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Weitere Englische Geschichte vor Jahren im Internet gefunden. Autor unbekannt
~~~~~~ Lost at Sea, I ~~~~~~
On some level Randy had known it was going to happen, ever since he had accepted the invitation. Still, when the moment arrived, when he realized she had disappeared with Martin, he couldn’t stop himself from wandering about the yacht trying to find where they’d gone. Even on a craft this size—220 feet—there were only so many places to look, but it took him a while to realize they must be on the top deck, and to nerve himself to go up there. Everyone was allowed in the mid-deck salon, but Martin Andrew’s own quarters were on the third deck and there was an unspoken understanding that that stair was by invitation only. But it was also the only way up to the “moon deck,” the open deck at the very top of the yacht, where the Jacuzzi was. Where--he was quite sure--Mr Andrew had disappeared with Wendy, Randy's wife.
Heart thumping as he ascended into the private deck. No one up here; the other couples were on the foredeck, the stern mezzanine, or in their staterooms. Up the spiral, and into the small luxuriously appointed private salon. For a moment thinking he had made it clear, seeing the final spiral stair—“ladder” they called it, aboard ship—toward the stern end of the room. He was already moving toward it when he heard the voice from the couch. The light, French-tinged accent of Ming, Martin’s executive secretary.
“Where are you going, Mr Taylor?”
Stopped, startled, heart already thumping, he stammered.
“I… I just thought… a view of the stars, maybe… up there?”
She laughed, shook her head. “No.”
“No?”
“No. I think this would be a mistake. Very bad mistake on your part.”
“But… Wendy…. I mean. Is she…?”
Ming laughed, unfolded her legs from the couch. Long legs, pretty thighs bared by her short kimono-style robe. She gazed at him for a long moment. “Come here. Sit by me.”
Hard to explain why he did as he was told. There’d been this feeling, ever since he and Wen came aboard. Both of them knowing on some level what it was all about—that underlying nervous excitement, the sense of fear and adventure. At any rate, he turned away from the spiral ladder, obeying her suggestion.
“No,” she said again as he moved to sit next to her on the couch. Her almond eyes direct, unreadable. “On the floor.” Gesturing to the space in front of her. “There. At my feet. That’s right.”
He found himself descending to the carpeted deck, knees bent, feet to one side. That swooning, lost feeling mixed in with the giddy thrill. Taking this new step, this irrevocable turn onto a new path for them as a couple.
“I should send you back down, of course. But if you behave, you can stay,” Ming said. Above them, through the deck, a deep thrumming rumble of the Jacuzzi jets suddenly switching on. Both of them looked up at the ceiling.
“Is she…?”
“Up there? Your little darling?” She had rested her hand on his shoulder as he had knelt by her feet, urging him down. Now her fingers rose and brushed reassuringly through his hair. “What do you think?”
They sat that way for what seemed a long time. Listening to the muted rushing sound from above. Ears straining—Randy’s, anyway—for the least hint of any other sound. Ming’s hand idly playing in his hair. Those almond eyes looking down at him, as if he were a curious specimen in an experiment. His gaze irresistibly drawn up toward the ceiling.
At one point, feet thumped across the deck up there, toward where the wet bar was, then back again. Then the jets went off. In the sudden silence Randy heard the clink of glasses, laughter. Ming made a little approving sound. Combed fingers through Randy’s hair. The gesture soft, the sensation of her nails hard, sharp.
At the first sound of laughter from above he had started, made to rise, but the pressure of her hand stopped him.
“You’re going to sit right there," she said. "You're going to be the perfect gentleman, yes?”
More laughter from above. Low voices, clink of glasses. Another squall of laughter. Then a prolonged silence.
“Still, very still,” Ming whispered, leaning down to his ear. “Listen. Can you hear?”
At first, no. But her ears must have been sharper than his. As he concentrated he could distinguish a soft moaning sound from among the other noises of the harbor—the soft wind, the distant sounds of evening traffic and the occasional boat moving past.
“Is she good, your wife? Is she very good? He’ll bring out the best in her. It’s his way. We have very high hopes, high expectations for you both.”
Silence, above. Then a sharp cry. “Oh!” trailing off. Wendy’s voice for sure, not that there’d been any doubt.
“Perhaps we should move closer,” Ming said, rising, her hand cupping the back of his neck. “Come.” He only got as far as his knees before the pressure of her hand firmed. “On your knees,” she said. “You can follow like this, yes?”
