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Message-ID: <34085asstr$1008501008@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Meme Mispelt <meem17@mwmw.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} On a Boat <*> (Meem17 - New author) (MF MMF nc? mild bd rom)
Date: Sun, 16 Dec 2001 06:10:08 -0500
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DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of adult fiction, and is not intended for minors, any 
persons likely to be offended by explicit erotic content, or for 
distribution in any area where possession may violate laws or community 
standards.  
The author retains copyright in this work; you are hereby granted license 
to download, print and/or archive this work for personal use only. 
Further license is granted to repost this work to alt.sex.stories or other 
appropriate usenet groups, provided this notice remains and the body of 
the work is unaltered.
License is not granted to archive, or publish this work by any means in 
any publicly available archive, or physical form, without the author's 
prior consent.  Please just ask first, okay?
The author welcomes your feedback: meem17@mwmw.com

INTRO:
Hi, this is my first complete attempt at writing erotica per se (though 
I've included fairly explicit sex scenes in "straight" fiction before).  
This story is an attempt to deal with three challenges: 
The first is a technical aspect of the narrative which should be almost 
immediately obvious.  The second is to play with the seeming contradiction 
in the header; exploring a grey area of consensuality.  I probably 
wouldn't be tackling this subject matter if weren't for some of the 
circumstances surrounding the third challenge: This story is explicitly an 
attempt to persuade a certain young lady that she's been too hasty to 
dismiss me as a suitor.  
Finally, while the story is sorta historical, it's more in terms of trying 
to evoke a mood than in terms of a terribly specific time period, and I'm 
certain there are some anachronisms.  It's a modern candle, for example.  
I'd much appreciate any feedback, positive or negative: meem17@mwmw.com.  
I have one specific problem with the story which I'll ask a question about 
at the end, since it involves a bit of a spoiler.  And, oh yeah, I hope 
you like it. <g>

    A Story Set on a Boat

    Consciousness came back to her slowly, as if she was surfacing through 
some thick liquid.  Realizations and sensations came to her in a drowsy 
sequence.  A sense of warmth and relaxation first -- she felt refreshed, 
as if after a long sleep.  Motion second: a subtle swaying to and fro.  
She realized, gradually, that she was on a boat  -- a large one by the 
feel of it.  Third: she could see nothing -- the darkness was total, no 
glimmer through a porthole, curtained or no, nor a faint crack of light 
from a doorway.  She blinked her eyes experimentally; she felt the brush 
of her lashes against something -- a blindfold?  Fourth, position and 
touch:  her arms and legs were spread wide, held taut, there was velvety 
soft cloth underneath her.  She tugged gently.  Something bound her 
wrists, her ankles.  The bonds were soft, but firm, and she had little 
leverage.  Fifth: sound.  There wasn't very much, far less than she would 
expect on a boat -- just some creaking sounds in time with the rocking 
motion.  No voices, no foot falls.
    She couldn't remember where she was, or how she came to be there.  She 
remembered her shame and her heartbreak, her decision to flee to the 
colonies, booking passage on a vessel, a small handful of tedious days at 
sea, and then...nothing.
    The air was quite still, very pleasantly warm, and she wasn't 
completely certain at first, but when a stray draft teased a nipple, she 
knew.  There was no weight of cloth falling across her body.  She was 
exposed, naked, for anyone to see.  
    Young ladies were not supposed to read the sort of novels that were 
only published on the Continent, of course, but nonetheless they were 
filched delicately from the gentlemen's private libraries, passed with 
titters in the most proper-seeming of drawing rooms, carefully concealed 
in bodices or sewing bags.  She pretended, as did her friends, to be 
shocked as much by the horrible grammar as by the deeds described therein, 
and not in the least titillated: the books were intended only to amuse, 
not to arouse: what strange things do those horrid Frenchmen find delight 
in!  How fortunate that Englishmen are so much more stolid and ordinary!  
But she was neither as prim nor as chaste as she was expected to be, and 
she was always eager for a chance to mock one more of those novels. It was 
late at night, by candlelight, in her chambers that she read them. The 
fingers of one hand would grow sticky working between her legs, so that 
she had to read one-handed, for fear of soiling the pages.
