I find my BDSM beauty, and we ramp it up. We disappear to the Caribbean, practicing our new lifestyle.
HOW WE MET
Chapter 17:
VICTORY?
I was so close, so very close, yet I was still far away. I felt her, as if I could reach over and touch her, as if she were right there with me. And maybe she was. As I sailed the Gulf waters I felt as if I was in some kind of bubble, a protective shell surrounding me. Was it Heather? Was she secretly using her powerful forces to protect me? If she could freeze me, turn my brain into a numb block of ice as she had done so many times before, she certainly could use that same vibe to protect me. I floated along in my bubble for days. I was close, yet still so far away.
From Marco Island, headed north, there are a few smaller inlets (Naples, Keewaydin) before the next big port, Ft. Myers/Sanibel, where the Caloosahatchee River empties into the Gulf of Trump. (Incidentally, Sailor’s parents retired to Sanibel Island and Sailor has stopped there several times on the Love Boat, once ducking in for a few days to avoid a hurricane). I touched base with every known boating facility along the coast and up the river, all to no avail. No sightings of Q, no sightings of an adorable, petite English lady radiating a strong inner glow. I kept on. Determination, grit, and her powerful attraction were all that kept me going.
It took a full day from Marco Island to the Caloosahatchee River. With no sightings, I merely ducked into the inlet far enough to be sheltered from the Gulf weather and dropped my anchor. I freed myself from the bottom just before daybreak and headed north. The end of the next day found me at Venice. I like Venice, having been there a few times in the past. The inlet is between two rock jetties and is treacherous under the strong tide flow. One time I was entering the inlet against an outgoing tide. I saw my speed-over-ground go from 5 knots to 1.5 knots instantly. My boat requires a 1 knot forward speed to maintain steerage. It was agony having the trusty Yanmar diesel engine above red line, screaming like a banshee, and the fucking shoreline barely creeping by. But once tied to a dock at the small marina just inside the jetties, it's most pleasant. Two restaurants in the marina, both top notch.
But I had other things on my agenda rather than a nice overnight in Venice. I sailed right on by, anchoring further north, offshore, just a half day away from Tampa Bay. It had been nearly impossible to canvass Tampa Bay for Q sightings. Tampa Bay is huge, an international port with dozens of freighters, a large military base, and a gazillion private recreational boats. There are just too many targets to research. I turned my attention to the largest, most likely outfits and had one sighting. The St. Petersburg Municipal Marina is giant. The dockmaster, Fred, is a true character. First time I met him, lounging in his highbacked office chair, “Fred, I’m buying a boat. Any liveaboard slips available?” “Don’t do it.” What? “Don’t buy a boat.”
A few hours away from Southwest Channel, the first entrance to Tampa Bay coming from the south, I called Fred. He said that Q didn’t dock there but he had seen her on anchor just off the channel outside the marina. Said she stayed there for a good three or four days, riding her dinghy in and out. She paid Fred’s marina the daily rate to use their dinghy dock, a common practice. “Never actually met her or spoke to her myself, but she certainly caught your glance. She was in here a couple times, talking to Wilbur, the fuel dock manager. Quite the looker, that one. Dock hands said she was from Australia or England. Had that accent, you know?”
“When did she leave and where was she headed, Fred?”
“Not certain but I think she was gone about 2 days ago. And she didn’t file no float plan if that’s what you mean. Said she was going up yonder to Tarpon Springs. Had heard about the sponging and all the Greek shit. Wanted to see the place. Said she’d be back this way when she was done, something about the water being too skinny up that way. She’s right, you know. Didn’t make no reservation or nothing, but wanted transient rates.”
“Fred, you’re a gentleman and a scholar. Thank you, dear friend. Look for a bottle of scotch in your Christmas stocking this year. You’ve earned it.”
Now I had a serious choice to make, yet another high-risk gamble. Where are those dice? Should I stay in Tampa Bay, recoup and lie in wait? Or should I forge ahead and hope to corner her in Tarpon Springs? I turned the boat eastward into the Southwest Channel leading into Tampa Bay. Inside Egmont Key at the mouth of the large, open Bay, I motored north a mile or so and dropped anchor. Off the lee of Egmont Key is a great anchorage. I’ve used it many times. It was a perfect location right at the mouth of Tampa Bay.
It was dusk by the time I got firmly hooked to the bottom and the boat tided up. My scotch delivered in an English cut glass vessel never tasted so good. Reclining in the cockpit, I searched for her. I deployed my antennae and waved my tentacles sensing for her presence. If she was headed for Tarpon Springs, she was within a day’s sail. Closer than I had been to my coveted in months. My desires and my desperation united against my fears and insecurities. The unknown future descended upon me, I writhed under its weight. What if….