The awkward, shuffling progress he made across the carpet apparently pleased her. She smiled as she sat him on one of the steps of the ladder and stood before him. “If I’d thought to bring a few things, you’d be more properly secured,” she said, looking down speculatively at him. “You’d like that, I think. Find it comforting. A neck chain to the railing here, see?" Touching the spot. "Perhaps a gag to prevent you disturbing them. Better for you, yes?” Randy wanted to voice an objection but a slender, manicured finger to his lips prevented him speaking. “Just listen, now.”
From above, the first distinct words drifted down. “My god, Martin. Oh, look at you. My god.” A pause, and then the moans returned. Deep, muffled. As if she had something in her mouth. Accompanied by a sharper, masculine grunt of satisfaction.
“It’s good if she pleases him this way,” Ming said. “Listen.” The satisfied grunt again. Again. “He loves that—especially the first time with another man’s wife.”
“Oh god Martin. So beautiful. I can’t believe it’s real. God, look at you.”
“Show me,” Martin’s voice said. “Show me.”
The muffled moans again. Long and rapturous.
“Are you erect?” Ming asked, after a few more minutes had passed.
He wanted to deny it, but found it difficult to respond. How had they gotten themselves involved in this?
Above, Wendy had started making a choked, excited sound—a kind of whimpering. A sound Randy recognized, though he had only rarely succeeded in eliciting it from her himself. He found himself reflecting on the fantasies they'd indulged in, the ones that she had introduced--things he never would have considered--and how it had surprised and delighted him to discover his young bride's vivid and edgy sexual imagination. She had led them into this, yes, but he had followed hadn't he. And here they were.
“Give me your hands,” Ming was saying. He found he’d lost focus for a few minutes. “Like this, on the railing.” She had taken his hands and was folding them together above the railing, one on either side, his right arm through the stanchions. She had removed the long silk obi from her robe. Glimpse of sleek skin, the outcurve of her breast as she wound a complicated pattern about his hands and tied it off. “There,” she said, inspecting her work. “How do you like that? Better?”
Yes, he nodded. Better this way. Better to be secured.
“Good. I’m going to leave you now. Martin can release you when they come down.”
“Okay.”
“I’m leaving you ungagged—can I trust you to be silent? Not to disturb them? It would reflect badly on both of you.”
He nodded
“I suspect you will be asked to stay on with us after the others debark in Kingston. I hope that pleases you. I hope you will do nothing to jeopardize what you are earning for yourselves here.”
~~~~Lost at Sea, II~~~~
They arrived in Kingston three days later. That intervening period had been interesting. Different from what he expected, somehow. A strange mix of surface decorum and underlying perversity.
How many of the other guests were aware of their host’s proclivities, or what was going on between him and Randy’s wife? Sometimes he thought everyone must know; other times, it seemed a secret between the three of them—well, four, including Ming of course.
Despite the surface normality of daylight life aboard, Randy felt cut off by what had happened, like he was living in a world visible to yet separated from the others. He couldn’t stop marveling at himself and wondering at the consequences.
To have sat there for, what, an hour?—his butt going numb on the small aluminum stair step, his arms wanting to cramp, his eyes watering—or were they tears—as he listened to what was going on above him. Biting his lip to keep from crying out.
Not that they would have heard, necessarily, over their own sounds.
Wendy crying God, god, over and over, gasping and choking it out like she was drowning, only what she was drowning in was ecstasy. Martin’s triumphant groan, especially at the end. That rhythmic urr, urrrhh, urrrhh, timed (Randy was quite certain) with the spasms of his climax. The murmurs of their post-coital dalliance, and Randy’s poor erection unrelieved and straining away despite the confused and confusing mix of feelings. The trembling anticipation of what would ensue when they discovered him here.
“Ah,” Martin had said, coming down the stair, “I see you’ve met Ming,” and turning his head to direct his words backward, “step carefully, pet, there’s someone on the stair here.”
“Oh,” she said, descending past Randy. “Oh my,” giggling nervously.
“Don’t worry,” Andrew assured her, “Why don’t you go into my suite and make yourself comfortable while I take care of this.”
“Can we leave him there?”
“Is that what you’d prefer?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Beautiful. You’re beautiful; have I told you that?”
Later, back in their stateroom, she’d tried to explain. She’d always enjoyed teasing him, and it had just felt so right to say that. She knew they needed to make a good impression and she already felt a kind of instinctive connection with their host. They were very much on the same wavelength and she’d taken the chance to advance that feeling.
“I hope—I hope this isn’t going to, you know, change us. Too much,” Randy replied.