    She knew, therefore, though she shouldn't, for what sort of purpose 
young ladies might be stripped, spread-eagled and tied to beds.  She had 
read all-too-eagerly of women taken forcefully, brought to pleasure 
against their wills.  She was tempted to laugh at the irony: she abandoned 
all she held dear -- all! -- to journey to the New World with the hope 
that hard, honest work would subsume her lusts.  And what happened? She 
found herself inexplicably in just the sort of straits that transpired in 
the sort of novels that had, perhaps, partially led her to her ruin.
    She knew that hands had been on her, undressing her, grabbing and 
binding her arms, her legs.  The thought should have been repulsive, but 
it was not really horror that made her shiver.  Whose hands had they been? 
 What liberties had they taken?  Were they soft, delicate, feminine hands? 
 Or strong and rough: sailors' hands?  Had they pinched her nipples with a 
cackle, mauled her breasts roughly?  Had those hands run their fingers 
through her pubic hair, spread open her pink folds, scrubbed against that 
hard little bump where her ecstasy centered? Had she moaned, even though 
unconscious, arched her back though she was bound, thrust up to meet an 
intruding finger?  
    She could feel her breath getting shallower as she imagined these 
shadowy unknown figures exploring her body, probing, rubbing, pinching, 
biting,  licking.  Soon she could smell her own arousal.  A small 
civilized part of her was terribly ashamed, but she couldn't deny the 
excitement these lewd visions awoke in her.

    She couldn't say how long she lay there -- she thought perhaps she 
slept for a while, perhaps more than once, and each time awoke again to 
the same series of realizations. Blind. Bound. Naked. And alone with her 
thoughts, which were dominated by anticipation -- but more by lust than by 
fear. What was going to happen to her?  And when?
    At last the quiet was splintered by the sound of something heavy and 
wooden sliding, near her head, somewhere above her.  Then the sounds of 
heavy leather boots on a staircase, descending. She counted nine steps -- 
a large man, she thought, by the sound of it. He didn't speak at first.  
She held her breath to listen better.  A clank and a thud, something being 
set on a table to her right, something with loose bits that rattled as it 
was set down.  She smelled a candle.  A heavy creaking sound, a clank, as 
of chains, and more sliding above her, ended with a decisive thud.  Some 
sort of trap door above, she thought.  A handful of footfalls brought the 
man in front of her, between her legs.
    She pictured the man standing there.  Was he watching her impassively? 
 Or were his hands perhaps thrust into his trousers, his hardness rising 
under his fingers as he regarded her?  She was sure her arousal was all 
too obvious, her nipples hard, her vagina slick and moist.
    At length, he spoke.  "Good morning, my dear."  His voice was a 
confident, rolling baritone, his tone lightly amused.  "I trust you slept 
well?"  Not the coarse tones of a sailor, nor yet a Continental tongue 
struggling through unfamiliar rhythms.  Well, why should she be surprised? 
It was, after all, those theoretically stolid, ordinary Englishmen who 
secreted those scandalous slim volumes on their library shelves.  She had 
never imagined an abductor of her own station, but really, there was no 
reason she shouldn't have.  And if this were a reasonable man, perhaps an 
appeal could be made to reason.  Or perhaps an appeal to reason was merely 
what was expected of her? 
    "Sir," she said, fighting to keep any trembling from her voice.  "You 
must release me at once, or the consequences will be most dire."  
    "Will they?" he chuckled good-naturedly.  "What a strange position you 
pick from which to threaten me, my pet."
    A few steps moved his voice to her left, and now she felt a hand fall 
on her thigh with deceptive casualness. She was rather unfashionably thin 
and muscular, and she knew the hand could feel how taut her tendons were 
as it traversed the smooth curve of her leg. The hand felt as strong, as 
sure of itself, as his voice sounded.
    "I didn't choose this position, as well you know," she spat.
    "Didn't you?"  He sounded almost as if he didn't believe her. He took 
his hand from his thigh and placed it on her breast.  The palm of his hand 
pushed her stiff nipple around in a little circle while his fingertips 
stroked her.  
    She fell silent, considering the narrow field of options available to 
her.  She could, for example, say something on the order of, "if you don't 
release me at once I shall scream," but if she were, as she suspected, on 
a pirate vessel, those screams could only draw yet more unwholesome 
attention.