The scotch, the moonlight, the stars all helped me drift into an altered state. Visions of Heather wafted through my mind. Pictures of Q, the magnificent pirate vessel, were interspersed with a vignette of my times with her: at the pub, at the University, on the Love Boat. She was the woman of my dreams, and I was dreaming of nothing else. I felt her compact body, warm and inviting, holding me tightly as my arms encircled her. Her lips, swollen with passion, were wet and supple. She gave me everything I wanted, everything I needed.
I was brought out of my blissful revery slowly, cautiously, becoming aware of a persistent noise. A noise that demanded attention. My phone. “Private number – Restricted.” Knowing that I was as close as I was and feeling a bit confident, I answered “Hello, Heather?”
Her voice was smooth, calm, controlled. Almost friendly. “Hello, Sailor. I trust that you’re resting comfortably now that you’ve caught me. Or is catch the improper verb? You colonists have twisted the King’s English so perversely.” She paused and I couldn’t think fast enough to create a response. It was that freezing power she had over me, coming across the airwaves. Damn she was good.
“Mr. Sailor, I’ve come to reason with many things on this voyage. One of them is you and how you impact my life. I’d like to propose a detente. Tomorrow I’ll be bringing Q into Tampa Bay. I haven’t decided a specific landing spot yet. Once I get settled somewhere I’ll let you know. After that we can visit. It’s that or I’ll be gone so fast you won’t even know I was here.”
I breathed a monumental sigh of relief. She was willing to see me. “We can visit” she said. I felt like a balloon about to pop yet limp and deflated at the same time. I gave a huge sigh and said “Thank you, Heather. That’s more than I could ever ask for. Thank you. You drive a hard bargain, and I have no choice. I’m just thankful that you’re safe and still in one piece. Tell me when you’re arriving tomorrow and I’ll help you get situated. It’s the least I can do, Heather.”
Heather laughed a hearty laugh. “Ha! Sailor! No, No, No. This meeting is on my terms, just like all the others. There will be no bumbling Inspector Clouseau like you’ve acted in the past. No meetings with my General Counsel, no ticketed boat tours. Who knows? I might already be there, tucked away somewhere. Or I might enter the harbor under the cover of darkness. All boats running at night have the same running lights. Green starboard, Red port, White stern. I even know that sailboats under power must have a motoring light displayed after dusk. I’ve learned a lot more about boating than you may think, Sailor.” Click. Whirr.
Blown away. Totally. She was willing to meet with me, face-to-face. I sat in the cockpit, stunned, until I felt the tears dancing down my cheeks. They were tears of joy, tears of hope, tears of promise. My emotions were torn to shreds, fighting one another, hugging one another. My mind felt like the fourth of July looks. Fireworks exploding, sending showers of shiny orbs, tiny dots in the sky, floating down like a parachute. Each one carried Heather in a mass invasion, falling from the sky in droves. The sensations overwhelmed me, the visions fading to black.
The morning sun blinded me. My back was sore from a restless night spent in the cockpit. Groaning and creaking, I made my way below and used muscle memory to assemble coffee. I found the aspirin, taking two for good measure. Coffee in hand, I began waking up my brain and having it explore my upcoming reunion with English royalty. She had said today and today was now today. All I could do was wait for her next call and watch the incoming boat channels for a possible sighting of Q entering the Bay.
Chapter 18:
THE REUNION
I kept watch from the cockpit. Binoculars in hand, I examined every vessel entering or leaving Tampa Bay. At 9 a.m. I called Fred at the massive municipal marina. Nothing. No Q, no Heather. Maybe she hadn’t been fooling yesterday. Maybe she was already in the Bay, hiding somewhere. Tampa Bay is much too large to see every corner, even with binoculars. I made one more scan of both channels entering the Bay and went below for more coffee and to let some out. I was a nervous wreck. My brain wasn’t working properly, I was much too distracted. After wiping up the coffee I had clumsily spilled, I returned to the cockpit to continue my vigilance.
About 10 a.m., I saw a sailboat entering the Bay through Tampa Bay Channel on the north end of Egmont Key. I whipped my binoculars up to get a closer look. The boat was nearly two miles away from my anchor spot, but it looked like Q. And it was in trouble. It was listing to port and emitting clouds of black smoke from the exhaust. The engine was obviously failing, and the boat was just crawling along. I gauged its speed against the shoreline behind it, and she was only making about two or three knots.
I jumped on the VHF radio. “Sailing vessel Q, sailing vessel Q, Blow Me hailing sailing vessel Q, come back. Over” I repeated hailing Q on the VHF radio several times with no response. I grabbed an air horn and stepped up on deck. I pointed it her direction and blasted it over and over. Suddenly, I saw Q turn toward me. Then my phone lit up. “Private number – Restricted.”
I hit answer and screamed into the phone “Heather, are you okay? You’re engine’s smoking, is everything alright?”