“Well, I think we have to be prepared for… I mean, you saw how the others were, Terry and Judith. They had no regrets. And that apartment—amazing. It’s only for a few months, if he accepts us. Terry said he gets bored after a while and wants to move on. And then…”
“But they were hardly normal. I mean, I know we’ve had our adventures, but really we’re not like them. Are we?”
“I think you should just stop fussing and try to accept what’s going to happen. I think there’s nothing standing in our way except you being difficult. I think if you just try, you can handle this.”
Mostly, though, things were much the same, on the surface, as they idled along the coast toward Kingston. At least in public. A certain decorum was observed by all. If Andrew seemed a little affectionate, a little solicitous toward the wife of one of the couples aboard, well, that was his way. Perhaps there was a slight easing of a certain tension, a relief that the choice had been made. Or perhaps that was just an assumption on Randy’s part. After all, there was no sign that any of the others faced the sort of situation that had confronted the Taylors before Martin Andrew had come along.
So those moments when it was apparent that there was something between Andrew and Randy’s wife, the subtle or not-so subtle indications that she had become his consort, were smoothed over, taken in stride.
The most unsubtle of those indications being his little gift to Wendy at dinner the night after his conquest of her. She had been seated next to him, while Randy had been placed next to Ming, down at the other end. Mostly Ming had ignored him, but then, near the end of the meal, he felt the sharpness of her nails on his leg, under the table. It was as if she’d picked up some unseen cue from their host. It was not meant as a caress, but as a reminder: “Behave, now,” she whispered as their host rose from his seat, ringing his crystal brandy snifter with a butter knife.
“My friends,” he said, drawing a thin black box from an inner pocket. “Your attention, briefly.” Opening the box. A trickle of silver between his fingers, a flash of green. Moving around behind Wendy, who sat erect, her eyes slightly glazed with wine or pleasant anticipation. “A gift, for a special new friend,” he said, and his hands descended, drawing the silver chain about her neck, the single emerald coming to rest in the hollow of her throat.
A murmur of appreciation gusted around the table. Underneath, Ming’s nails were pressed painfully sharp into the sensitive flesh high on Randy’s inner thigh. Four distinct points, then three as her pinky finger lifted, flicked once, twice, thrice, thrillingly across the bulge of his testicles.
“You’ll attend them, tonight,” she told him. “You understand?” This was a few minutes later, after Andrew had sat down and the talk had resumed around the table. A little private, whispered conversation as he watched Martin feeding Wendy a bite of his desert (she had refused a slice of her own, on behalf of her waistline). “You knew this would be expected, yes?”
“No, I mean, I didn’t think…”
“You’re nervous. It’s natural for the husband to be nervous. But I’ll be there to help. To instruct. You’ll do as I say. Understood?”
Well, he hadn’t really understood. That is, he should have, of course, given the many hints and clues over the two or three weeks leading up to this voyage. Still, when he'd allowed his thoughts to veer toward the reality of what they might be getting into, he’d somehow assumed his role would be mainly to endure, to passively accept.
That had been a misconception on his part.
~~~Lost at Sea, III~~~
Standing on the upper deck, watching the others getting aboard the launch, he had a weak impulse to run down there and join them, leave Wendy and the whole crazy situation behind before it was too late.
Partly, he was thinking about Terry. “These are my things from when we were with him,” Terry had said. Showing Randy about the place while Wendy and Judith chatted. They’d come to his separate room, smaller than Judith’s. But with its own closet. A certain longing in his voice as he displayed what he had in there. Randy’s face reddening, embarrassed for him. “I still use them—She likes it. Reminds Her of it, what a happy time it was for Her.” Funny how you could hear the capitals in Terry’s voice.
Thinking about that as he watched the launch cast off and head for the dock. “She needs more space,” Terry had said when Randy asked why the separate rooms. “Especially when She has… a guest. You know. Things are different for us now. But better. You’ll see.”
Thinking about that, and trying not to think too much about last night, or about what was ahead now that they were alone with Martin on the yacht. But his mind kept veering back.
“I like you like this,” she had whispered. He’d been a little teary toward the end, a little scared about what was happening. He could still feel the little aches and twinges, particularly that most discomforting and disconcerting one, back there. Wendy had wandered over to watch what Ming was doing to him more closely. “You look so cute. Does that hurt? Poor baby. But you’re so hard, look at you.”
He tried to push the images away, but failed. Flashes of last night kept intruding on his thoughts.
Ming’s taunting voice in his ear: “Is that your ring on her finger? What a lovely ring! Kiss it for me. Yes, while she strokes him. Kiss it—oops, missed! Try again.”