    She felt his lips enclose her nipple, pinching it gently.  His mouth 
applied suction and his tongue flicked rapidly across the sensitive tip.  
Her blinded state had a strange effect on her: with no sight to distract 
her, hardly any sound, and no other touch upon her, it was as if her whole 
self dwelt in that delicately mauled nipple.  She heard herself gasp, and 
it surprised her a little, as if the gasp were from some other mouth than 
her own.
    He released her.  "Do you like that?" he asked.
    "No," she said, as firmly as she could manage.  "It's beastly.  You 
must stop at once."  
    He laughed softly.  "Perhaps you would prefer to be touched...here?" 
he asked, and without warning his fingers invaded her, where she was held 
so obscenely open, so shamefully wet, to his gaze. 
    "Oh!" she exclaimed. Two fingers.  He turned his hand gently back and 
forth as he slid them in and out of her.  His thumb brushed her clitoris 
whenever his fingers sank deepest into her.
    "No, you mustn't," she said, but her voice lacked conviction even to 
her own ears.
    The sensations were exquisite; it was soon impossible to maintain any 
pretence of resistance. She'd had men's fingers move within her before, 
but they seemed such amateurs compared to this man.  He had an extensive 
vocabulary of subtle variations in motion and pressure.  Only her own 
fingers had ever brought her comparable pleasure, but that required focus 
and effort; she had to direct the action.  Now she could lie back and just 
swim in the stimulation; there was something deliciously sinful in that 
lack of control and responsibility.  And her own fingers could never 
surprise her as this man's did.  He gradually, not steadily, increased the 
intensity of his manipulations.
    She felt the bed sag a little beneath her, as he knelt between her 
thighs, using two hands on her now, one smoothly pumping in and out, the 
fingertips of the other in constant motion, now tracing through the folds 
of her lips, now strumming across her clitoris.
    His hands and her soft flesh made moist little sounds as he worked 
her, tiny wet noises that betrayed her wantonness.  It increased her 
excitement, she liked having the evidence of her lustfulness so thoroughly 
displayed for this man.  She heard her breathing growing heavier, raspier, 
more irregular, until it swelled into a continuous series of moans, and 
the tension mounted within her.  
    Her orgasm broke over and through her like an avalanche; it was a 
shuddering ripple, and a sense of breaking away and dislocation.  She was 
acutely aware afterwards of the tiny droplets of sweat on her thighs, 
along her sides, as they evaporated.
    Sometimes when she came, she felt sated and drained; sometimes the 
first orgasm was merely an aperitif, something to whet her appetite for 
the next one.  This was one of the latter cases; his fingers slid out of 
her, he stood, and there was no mistaking her moan of disappointment.
    She heard a soft rustle as he turned away, and clinking noises: was he 
doing something with whatever he'd set on the table.
    Suddenly the coldest thing in the world was rubbing in a slow circle 
around her nipple.  She cried out, and her body jerked spasmodically with 
the shock of it.  It was hard against her skin, and it left moisture in 
its wake.  It must be a chip of ice, she realized.  It took some moments 
for her to adjust to the frigid temperature of the ice, but once she did 
she found the intensity of the sensation thrilling.  When the chip of ice 
hovered for too long in one place the skin beneath it would grow a little 
numb, and would tingle deliciously when the ice moved on.  A second chip 
of ice started to crawl up the inside of her thigh, while the first skated 
with agonizing slowness in a widening spiral around the swell of her 
breast, then moved to tease the other nipple, before starting a long slide 
down across the curve of her belly.  
    She wasn't certain at first if she could stand the touch of the ice on 
her vagina itself, she thought it might be overwhelming, and when the 
chips reached her parted legs, he teased her for a long time, tracing 
around her lips without actually touching them.  She felt the chips 
dwindling, icy water evaporating on her skin, and just when she thought 
they would melt away entirely, he thrust the last sliver of first one, 
then the other, inside of her.  They were like nothing she'd ever felt, so 
frigid and hard against her most sensitive flesh, disappearing in a flash, 
leaving only the memory of coldness.  It was almost enough to make her 
come again, she wanted only a little pressure on her swollen clitoris to 
make her pulse hard against his hand.  She almost asked for it.