She was sobbing and had difficulty blurting out “Sailor, I’m in trouble! I’m headed toward you. I hope I can make it.” She dropped her phone on the helm, but the call did not disconnect. I could hear her crying and sobbing as she wrestled with her emotions, her ship, and her fate. I felt helpless as she was still too far away to do anything helpful. I formed a plan and deployed fenders along the gunwale and readied some rafting lines. When she was a half mile away, I dropped the dinghy and sped toward her. Using skills that had been acquired over decades on the water, I tied to her slowly moving boat and climbed the swim ladder.
As I rushed forward to the bow, I screamed at her “Kill the motor, Heather! Turn it off!” The forward momentum caused Q to drift silently toward my boat, very slowly. When we were a couple hundred feet away, I dropped her anchor and let the entire rode play out. Then I said a short prayer. When the rode reached its limit, it cinched up grabbing hold of the anchor and Q slowly swung around 180 degrees, stopping alongside Blow Me. I grabbed a boat hook and, leaning dangerously far over the lifelines, I snagged one of the rafting lines I had laid out. My plan had worked. The boats now tied together I rushed back to the cockpit.
I found Heather sitting slumped over, limp and bawling uncontrollably. I gathered her up and slung her over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Running on pure adrenaline, I somehow got us across to my boat and lay her petite body on the bed. When I released her, she curled up in a fetal position, continuing with uncontrolled sobbing and wails. She was talking gibberish, incomplete thoughts about the University, some project gone wrong, nobody listening, getting fired and having her life go up in smoke.
I got a washcloth wet with warm water and sat by her on the bed. I washed her face telling her in the most soothing voice I could muster “It’s okay now, Heather. You’re safe now. It’s all over. Everything will be alright.” I stroked her hair and rubbed her back and shoulders.
In a few moments she rolled onto her back and peered at me through her tears with dull, unfocused eyes. Then, like a light turning on, she threw her arms around my neck and pulled me down to her. She dissolved into desperate crying again, and did her best between the sobbing and the spastic spasms had when crying so hard, to talk. She blurted out more disconnected phrases “I’m so sorry … why, why, why … its unfair … its stupid … go back.” Again, I tried comforting her in a calm voice as I pulled her arms from around my neck. Her eyes were droopy, she was heaving with those after cry spasms and her eyes slowly closed. I covered her in a blanket and tucked it in tight around her. I leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. “It’s all going to work out, Heather. No worries now. Get some sleep.”
With Heather under control, I needed to assess the condition of Q. She was listing and she had been pouring out thick black smoke from the exhaust. I needed to investigate, especially the listing to port. I climbed over to Q and went below. There was no water on the sole. Then I heard the bilge pump start. I lifted the floor board and her bilge was over half full of water. Not a good sign. But where was the water coming from? I found a flashlight and lowered my head, peering for any water leakage. Then I saw it. A steady stream of water flowing down the inside of the hull on the port side. I clambered topside and looked over the side. Sure enough, there was dock rash and some hull damage at the water line. Then I remembered the fuel dock manager a couple of marinas ago mentioning that Heather had damaged their dock on her approach. Apparently, she damaged her boat as well. And there was no quick, easy fix for this issue. This would require hauling the boat. I muttered to myself “Expensive mistake, Miss Heather.”
Next was to diagnose the engine smoking. When I opened the engine compartment, some smoke escaped and the engine was still making creaking, cracking, popping noises as it cooled down. With boat problems, it’s always wise to start with the simplest cause first, only moving to more complicated causes by process of elimination. I checked the motor oil. Dry. No oil at all. Then I checked the antifreeze level. It, too, was dry. I didn’t need to find tools to inspect the impeller. What I had uncovered told me enough. As with the other issue, this one was major. It seems as if Dame Heather had fried her engine. I’m not aware of any internal combustion engine that can run without oil lubrication or a working heat exchanger system. And even if replacing some essential fluids got her engine to start, it more than likely had a warped cylinder head or worse, a cracked block. A new engine was yet another expensive proposition. I only hoped that her bilge pump would last because it was running nearly full time to keep the boat from sinking.
I returned to Blow Me and checked on my patient. I popped a beer and sat on the edge of the bed examining her. Even in her current bedraggled condition, she was still exquisitely beautiful. She had lost some weight, and her skin had taken on a warm glow from being in the sun. It was an improvement over her stark white appearance having come from England where it seems the sun rarely shines. I studied her beauty, watching her chest rise and fall rhythmically and tried to piece together some of the oddly juxtaposed thoughts she had babbled about. I was thrilled that she had talked to me but, true to form, she had left huge infuriating gaps. I still didn’t know what this mysterious project had been, who the heavy men in black who had investigated me were or who they worked for, what had gone wrong and how it could be fixed.