The thing hurting back there, but Ming’s ice-chilled fingers stroked soothing lines around the area of pain. Whimpering as she pushed and pulled behind him, and Wendy’s sweet kiss on his cheek. “So good like this. Look at you.”
That horrible, fascinating feeling of giving in, allowing these things to be done.
They’d first entered the room to discover Martin standing, his back to them, the wings of his floor-length kimono parted, and Wendy kneeling in front of him.
“Hush now,” Ming said. “See? Already she worships his cock.”
True: as they moved into the room, the shifting perspective revealed the darker flesh of his cockshaft extending out in front of him into Wendy’s lips. Hands decorously folded behind her, she was gently moving her head back and forth, and staring up into his eyes: Is this correct? she seemed to be asking; Is this nice for you?
In spite of himself, and in spite of Ming’s tightening grip on his bound wrists, Randy made a little sound. But Wendy eyes remained fixed on her lover’s face. Glazed with lust, her eyes stared into his as she moaned and pushed down, lips stretching wide over the head, down onto the shaft.
As Randy watched, Martin took a handful of her hair and pulled her off. “Please,” she gasped.
“Look who’s here,” he said.
Her eyes darted over toward her husband, then back up to Martin’s. “Is he going to watch us this time?”
“Up to you. You’re my little princess.”
“I’d like it. I want him to watch.”
“Good. Let’s show him then. What a good little princess his wife truly is.”
The session lasted about two hours. Much of it Randy spent on his knees by Ming’s side: his queen, his comforter, his tormenter.
“I want you to take these,” she had said, fetching him from his stateroom. Two pills lying on the flat of her hand. “One to keep you hard, one to keep you happy.” He had hesitated, not liking the idea of taking something whose effects were unknown. Well, the blue pill was something he recognized, but the other… “Later, this won’t be necessary,” Ming had said. “But for now, it will help.” He looked at her unreadable eyes. “If you remain with us,” she said, “you must accept certain things. Certain… alterations. Attitudes. Behavior. This will make it easier for you.”
Kneeling, watching, he wondered if it was real or just a placebo—maybe it just provided the excuse he needed to yield to whatever part of him wanted this. The blue pill was soon doing its work, though, no question there. He was painfully erect.
He wondered, too, if Wendy had also been given something. He knew she had taken lovers before, of course. It was something they rarely discussed. She loved him, yes, deeply, yet she had these needs, these cravings. After he had lost his job, she had taken the position of tennis pro that had fortuitously opened up at the club; as a result, the opportunities for her to seek compensating pleasures had multiplied. In itself her job had been a humiliation, and as difficult for her as for him—to be an employee, now, at the exclusive establishment where they no longer could afford their membership. That an occasional attractive client might take her out, that she might share an exciting afternoon or evening in the wealthy surround she and Randy could no longer afford for themselves helped offset the situation. There was the occasional gift as well—clothing of the kind now beyond their price range, underthings, a piece of jewelry. There had not been a great deal of overt discussion of these matters. She had occasionally had lovers even before the firm he’d staked everything on had folded. It was something he had schooled himself to at first accept, then, well, it rather excited him in some obscure way.
Nothing like this, though. These animal noises as her lover ate her, spanked her, rode her like a stallion breeding a mare. Her eyes flashing over to Randy, seeing herself there—knowing her sluttishness through his gaze—using the fact of his presence to push her over the edge of orgasm.
Meanwhile, Ming’s whispers, Ming’s little suggestions and comments. “What a lovely cock, don’t you think? You see how she loves it. It is a magnificent cock. Look, just enjoy it, see how he pleases her with it.” Whether it was the small white pill or purely the bizarre atmosphere, he found himself fascinated by the sight of the rigid cock sliding, teasing, and plunging into his wife’s cunt. To such a degree that he was only peripherally aware of Ming’s gentle ministrations: the soft silken rope she had drawn out from somewhere slowly binding his wrists, his elbows back. Gentle hands and bindings correcting his posture: “Like this, upright, good.” Opening his robe to free his penis, the tormenting touch of slender fingers there as she slid the ropes between his legs. Not to pleasure but to exhibit: the drug-enhanced, irresistible rigidity of his dick held out like an offering—See how I am for you—as Martin fucked his wife to yet another orgasm.
All of this orchestrated during the first forty minutes or so, the first act, leading up to the important and critical moment of Martin’s prolonged, triumphal orgasm.
The utter shock of that, somehow, beyond everything else. Despite its predictability, its inevitability: the cock pulsing, jetting, claiming the cunt with its sperm, and Wendy writhing underneath, little shrieking chirps of pleasure as she felt the cock spurting in her, claiming her utterly in front of her husband.