    He turned away again for a moment, and when he returned, the scent of 
the candle filled her nostrils, and another chip of ice started moving 
just below her earlobe, tracing her jaw line, then down the curve of her 
neck.  Without warning something hot spattered on her throat where the ice 
had just been: droplets of candle wax.  The wax wasn't hot enough to burn 
her, not hot enough to really hurt, but the contrast between the extremes 
of temperatures was amazing. The ice moved down to freeze her nipples 
again in turn, alternating with drops of candle wax.
    Her long, low moan was surprising in her own ears; it held a note of 
frustration.  These games with ice and candles were exciting her to a 
feverish pitch, but not bringing her to fruition.  She wanted fingers on 
her and in her again, probing, flicking, even pinching.  More: she wanted 
to be filled up with hard manhood.  She wanted to be fucked.
    He gave her a little of what she wanted when he tired of the ice and 
the candle; he knelt again between her legs and his fingers delicately 
traced around her hard center for some moments -- but not moments enough.
    Then he pulled up on her knees, raising her thighs, and she felt 
something hard prodding her anus, gently at first, then with increasing 
insistence.
    Those notorious French books held such perversions, of course, but the 
idea of being assaulted thus had never held appeal for her, and at first, 
indeed she found the fullness of it uncomfortable.  But as his other hand 
returned to her clitoris, with a finger now and then dipping into the more 
accustomed orifice, she began to find a strange pleasure wakening in her. 
 Perhaps it was partly the decadence of it that excited her, more than the 
act itself, but as whatever it was -- it was smooth, round, something of 
lacquered wood perhaps, or glass -- twisted slowly and slid within her, 
she found more stimulation in it than she would have expected.  To her 
shock she found herself drawing her knees up farther to allow it to 
penetrate her more deeply.  Her breathing quickened and grew hoarser.
    "Such a proper young lady," he said with no little amusement.  "She 
loves that proper dildo up her ass, doesn't she?"
    "No," she gasped.  "You're horrible, monstrous."
    For answer, she felt a soft wet tongue tracing the petals of her, 
lapping hungrily at her nectar, then flicking across the hood of her 
clitoris.
    I'm going to come, she thought, with a mixture of wonderment, lust, 
and repulsion.  With a stranger's tongue on me, and some yet stranger 
device invading me, I'm going to come.  
    And just in the moment before her peak became inevitable, he pulled 
away from her.  The object slid from her anus, and, amazingly, she wanted 
it back within her.
    She panted for a few moments, the tremors in her subsiding, waiting 
with anticipation -- both eager and frightened -- for his next assault, 
but she was completely unprepared for what happened next: after more 
noises on the table to her left, she heard his footstep ascend first one 
stair, then a second.
    "Please!..." she moaned.
    "'Please' what?" he asked, his tone light, amused.
    "Please...make me come again."
    His only reply was a soft, dry chuckle.
    He climbed the rest of the stair, and she heard the trap door slide 
open and then close behind him.
    She lay gasping alone in the dark for a long time, wishing desperately 
that her hands were free to bring herself release, that she could even 
squeeze her legs together, that something would thrust within her, fill 
her and fulfill her.  Lying there, seething with obscene need, she felt 
that almost any touch would be enough to send her over the delicious edge, 
that even a little breeze blowing against her swollen clitoris would be 
enough.  But there was no stimulation, no release.
    Despite her frustration, the almost total lack of stimulation, 
especially of any visual stimulation impelled her toward sleep -- perhaps 
it was merely condition, perhaps just that with nothing for her eyes to 
do, there was little point to keeping them open.  Drowsiness and 
lustfulness warred within for a time; drowsiness eventually won, though 
passion never conceded -- only dimmed enough to allow her to sleep.  

                                 * * *

    She was awoken by the sound of the trap door being drawn back again.  
She was alarmed into alertness by the sound before she recalled where she 
was; she tried to sit up, and bonds forced her to remember. Footsteps 
clomped down the staircase, her captor's, she was sure, especially when 
they were contrasted with two more pairs of boots on the steps.  Both 
lighter, she thought, and less sure of themselves.  They moved around the 
room -- one on each side of her, and then she wasn't quite sure.