She slept the clock around. I visited Q a couple of times to ensure that the bilge pump was holding up. I found a spare pump in my spares locker and readied a backup rig, just in case. When I wasn’t keeping myself occupied and distracted, I just sat looking at her with her chest gently rising and falling as I tried to figure out just how big a mess we were in. It seemed natural to feel like we were in this mess together, but what she might think about that was anyone’s guess.
It had been an eventful day and I was drained. Physically and emotionally. I lay on the bed next to my English royalty and dozed for a bit. I closed my eyes and attempted to turn off my brain, just for a moment. It didn’t last very long. I started awake with a jerk, sitting up quickly. Heather was still there, it hadn’t been a dream. I slipped off the bed and was making a pot of coffee when I heard a stirring in the bed. I looked around and she had her head propped up on one arm. I could see that she was trying to put together where she was and how she came to be here.
“Welcome back, stranger. How do you feel? Are you hungry?”
“Famished, Sailor. It feels like I haven’t eaten in a week.” She sounded normal, British accent and all. Her tone and her demeanor were normal, much like when she had been at the University.
While I put together a meal, she attempted to regale me with some of the shenanigans at the University that had led to her downfall. It was presented more like a self-assessment or a debate outline than a true confession. Almost as if she was questioning herself about her recollections, testing them out in the open to see how they sounded.
I gave her a cup of coffee which she gladly accepted. “Mmmmm … this coffee is delicious. Hits the spot, Sailor.” While I plated our food, she visited the head. When she returned, we settled in on the settee to enjoy our meal. Over our food, she shared some of the mistakes she had made on her first foray into the boating world.
“You never once checked your motor oil?” I asked incredulously.
“Never once. I didn’t know you had to. How was I supposed to know that?”
I smiled a knowing smile. “Well, Heather, that’s a Twenty Thousand dollar mistake you won’t make again.”
“And running aground! My, oh, my. What a horrible predicament that is. The first time it happened it cost me Twelve Hundred dollars. I’m lucky that the tow boat operator advised me to get the insurance for that. What’s it called? Something or other BoatingUS. Saved me quite a bit of money later on down the coast a ways. Ran aground three times before I even got past the inlet.”
“Marco, darling. That would be Marco Island. I think every boater who’s ever been into Marco has run aground at least once there. It’s terribly shallow, the channel markers are in the wrong places or non-existent, and the water moves those sandbars around like chess pieces. It’s not an easy harbor to ingress or egress. There’s an old adage about boating. ‘If you haven’t run aground or banged into a dock, you can’t claim to be a boater’. But look at the flip side, Heather. Knowing nothing about boating, you’ve already logged nearly 1,500 miles. What you have achieved is an incredible accomplishment for a novice sailor, even though you attempted the nearly impossible. Many boaters never achieve half of what you have in a whole lifetime on the water.”
I rose and collected our empty plates. I returned from the galley with a fresh cup of coffee for her. When I leaned over to place it on the table next to her, she grabbed the collar of my shirt. She turned her head up to me with the warmest, most tender look in her eyes. She held our stare for a few seconds too long, then pulled my head toward her. Our lips connected, gently at first, like a TV kiss. She sighed a satisfied sigh and came back for another. She moved her hand from my collar to behind my head pulling me in for the most beautiful kiss I’ve ever experienced. Our lips seemed to connect on their own with no movement to disengage. We enjoyed a romantic and deeply satisfying kiss for several minutes; then it was over. She looked down and away, shy, almost embarrassed.
Chapter 19:
THE PACT
That evening, we sat in the cockpit with her wrapped in a robe of mine. She had showered, but we hadn’t retrieved any of her belongings from Q yet. She had regained her radiance, her glow. The streaks of tears that had stained her cheeks were gone and she was, once again, more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. She had a glass of wine, I had my usual tumbler of scotch, and we watched the stars above and the lights around the Bay. The sexual feeling in the air was still very tangible, but it wasn’t the hunger for quick satisfaction; this was much deeper, much more real.
We talked easily and I avoided asking questions about the bruhaha at the University. I had learned that she would divulge her secrets, especially embarrassing ones like getting fired from a high voltage job, on her terms. Eventually, she ended a lull in the conversation and started explaining what had gone wrong at the University and with her project. She was ready to explain what had gotten her in so much trouble, ultimately leading to her dismissal.
“The sad fact is, Sailor, that academic success is all about money. You will prosper if you can come up with a project that pays for itself and brings in revenue to the institution. That is really the purpose of the Research and Development Department. You may as well just call it the Sales Department. And who is the number one customer with unlimited money? The United States government headquartered in Washington, D.C.
“Going back as far as the Cuban Missile Crisis and significantly ramping up after the 9/11 attacks bringing down the World Trade Center, the global community has focused on torture as a means of exacting information. The CIA has been the target of numerous inquiries, commissions and lawsuits seeking to uncover and eliminate some of their tactics, many of them brutal, inhumane, and/or unethical. But suppose that you could take a detainee and flood them with the endorphins that are naturally produced during or after copulation or sexual stimulation short of actual fucking? It would be better than “truth serum.”