Then… interlude: the lovers cuddling and murmuring on the bed. The husband tightly trussed and attentive, erect and ignored by his wife and the man who has mastered her. Not ignored by his companion, his trainer, his queen, however. Tickling fingers along his shaft to remind him of his state, a light, lifting spank under there. His eye-rolling, gasping moans against the silk gag she had at some point slid between his lips, pulled tight behind. His moans as she teased him, until the other two slowly began taking note. Interlude: a “game-between.” Suddenly he is the one onstage. Ming’s performing puppet.
“Watch,” Martin murmured in his paramour’s ear. “She’s wonderful at this. An artist.”
It was so surprising, so unexpected, what she did. Her fingers delicate, teasing in front; her foot nudging his knees farther apart on the carpet; her whisper gentling, reassuring, soothing in his ear—an animal trainer with a skittish horse—as the shock of cool, slippery fingers slid up behind. The utter shock of penetration.
“There, easy now, relax. See? Nice, yes? Oh very nice. Just relax.”


~~~Lost at Sea, IV~~~
The insertion, disturbing as it was, seemed to change something in him. One of the essentials, Ming confided to him later. He must accept that he existed on another plane from the others, now. The insertion was an important test; a refusal would have meant, well, that he was unsuitable. In spite of how well his wife was doing, they would have been sent ashore with the others. But he hadn’t refused, that was the key thing.
For Randy, a divided consciousness about that—about everything, it seemed—watching the launch dwindle toward the pier and with it any hope of reprieve or escape.
On the one hand, well, all the normal emotions. It had hurt, at first, even though Ming had done her best to make it easy for him. It sickened him, now, how he had reacted, what he had done. But in the moment, at the time, he had felt something inside give way, had experienced a kind of ecstasy in surrendering to it. And even as he thought that he felt the despairing tingle, the rising erection. Remembering how it had been.
The two lovers over there on the bed, idly toying with each other as they watched what was being done to him.
Perhaps it was the pill Ming had given him—here in the daylight, he could cling to that at least. His frantic, high-pitched noises against the gag as the initial slender finger had been replaced by something cool, smooth and rigid. Highly lubricated: “I want this to be as comfortable for you as possible, okay?” she had murmured. Yes, he had nodded, okay, good thank you—a response that astonished the part of him that until that moment still thought it was in command of him.
“Now relax,” she said and the pressure increased, pressed, widened to the point of pain. Then slid home.
He felt an odd brushing sensation against the backs of his thighs.
It wasn’t as if he enjoyed the physical sensation itself, though when she moved it a certain way it touched something in him he’d never felt before. But the fact of it, the irrevocability of it broke something in him, divided him: one part of him looking on in helpless dismay, the other part in some weird kind of ecstasy he couldn’t understand.
His little squealing sounds, his cock erect, his wife and her lover looking over, fascinated, at what was happening to him. Wendy’s hand had trailed down along her lover’s flank, and she began idly toying with his cock as she watched Randy’s little drama over here with Ming. Tracing along the length of it—impressive despite its expended state; idly lifting it, circling her fingers just below the head. All the while, her eyes wide and staring at him, as if this was something happening to a stranger, some drama being put on for her and Martin’s amusement. Ming moving the thing, pressing that spot in him so he squealed again: “That’s right. Good. Whinny for me. Good horsy.” So that he knew what it was, the odd brushing back there.
“Hold tight,” she said. “Hold it in for me for just a moment, and then I will make it easier for your. Use your muscle back here—that’s right.” Some busyness back there, then straps threading through and around, snapping in front.
A finger in the silken gag where it tied at the back of his head, pulling his head back as he relaxed himself below, felt the thing ease and hold fast.
“Whinny for me.”
He refused, petulant.
“Whinny for me,” she insisted, her other hand making the thing move, press against that spot in him. He whinnied. Couldn’t help it. And part of him wanted to.
He was being mastered; the insertion had mastered him. It was not that he had lost all sense of himself, but his resistance had been subordinated to the game, made part of the pattern, part of the pleasure for all of them: he knew what was happening to him, oh yes.
“Make him come over here,” Wendy said, speaking to Ming directly for the first time.
“Because…?” Ming’s tone ambiguous: this was her toy and she did not take instruction from the Slut.
“What we talked about—what you promised.” The cock in her hand—squeezing it.
“A demonstration, is that it?”
“You said you could”—her voice catching, something that happened when she was very excited—“could make him. Do that.”