    "Cor, look at her" one of the newcomers gasped in what she thought, 
with all the snobbery she could muster, were rather uneducated tones.  "I 
died and gone to heaven."
    There was an answering snicker.
    "Be silent!" Her abductor's voice was crisp, and held no respect for
these men.  He was more remote, sitting, she thought from the sound, in
the corner farthest from the stairs.  "Do as you've been bid."
    There was a series of rustling sounds, clasps undone, heavy cloth 
falling to the floor, and then their hands were on her suddenly, and it 
was just as she had imagined when she first awakened.  They were rough, 
calloused, careless of her tender flesh.  They kneaded her breasts as if 
they were dough, caught her supple thighs in broad pinches.  One nipple 
was caught between teeth and tugged, while another tongue lapped at her 
other breast.  Despite her captor's order of silence, the men made little 
noises as they toyed with her: raspy chuckles, little groans of delight.  
She was obscurely grateful that her legs were spread so wide by her bonds; 
when a pair of rough fingers entered her, she was conveniently opened for 
them.  The fingers sawed in and out of her, the ball of a thumb grazing 
her clitoris.  Small wet sounds came from between her legs; there was no 
hiding her arousal.  This pair of men was going to slake their lust with 
her, and the thought of that was exciting, much as she wished it wasn't, 
but more exciting still was the thought of her captor watching, coolly, it 
seemed, from his corner.
    She felt somehow as though he were studying her, cataloguing her 
shortness of breath, making an inventory of the small involuntary sounds 
that escaped her lips, the ripples of motion passing though her body.  He 
had brought her so near to peaking with such seeming nonchalance, such 
precision -- she had no sense of his own arousal.  Did it disgust him that 
these coarse men could excite her so easily?  Or did she realize that she 
was playing to an audience?  
    Because she was, she admitted to herself at last.  She wanted to 
excite her captor, as he had excited her, crack his veneer of urbanity and 
seeming control.  A vision danced in her head: if the tables were turned, 
if _he_ were strapped naked to the bed, and _she_ had freedom of movement, 
what she could do to him then!
    One of the men crawled up between her legs, his hands cupping her 
buttocks, pulling her up, and began to lick between her legs.  His tongue 
was hungry, active, undeniably stimulating, but undisciplined.  She was 
sure that _his_ mouth would know better how to please her, and it was the 
thought of that that made her sigh.  Did he know that? She hoped he did.
    There was a bulb of smooth warm flesh pressing against her mouth, a 
tangy odor in her nostrils, and she opened her mouth to accept a penis.  
She could do this man, at least, a grievous harm, but she wanted to show 
her captor how well she knew to give pleasure.  The cock thrusting into 
her throat was narrow and long, salty with musky sweat, and she lashed her 
tongue around it, raised up her neck to allow it deeper access.
    As she sucked, she felt the head of another penis push against her 
other lips and push slowly into her.  It was very thick; it stretched her 
wide and pushed against her walls deliciously, but the man penetrated her 
only shallowly.  She bucked her hips up at him, hungry to grind her pubis 
against his.
    But these men were uninterested in her pleasure, it seemed, only their 
own.  She was only midway up the climb to sweet release when the man in 
her mouth stiffened, moaned, and spurted his seed down her gullet, and it 
was only moments later that the man fucking her spasmed.  Her vagina 
clenched around the softening penis as it slipped out of her, trying to 
hold it in.
    She heard more rustling and clinking sounds as the pair hid those 
unsatisfying organs away again in their clothes, and clomped up the 
stairs, winching the trap door shut behind them.  There was no sound from 
_him_, still sitting, she presumed, watching in the corner.  She strained 
her ears for a tell-tale labored breath or sigh to indicate that her 
performance had been adequate, but there was no sign.  What a lewd vision 
she must present for him, she thought.  A thin stream of ejaculate had 
trickled from her lips, run down her cheek.  It itched as it slowly dried. 
 More fluid was almost certainly oozing from the gaping slit between her 
wide-spread legs.  How could such a wanton display leave any man other 
than helpless with lust?  He should come to her now, thrust into her, 
bring her the ecstasy she craved.  She came very close to begging him to. 