“How many men do you know who have promised the world to their lover after getting their rocks off, Sailor? You know that once the orgasm has happened, the brain sort of unties itself and you’ll agree to anything. If we could produce such a synthetic endorphin, the James Bond days of sleeping with the enemy for information could be avoided. “Hold him down while I give him this shot” would become the new mode of operation.
“The two main issues to implementing such a system are finding a means of reliably producing the sexual chemistry, the necessary endorphins, and ensuring that the program would be a financial winner. I needed answers to both before I could take anything to the University Board. I attacked the second issue first.”
Her story was enthralling. My intellect was dancing, totally absorbed with seeing how her mind actually worked. My passion for her tripled in just a few short hours and I began getting aroused just hearing her explain.
“I solved the second problem by going direct to Langley and to the DoD and they both liked it. They agreed to fund me, and they immediately gave this project a name: Cosmic Secret.” She gave me a weak smile and apologized for the way that her Government heavies had invaded my privacy at the marina. “They were just protecting National Security. Just doing their jobs.” And all this time I had believed that it was simply the University security team that had investigated me. Shit. This meant that little ‘ole me now had a government file locked away somewhere. I felt important but mostly vulnerable.
Heather’s solution to the first of her two problems had led to her downfall. She had done a lot of academic research but sooner or later she had to do practical research. Like any university researcher, she had recruited student volunteers who are always open to being guinea pigs for a little extra beer money, especially being sexual guinea pigs. The difficulty with conventional sex (man-woman-pussy fuck) turned out to be that the moment for collecting sufficient amounts of the right endorphins to be used for research into making synthetics was much too short during and after completion of the sex act.
However, testing showed that scenes coming under the broad heading of BDSM could be made to last for much longer. Many BDSM couples who extend their fun and pleasure into daily life might be able to produce the required chemicals on a regular basis. Heather had come to the subject as a complete novice, but it proved to be the case that there are mixed and same sex couples for whom every day is playtime. Perhaps a submissive is sent off to work minus underwear or is sent erotic or humiliating tasks by text message during the day. Or someone can be bound, completely immobilized, and left alone for hours struggling helplessly against her bonds. Submissives find such things extremely arousing, producing exponential amounts of the required endorphins. Now, suppose one of these people could be “milked” for the blood chemistry which her excitement and arousal is producing.
It was Heather’s hope that she could come up with the reverse of one of those arm patch devices which deliver drugs to a patient in controlled doses throughout the day. Heather hoped to be able to apply a simple patch on a subject and extract what she needed from the background levels of endorphins flowing around the bloodstream during a day of “submissive fun.”
The project had been showing good progress until it came to the wrong ears at the University that Heather was tying up her students and whipping them. That her techniques included invading the student’s “privacy” by sending them text messages throughout the day demanding that they do “crazy” things, like expose their breasts to the store clerk, or remove their clothes in the town square. The bureaucrats in suits just aren’t able to see past the fear of tabloid headlines. When the project was investigated and it came to light that Heather had signed a defense contract without clearance, her world was brought down. She was summarily dismissed, stripped of her achievements, publicly humiliated, and ostracized in the R and D world. The only solution in her agile mind was to run away, to disappear and hide from her professional shame. And her involvement with me had given her the idea to do so on the high seas.
The more that Heather talked, the clearer it became to both of us that her problem did not stop at being discredited and having her project shut down. Ever since her early school days, Heather had dreamed of an Academic career and, by sheer hard work and raw talent, she had risen to the top. But the top is where you get the clearest view and she had seen that she was not advancing the sum of human knowledge – her job was just to rake in funds for the institution. She may as well have devoted her life to selling hamburgers where at least she could be honest about just doing it for the money.
When she related the last part where she got fired, she went into some detail about the Universities thorough and overwhelming investigation of her and her methods. She detailed some of the trials and tribulations she endured that she had mentioned previously. As she related some of the horrific accusations leveled against her, taken out of context, and manipulated to cast her in the most unflattering light possible, she broke down in tears. Through her sobbing she managed to vent “Sailor, it was death by fire, it was crucifixion, they cut me to the bone.” She bent over, her face in her hands, weeping uncontrollably. I put my arm around her and pulled her in tightly. I wanted to protect my dream, my vision.
She cried without reserve, almost violently, as the pain and anguish flowed out of her soul. I stroked her hair keeping her heaving body tight against mine, trying to comfort her. I frantically searched my brain for a solution. Any workable solution. My first impulse, as a retired attorney, was litigation. That was immediately tossed aside. It would take years, gobs of money, and would subject her to having to relive the entire mess in public, from the witness stand and her court filings. I needed a different solution. My mind flowed from one unworkable fix to the next. Then I applied the technique of problem solving learned from decades of boating: always start with the simplest fix and move from there, eliminating all other possibilities.