“Did you doubt me? Is this a test?”
“I want to see it. You promised.”
Standing at the rail, now, in the dazzling Caribbean sun the memory pierced him and he made a little high sound. A sound disturbingly similar to the ones Ming had kept urging him to make last night. Kneeling his way over to the bed at Ming’s urging, her finger still hooked in the silk loop, using it like a bridle. His cock bobbing absurdly out in front, insistently erect despite his apprehension.
“Your wife has asked me to do something very special. Very special for you,” she said as they reached the edge of the bed. “You may find it… confusing. Normally we would not do this so soon, before we are certain of you. I say this so you will understand, later. That this is special—she insists to do it now, tonight. A kind of ceremony for you. A special giving.”
He had had no idea what she was talking about, but his heart had been hammering with excitement.
“There are two parts to this, okay? The first requires some cooperation from you. You need to help me a little. Can you do that?”
Yes, he nodded, the part of him that wanted mastering.
“I’m going to move this,” she said, her hand sliding down to the bizarre penetrator—he could feel her touch on it. “I need you to tell me when you feel something special, that spot—you know what I’m saying?”
Yes, he nodded, and almost whinnied. She somehow had a grip on the thing now, and he could feel gentle movements, shiftings within the overall sensation of pressure.
“We must be very careful, and you need to help.” Moving gently, probing. He knew what it was, but didn’t know how to make the thing touch there—it had just happened, before. “Arch your back a little, that helps. And relax.”
“Uhhnggg,” he grunted against the silk.
“Is that it?” It passed, hunted, came back again.
“NNNNggg!”
“There? Yes?”
“Nng.”
“Now I’m going to hold for you, okay? And you just gently push, can you do that for me? Not hard. Just firm. Steady. Will you try?”
What he found himself focusing on was not just that feeling, so he could do as Ming said, but Wendy’s reaction. The distracted, fascinated half-smile. The way—and this was very curious—her eyes drifted down from his to stare directly at his erection.
“Just push. Gentle, now. But firm. More. As you find it—you know where it is, now? Good. Just push for me and I’ll help a little too.”
He honestly had had no idea what was going to happen. Just this warm feeling of wanting to do as he was told, and the odd sensation inside, pleasurable in some way though nothing like the normal kinds of stimulation he enjoyed.
“Steady,” she said. “Not too hard. Just firm. Good. Arch a little, if that helps.”
Wendy looking down at him, and he looked down there too. What was she so fascinated by? Not but what he was pleased that she…. And then, Oh.
Oh look, he though, part of him so abstracted from all this.
“God,” Wendy whispered. And Ming chuckled, very pleased.
Down there, the pressing had made something happen. Something strange. It was running out of him, his seed, his offering. The regular clear fluid at first, just like normal except a lot more and faster. And then turning opaque and it was his seed pouring out, dribbling out and dropping pat pat pat on the carpet and Wendy’s eyes wide, fascinated, looking up to catch his expression then down again as he half-sat back against the thing, pushing on it to make this happen.
“Push,” Ming said, and he obeyed, expecting to bring on the orgasm that must accompany what was happening down there. “Excellent,” she whispered. “Oh very good,” and he felt warmed by this approval yet the feeling he yearned for, ached for now was not coming, where was it? The tingle, the desperately needed sense of the thing completed. But no, just this running and running out, this draining. Slowing now. Finishing. And still… not… Oh dear. Oh where….?
A moment of warm approval from the others
“There,” Ming said. “Excellent. Very well done.”
“My, GOD,” Wendy said. “I mean, I know you said… but I never knew…”
And even Martin Andrew grunting his approval. Whereas for Randy himself, at this little applause-less ovation, a strange mixture of feelings. A proud performer, yes, but one rather confused and disconcerted at his own feat. Ming’s hand releasing his silk bridle, sliding down soothingly to his deltoid, rewarding him with a soft massaging caress. The warm pride and acceptance the drug or whatever it was made him feel at all this, mixed with the strange truncated sensation, this maddening incompleteness.
Now in the clearer light of day, he saw it more abstractly, more as a whole. The ceremonial or ritual aspects of it. The husband kneeling his way over and making this offering, this sacrifice. To pour himself out like that without the benefit of the accompanying pleasure—the ultimate sacrifice. The ultimate gift--one would have thought.
Had it not been for the other thing he'd done, which even now made him blush furiously in the tropical blaze.
And yet he found he was pressing himself against the railing, pushing his erection against it, and knew with a kind of sinking ecstasy that it was still with him, whatever dark seed had been planted last night, germinating, getting ready to bloom like some alien plant in an old science fiction movie.

