual pins and needles in my hands and feet.

“Alice,” Greg begins. All I can see of him
is his well-delineated swimming trunks with his impressive package,
but I can certainly hear the anxiety in his voice. “I don’t think
she can take this.”

“Shut up, Greg. Heather, bring the small
whip.”

The bile rushes to my throat and pools at
the back of it.

I now see Heather’s pert legs as she walks
toward me. I look up at her face – smiling, as always – and I can
even glimpse the girl’s face tattoo on her arm as I crane my head.
A slender black whip – like a baby snake – trails from her right
hand.

The pulse at my neck begins to strum up a
wild staccato.

Heather reaches for my right breast. My tits
are exposed through the lower rectangle of railing, and are buoyed
by the gravitational pull so that the upper halves of my mounds
form a clear juicy line at my chest. She grabs the side of my
breast and plumps it out nicely, as if patting some self-rising
dough. My flesh fills up with warm blood at her prodding.

“You ready, Gina?’ she says slyly.

“No,” I squeak.

Heather does not take her hand off my
breast. With her other hand, she raises the thin whip.

“Make sure you hit her hard,” Alice
says.

I wince and close my eyes as Heather brings
the lash down on my tight flesh. The blow stings like a wide-bore
needle – that sharp punctuation of white heat that flares up
instantaneously and glowers as if it’s a bonfire.

She repeats this and I cry out. The third
strike takes me on the nipple, and tears come into my eyes.

“Greg, why don’t you stimulate her a little?
The way we stimulated you the last time?” Alice suggests.

I flutter open my eyelids and the tears run
down my forehead. Heather continues to whip my right breast, which
is rapidly becoming heated. I chance a look at it, and am aghast to
find my tender flesh covered with red streaks.

At the same time, another shadow crosses me.
I feel someone’s large and warm hand on my pussy, rubbing it
gently. It’s Greg’s. One of his fingers runs up and down my clit,
uncoiling a spasm of erotic tension within me. But all too soon,
it’s followed by a hit on my burning breast, and I’m torn in
between pleasure and pain once again.

Greg doesn’t stop caressing me. He strokes
and compresses my clit and inner labia. Although I’m upside down, I
can feel my pussy juices being secreted – a strange sensation of
moisture and the pooling of it at my cervix. I’ve never felt
anything like this before, mainly because I’ve never been
erotically stimulated when I’m upside down.

It’s bizarre.

Heather continues to beat my right breast
until I’m screaming and begging for mercy, even as my pussy is
swarming with dizzying sensations. I know what Alice is doing. At
least – I think I know what she’s doing.

And it ain’t pretty.

“OK, enough,” Alice says. “Now whip her
other tit.”

As Heather transfers her attention to my
left breast, the wind cools my tortured right nipple and mound. As
one area’s pain abates, another excruciatingly flares up in my left
tit. Greg strokes and caresses my pussy thoroughly – his
ministrations are orgasm-inducing stuff. But the fire in my left
breast is constant and unrelenting, especially as Heather decides
to concentrate on my left nipple.

“Please,” I plead, my tears running down my
forehead into my hairline.

I look up (or is it down?) at my mounds.
Both are striped with red marks, as if I’m some sort of exotic
animal. The skin around my nipples and areolas are flushed with
red.

Combine this with the frenzied massage I am
receiving from Greg in my pussy, and I am torn between the
cornucopia of different sensations. My mind tumbles in this way,
and that, and yet another – a kaleidoscope of pain, pleasure,
torment, sensual delight . . . and oh, I think I’m going mad.

This is exactly the mental torture Alice in
striving for. She intends to drive me crazy.

Greg scissors my clit in between his wet
fingers – dripping with my now overrunning vagina – and I combust
with the sheer ecstasy of this even as my left breast is being
raked through hot coals. He plunges two fingers into my sopping
mess of a pussy hole, and I scream – a long-drawn keen of pleasure
and despair.

My pussy yearns so much for something to be
inside it, and I clench my vaginal muscles around his fingers in
desperation to grasp something – like a life buoy – in the midst of
my confusing, shattered world. My own fingers claw in the air for
lack of purchase. All my muscles are very, very tense, and my
thighs ache with having to maintain the pull of my forced
one-hundred-and-eighty degree plane.

“Stop,” I faintly hear Alice say. “Now apply
the whip on her cunt.”