I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and straightened her up, facing me. I wiped her tears away with it and offered it to her to blow her nose. “Heather, I think I have a solution that will make this whole nightmare disappear.” Her eyes widened, full of inquiry and hope. I leaned in closely and whispered in her ear “All we have to do is to sail away from it all.”
My solution was extremely simplistic, but I couldn’t fathom what was wrong with it or why it couldn’t work. We could put it into action almost immediately and Heather would be free of the Government, her old bosses at the University and the sleazy tabloids.
She gave a lovely, carefree little giggle which came from such a simple, innocent place that she had probably not made such a sound since she was in knee socks. I felt her intellect turn back on, that vibe was unmistakable. I felt the wheels turning, her searchlight beaming, exploring my suggestion. Her expression told me that she was warming to my theme.
“Heather, it may sound like an unorthodox solution, but have you ever known me to be otherwise? And even Billy Joel agrees. In The Stranger he sings ‘You should know by now, you’ve been there yourself.’ I know these waterways and many more beside. My boat is big enough for two and we can go wherever we like. There are no license plate cameras on the High Seas, and we could go beyond Uncle Sam’s waters. Between the two of us we can come up with a couple of shell companies and offshore trusts to pay the bills without being traced; we will be in the part of the world where hiding money was invented.”
There ensued a long silence. An unbearably long silence as Heather explored my idea. I bit my tongue hesitating to interrupt her analysis. I had seen how her piercing intellect had solved such conundrums before. I let it work on this one.
She finally reached out and brought her glass of wine to her lips. She sipped gently at first, then downed the last half in one swallow. She turned her attention to me, gave me the most affectionate, lustful look known to man, and kissed me deeply. A short pull away and she did it again, our lips cemented to each other, our tongues playfully toying. I was ecstatic, feeling as if we now had a plan, sealed with a kiss.
Without a word, she rose and grabbed my hand leading me below. She dropped the oversized robe she was wearing, looking at me as if I should take a hint and do likewise. Seeing her beauty I was stricken like a schoolboy. We took hold of each other, passion flowing between us as never before. Our love making was not of the quickie, get your rocks off and move on variety. No, it was sensuous, caring, imbued with full throttle emotion. We melted into each other, two souls becoming one.
Chapter 20:
DOES IT EVER REALLY END?
We lay next to each other, exhausted from our heroic lovemaking. The sex had been over the top, out of this world. Her body was the most delightful, tantalizing thing I had ever experienced. She employed some sexual techniques that were completely new to me. My orgasms had consumed me in a way I had never felt, and she erupted with her own satisfaction brought forth by the intensity of our bonding.
As we lay side-by-side, sated, we began some “pillow talk.” She explained to me how she had never experienced any BDSM activities prior to her University project. As a true intellectual, she had dipped her toe into that world, attempting to get a more thorough understanding of it before embarking on any sort of money grubbing project.
“I connected with a seasoned Dom, an experienced man who instinctively knew exactly what I wanted and needed. I hadn’t really ever thought much about it before. I had been so caught up in my career, my future, that I hadn’t really been aware of those kinks. My first horror was having to strip naked in front of a total stranger. I reluctantly did so only because I needed to explore this world for my work. But it was humiliating. And then, the first time he put those handcuffs on me behind my back, I was horrified. Initially it felt like he was somehow violating me. And when the crop sliced across my buttocks – Holy shit, Sailor! I went apoplectic to say the least.
“I soon came to realize, through the activities and his verbal instruction, that I was actually enjoying this. The powerlessness, the helplessness, the humiliation, and the control that he exerted over me. My body reacted, of course; natural instincts are hard to control. One of those reactions was unexpected. My pussy got sopping wet during our sessions. Every single time. And my mind somehow became calm, full of the pleasure endorphins, hungry for more. You see, Sailor, in my position at the University, the pressure, the stress, the need to make meaningful decisions on an hourly basis needed to be relieved. I’m not a street walking whore, willing to sleep with every, how do you say it here, ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’.” No one night stands for me. But being at the mercy of a man who held the keys to those handcuffs, the person who could untie the ropes restraining me, the total helplessness gave me more pleasure than I had ever experienced. It freed me from the weight of having to be in charge. The ceding of control sent me over the edge, and I’ve never regretted it since. When I’m restrained, when I’m being humiliated, when I’m pushed far beyond the edges of my envelope, I no longer have to make choices because I have no control, everything is out of my hands. I am freed from all of that, and it stimulates me. As I said, my pussy floods simply hearing the metallic click of the handcuffs.