Here on the yacht, watching as the launch reached the dock, began disgorging the other guests, trying and failing to push away the thoughts of last night. Feeling the strange sore places in his body, some others in less physical locations, and watching as the last opportunity for withdrawal faded away.
The tall woman there, just stepping onto the dock. Lliana. She had said something to him, passing him in the corridor on her way to the boat deck. Tall, blonde, imperious, until that moment she’d hardly said a word to him during the time they’d been aboard together. “You look different this morning,” she said, stopping him with a hand. “Happier. Better.” Suddenly her face came near. Kissed his cheek. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered. “Ming’s an expert.”
“I don’t know what you’re….”
“Perhaps she will loan you both to me when they are done with you here.”
Standing here in the brilliant Caribbean light, it was easy to think that it was all nonsense; surely the old attitudes, his familiar ways of being would reassert themselves. Right now, at least, he didn’t feel any different, despite what Ming had said just at the end, as she was returning him to his stateroom.
“Just so you know,” she had said, “Martin has instructed me that you and Wendy will be staying on with us for some time. Assuming that is your choice, of course.” Arching a questioning eyebrow at him. Something prevented him from speaking. “I must confess I still have some doubts, but you’ll do your best to assuage them, yes?” The boat had seemed to lurch with a passing wave, or was it just him. He had yearned to enter his stateroom, get off by himself where he could try to come to terms with… with everything. “if you remain, I will have complete authority over you. I hope that pleases you. I know you felt that, the pleasure of it. These feelings will become more intense, more necessary for you. You understand?” Her hand sliding down to hold him between his legs. In spite of the draining and the… the other thing that had happened, he felt that strange falling thrill. He was erect for her, his penis eagerly offering the affirmation his mind was still trying to reject.
And even now, in the daylight, it was happening again: cock lifting, tenting out his loose khaki shorts. He moved to adjust himself. Trying to push away the images, but they came crowding in anyway.
He’d been drained and cast aside, curled like a used rag in the corner. Lying there, the pressure of the thing still inserted in him, the yearning, incomplete feeling began merging with something else. A kind of euphoria, ekstasis. All he had to do was surrender himself, his manhood, and everything else would be taken care of. Horrible yet fascinating thought.
Meanwhile, soft murmurs and chuckles on the bed. Randy’s little performance had excited Wendy and she wanted Andrew hard again, so they could fuck. She and Ming were sharing the task of arousing the big cock, soft comments and laughter coming from over there. “Here, just below the tip, see? That’s what he likes. Like that, yes, excellent.”
Through the strange attenuation of his emotions, this odd abstraction he felt from everything, Randy felt petulant and discarded, and knew this to be part of the lesson he was learning here. He could be used or not, as it pleased them. There was nothing necessary about his presence.
“Lift your leg,” Ming was saying over there. “I’ll put him in you.”
“Oh god,” Wendy gasped. “Oh god, Ming… Oh, that’s so… oh… sweet….”
Sneaking a glance, he saw that their host was taking Wendy from behind as she lay on her side. One thigh lifted to accommodate him, her foot in his hand, and Ming’s shiny, jet black hair down between them. Doing gentle things down there at the point of their joining. Things that were making Wendy choke and jerk back her hips, gasping and writhing her head. Ming making little humming and purring sounds down there, her head gently moving, while Andrew fucked slowly yet powerfully from behind. Wendy’s sounds progressing from gasps of wonder and surprise to growling urgency, her fingers interlacing with Ming’s silken, jet-black hair, holding Ming to what she was doing down there while being slow-fucked from behind.
At some point after this second fuck had soared to completion Randy drifted off. He didn’t know if the others had also slept. The three of them were entwined and murmuring compliments and endearments over there on the big bed while Randy lay on his side on the carpet: the thing discarded.
It must have been around dawn when Ming roused him, for by the time they were finished with what happened next, the windows had gone blue with incipient sunrise.
“She needs you now, your wife.”
“Uhm?”
“Your help. One last thing.”
This was the thing that, standing in the sunlight, he founded it hardest to understand about last night. He could see now how important it was to them, why it had been so essential. Of all the things that could have happened, it was the one thing that most effectively blocked any attempt at reinstating his self-understanding, even in his own mind. The thing most responsible for him standing here, resigned to going forward with the whole business, rather than grasping his last chance to bail out.