“All of the pleasurable feelings experienced during our sessions were just the prelude, though. Once the “punishment” phase of the session had run its course, the sex was unimaginable. Being restrained, or sometimes with the restraints removed, and having a man use my body in any way he chose gave me mind blowing orgasms. I shook and rattled, my body convulsed, my squirting extinguished the Great Fire of Rome. The feelings that coursed through my mind and my body have no equal.”
We lay there in silence for what seemed like an eternity. At the sounding of seven bells, I rose from the bed. “You are an astonishing woman, Heather. Perfect from the outside and even more perfect inside. I’m going to enjoy a Kahlua and cream before eight bells sound. Would you care to join me?”
We didn’t speak much as we enjoyed our nightcap sitting across from each other. We both were lost in our own thoughts. Loving gazes were exchanged as we sipped our libation. It was a fitting tribute to our newfound partnership. I crawled back into bed, and our cuddling had a different feel to it as we drifted away.
Come morning, we had some serious details to attend to. What to do with Q, how were we going to proceed, where on earth were we going? Heather and I boarded Q, and we retrieved her personal belongings, moving them over to Blow Me. Then I contacted Fred, the harbormaster at the jumbo marina nearby. I explained that we needed to dump Q as soon as possible and I explained to him her problems: a fried engine and a leaky hull. Fred gave me the name of a small boat yard that he felt was the right place to go. I contacted the owner who had seen the boat in the Bay on Heather’s previous stop there and was ecstatic to get ahold of her, flaws, and all. He even brought a tow boat out to claim her, complete with all the necessary paperwork and a satchel full of cash.
With that noose removed from our neck, we took the long dinghy ride to shore to stock up on provisions. It actually took two trips because we weren’t certain where we were going or when we’d have the opportunity to augment our supplies. That night we poured over charts, we discussed the unlimited possibilities of a destination, and we began our trip together into the vast unknown and the world of BDSM.
Late in the afternoon, after some spirited discussion about the pros and cons of various destinations, I abruptly ordered her to strip. She whipped her head around, wide eyed, surprised and expectant. Obediently, she complied. I took a length of rope and tied her hands together behind her. I berated her over some of her suggestions as to where we should go. I smacked her cute little ass. I made her dip to her knees and service my cock. As a final act, I released her restraints, had her lie on her back, and devoured her dripping cunt. She bucked and roared, giving my face a shower.
In the morning, we hoisted the anchor and lit out for parts unknown. I started by merely cruising down the west coast from Tampa Bay to Venice for fuel. We spent one night there. She was intrigued at how fast I caught on to this new BDSM lifestyle. At the marina in Venice, I ordered her to flash her tits at the young boy pumping our fuel. Then, just before we disembarked to visit the onsite restaurant, I paused and ordered her to remove her panties and bra. “But Sailor, my top is too low cut and this miniskirt ….” “Do it. Do it now.” I slapped her hard on her ass. She squirmed throughout dinner, constantly tugging at the hem of her skirt, trying to keep her snatch from public view. After dinner, back aboard, our play session was very steamy. I was beginning to like this new world she had exposed me to.
Over the next few weeks, we sailed southwest across the Gulf of Trump. We aimed for the pass between Las Tumbas, the farthest west point of Cuba and Cancun at the eastern end of Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. Rounding to the south of Cuba, we headed for the Leeward Islands. We made a stop in Kingston, Jamaica for supplies, namely food, drink, and ganja. Our personal lives were beginning to stitch together seamlessly. We avoided falling into the routines so many couples find themselves in, unable to escape. In the middle of the day, far out in open water, I would drop the sails, and we’d engage in some un***********ed play time. Heather admitted to me one night that my unexpected forays into our new hobby gave her great pleasure. “Likewise, Heather. Likewise. Now crawl between my legs and show me just how much you like our new life.”
Eventually, we found our paradise. It was a grouping of a dozen or so islands, an hours sail between them, that became our new home. A few of the islands were uninhabited, a few had small villages with enough of the essentials available to keep us going. We anchored off one of the smaller uninhabited islands one day and rode the dinghy to shore. It was one of those tiny islands which are really just a rock that nature covered in a bright green dress. Heather wanted to explore so we made landfall intending to stay ashore under the stars just for one night. Kind of a “get away” from Blow Me.
I was in my usual attire and Heather was in the tiniest bikini known to man. As I was securing the dinghy onshore, she walked across the beach. I stopped dead in my tracks, admiring her beauty. Her finely sculped body, her perfect ways, her tantalizing mind. My cock rose to the occasion simply gazing upon her perfection. I offered a prayer to the heavens for bringing us together. That bump on the sidewalk, seemingly in a different lifetime, had caused the planets to align. I prayed that it would never end.
She called back to me over her shoulder. “Hey, Sailor. Bring that orange bag I brought and come join me.” I had no idea what was in the bag, but a guy knows better than to ask. We went just beyond the beach into the scrub, although we still had sand underfoot instead of the brown soft ground which gets created by centuries of fallen leaves. But there was sufficient vegetation to hide us from the beach. Heather sat down on the sand and stretched out in a starfish position. She pointed to the orange bag.
“I need you to open the bag for me, Sailor.”
I expected perhaps bread, some cheese and maybe a bottle of wine but all I found was rope, fabric, and shiny, chrome handcuffs. Even leg shackles. I just looked at her as she offered herself to me.
“If a girl were to be tied up here, she would be completely at the mercy of her captor, and he would be able to restrain her however he liked.” And then she left off the artificial “victim” accent and spoke in her own voice.
“Please bind me. I think I need it right now. I’m in the mood, Sailor. Totally immobile?”
She had asked for immobile, so I set my hand to the task. I didn’t tell her what position I needed her to be in; I just grabbed her and turned her body and her limbs however I wanted them. She didn’t get a say in this.
I put her belly down on a patch of firm ground and I yanked her wrists behind her back. A rope went around each wrist a couple of times with knots on each wrist. Then I wound the cord around itself in between her wrists which pulled the ropes around her wrists even tighter. She got a knot above and below her wrists and I heard her grunt and moan a little. I briefly slipped my hand between her legs, feeling a damp pussy.
I wanted ropes around her waist, so I had to squeeze my hand between her soft flesh and the ground. Her rope belt was knotted in place and then another rope bound her wrists to her waist rope, so her elbows were stuck out at an awkward angle, and her hands were held hard against her back.
What to do about her gorgeous, slender legs? I rolled her over as if I were dealing with a sack of corn and I looked around for a fallen branch. It was fairly straight and thick enough not to break. I bound one end of the branch to her left ankle and the other end to the opposite side. The branch served as a makeshift leg spreader. Her arms, now under her prone body forced her to lay with her central mass raised so her bikini thong was facing skywards and, with her body under slight tension, her breasts were forced upwards. I pulled out my knife, and in a second her bikini was history. I could buy her a new one and, if I wanted her naked, then naked she would be whether she liked it or not.
She was staring up at me with those wide, sexy eyes. We had enough tree cover, so she had some shade. I may be a novice at bondage, but I know that a woman who can speak is never really helpless – she can negotiate, plead, threaten and all that gives her far too much power. There were a couple of multi-colored cotton scarves in the bag and I twisted one into a gag before knotting it behind her head. With the scarf in her mouth, her cheeks were pulled inwards and she emitted a few experimental noises, “Yaa, ggaa,urrrg.”
I stood and looked down at my handiwork. These were mariner’s knots, certainly none of that artistic ropework you see in magazines, but I never saw the point of that. Surely all you want to do is to keep her where you want her to be and available for whatever you choose to do to her.
Her pussy was shiny possibly partly due to sweat but I knew it wasn’t just that. I knelt and began to fondle her fleshy outer lips while looking into her face. The scarf gag was already soaked, and she had begun to complain or perhaps to encourage – how could I tell?
My hand began to work harder, dipping inwards searching for that elusive G spot, while my other hand found her clit. I began massaging it in a circular motion which soon had her whole body bucking and twisting. The birds were making a lot of noise, and I assumed they were reacting to the human mating calls which they had perhaps never heard before. I bent my lips to her breasts one at a time working around her nipples before moving inwards to the point where I knew she would be pumping oodles of those chemicals which she had tried to manufacture in a far off life.
After a while I eased off my ministrations and sat back just to look at her in all her magnificence. She was making noises which sounded like pleading to me but no dice. She wanted immobile, she got immobile and I knew she was lapping up every moment. She was enjoying this as much as I was.
Eventually, I stood up and bade her farewell to even louder protests from my helpless victim. I wandered off toward the beach, but she didn’t know that I only went as far as the shoreline where I used a large clam shell to scoop up some seawater which I carried back to dump onto her naked flesh It was erotic to see her jump at the sudden cold, her tantalizing body twisting and writhing.
I have discovered that it is practically impossible for a bound victim to lie still. There is some instinct which forces her to try to free herself and it is very pleasing to watch a shapely body twisting around and pulling against its bonds. It was almost as if she were struggling underneath the weight of a lover which, after quite a time of me watching her and enjoying the view, she was doing. And she was absolutely right about the effects which bondage had on her. I have never tried to ride a rodeo horse, but it must feel something like the gyrations that Heather was engaged in. And she was insatiable. Apart from the sheer raw energy of the woman, once her gag came off, she gave the island its very own foghorn and every single bird took flight.
We often visit the occupied islands with their primitive villages. The locals have gotten to know us – well, as much as we allow. It has happened many times that I have gone into a bar alone and had the barman ask after “The Lady.” It is not too hard to come up with an excuse, and he doesn’t need to know that she is spreadeagled on the floor of the cabin, waiting for me to get around to freeing her so that I can release all that tension for her.