Ming had been so pleased with him, after. The warm feeling he got about that even now convinced him that whatever it was she’d given him had not been a mere placebo. He’d been altered in some way, he was sure of it. “You’ve performed so well,” she’d said. “Tomorrow, after the others leave, you’ll be given a reward.” Busily unstrapping him, removing the hard thing in his rear. “You’ll be collared and skirted. New things for you. I think you’ll be pleased.”
Well, perhaps. Perhaps that would be best. Who knew?
The thing that was so strange was how easily he’d cooperated. Perhaps it was the depth of the night, the depth of abandonment he’d already been reduced to.
“Your help,” she’d said. “One last thing.”
Wendy had been awake, too, over there on the bed. Playing with the long cock, flopping it back and forth.
“You see?” Ming had said. “She can’t fuck it when it’s like that, can she.”
Wendy meeting his gaze, her look expectant.
And Ming: “We would like you to take care of this for us. Yes? You understand? For you to do it now.”
At the time, he’d recognized it as a kind of absolute surrender, and however he felt about it now, the part of him that had been in control then had been thrilled at this knowledge. Even grateful, god forgive him, for the opportunity.
Even now, hard about it. Hating it, but helpless to stop the reaction.
The pill, he told himself. The need for an orgasm after the initial denial—the weird draining. Or maybe it was just Wendy’s look. How excited she was. How this clearly thrilled her.
Wendy holding the thing out as he knee-walked over to the bed. Wendy kissing it, then holding it out toward him. Even now, his mind wanted to shy away, but the images, the sense-memories forced their way in.
“Show me,” she had whispered. “Show me, darling. How good you are. Yes. Oh nice. Oh there, see? God, look at you, yes.”
Ming’s fingers seeking between his own legs, ringing the head of his cock, squeezing tightly. “I’ll let you have your release, but only if you do that very nicely.”
He had moaned at what he was doing. He remembered that clearly. Nothing had ever felt like that floor-dropping, letting-go feeling. Moaning and squeaking, the sounds muffled of course by the…. But the pure surrender of it had been indescribable. Ming’s fingers doing just the minimum to keep him right at the edge. Squeezing tight, occasionally, to prevent him climaxing before he had performed as they desired. And all the while, Wendy watching, gasping little exclamations of delight and excitement, holding the thing for him. Slowly stroking it as he did what he did, and whispering Oh darling, oh look, so sweet, yes, oh good at that aren’t you, look how nice you are.
Here in the daylight, on deck, he suddenly sensed a presence: Ming coming up beside him.
“Are you thinking about it?”
He swallowed. Out there, the launch had finished disgorging its passengers and was headed back to the yacht.
“Poor Terry,” she said. “He found it very hard at first, adjusting to this.” She had turned to lean back, elbows on the railing behind her. Light fingertips trailed on his forearm. “I don’t think so hard for you, though,” she laughed. “I almost think you don’t need the pills.”
“Are they… what are they, anyway?”
“Permanent? That’s what Terry was so worried about. At first, anyway. Then… well, you saw how he is now.”
“Only a little. I mean, we didn’t know everything. They just said….”
“He’s happy, don’t you think? He seems so much happier to me now. A very happy boy, Terry.”
They stood that way for a while. Randy hunting for what to say, how to express what was going on inside of him. Not sure it could be defined, he was so torn between polarities of feeling at this point. Glad he had adjusted his erection so it didn’t show—he was hard, hard, hard.
“I’ve laid out some things for you, below.” Her voice hard now, too. “Going forward, certain things will be required. Certain things expected of you. Like last night, you understand?”
“I think so.”
“What we did to Terry, we are going to do to you. You understand this?”
“I… I don’t know if I can… I don’t….”
Her hand gripping between his legs again, as sudden as that.
“I think it’s too late for you, though. This says to me, too late now, too late for him. You see?”
“But I’m not… none of this is… It’s all so strange.” He gasped, her fingers tightening.
“I have laid out certain things. Your own have been put away, but you will find these acceptable. Enjoyable even. If you go down now, you can be presentable by lunch time.”
She released him. Her hand rising to his shoulder, pushing, turning him away from the shore, the boat. Nothing for him there, now. “Go,” she said. “You’ll need to shave and so on. I’ve laid it all out. I’ll be down to inspect you before you see the others. There’s much to do.”
Somehow he was moving away from the railing, numb feet carrying him toward the ladder. What else was there, after all?
“Too late for you now, Mr Taylor.” He looked back. She was leaning back on her elbows again. Long tan thighs exposed by the little pleated skirt. He turned back to the ladder and began his descent, her words following him.
“Too late, you understand? All going to be very different now.”