 She wasn't quite sure what stopped her, not propriety, certainly.  She 
was sure what feelings he awoke in her, but so much less sure what she 
wakened in him.  Arousal?  Disgust? Or -- she shuddered inwardly at the 
thought -- was he so jaded that this display left him merely bored?
    Was he even still there, or had he slipped out while his men had their 
way with her?  She resolved not to sleep until there were sounds to tell 
her one way or the other.  But it was too hard to keep her eyes open in 
the utter darkness, too hard to stay alert with her eyes closed.  
    The sound of the trap door jarred her briefly back into wakefulness, 
she had no idea how much later, and the air left behind had a different 
quality, leaving no doubt in her mind that she'd been left alone.

                                 * * *

    She woke again to the sound of the trap door, and her abductor's bold 
stride down the stair.  Her nose was suddenly filled with a glorious 
melange of odors, a roast of beef, could that be pheasant?  Her mouth 
watered.  How long had it been since she'd eaten?  Hunger hadn't dominated 
her thoughts before, certainly, but now, with these delicious scents 
wafting to her, hunger rallied.  Ah, but she couldn't hope to taste this 
food, could she?  That was probably not his plan.  She decided to say as 
much.
    "Another jest, is this?" she asked.  Her voice was a little creaky 
from non-use, but she pressed on.  "Awaken a hunger and then fail to sate 
it?"
    "What?" he asked, all innocence, for all the world as if he had no 
idea what she was talking about.  "I thought milady might do me the honor 
of sharing a meal with me this evening."  He set down a tray on the table, 
heavily laden with dishes, she judged, from its subdued rattle.
    "You can't eat like that, can you?" he mused.  "You might choke. And 
it would certainly be messy.  Well."  
    The sound of a wheel spinning, then, and a clank of chains, and the 
bed she lay on began to change its shape, folding at the middle and 
sliding backwards, so that it lifted her into a sitting position.  It 
moved very smoothly -- some clever contraption of gears she assumed.
    There were a handful of delicate clinking noises, and then the soft 
gurgle of one glass being filled, then another.  A pause, then he made a 
lip-smacking sort of noise.  "T'will serve, I suppose," he said.  "See 
what you think."
    A glass was pressed softly against her lips, and the smells of the 
food were overwhelmed by a heady bouquet of wine.  She opened her mouth, 
the glass tilted a bit and she sipped.  A Burgundy, she thought, and quite 
a good one at that.
    "Yes?" he asked.  "Adequate? Oh, what a lovely test for a gourmet this 
would be."  He seemed in quite a jocular humor.
    "It's very good," she admitted.
    "You're very polite," he corrected.  "But it was the best I could do. 
 Shall we start with the pheasant?  It looks terribly dry, I'm afraid."

    He sat next to her on the bed and began to feed her a surpassingly 
fine meal. It was awkward, at first, opening her mouth to accept some 
morsel without knowing exactly when it was coming, but they soon settled 
into a rhythm of sorts.  He started with a light-hearted running 
disparagement of the food, despite its uniform excellence -- it was 
certainly like nothing she'd ever expected to eat aboard a seagoing 
vessel.  To her amazement she found herself returning his banter -- she 
chided him for being so hard on his cook.  He didn't touch her improperly 
at all, merely dabbed at her chin with a napkin, for which she was 
grateful.  It would have been a shame for this meal to have to share her 
attention with other sensations.
    There was a very bizarre sort of normality to it all.  She felt oddly 
comfortable with this playful verbal sparring with him.  It was not so 
very different from some of the conversations she'd had in assorted 
country house dining halls.  She couldn't forget, of course, that she was 
bound hand and foot, blind and stripped naked.  But it seemed oddly 
irrelevant.  Perhaps her indifference was abetted by the warm glow from 
the wine.
    Abruptly, as the meal was winding down, he changed his conversational 
tack: "A most strange occurrence, is it not," he asked, "for a young lady 
of breeding such as yourself to undertake an ocean voyage without 
governess, family, or chaperone?"
    She felt a flash of indignance.  Really, what was it to this man?  
Must he seize every opportunity to shame her?  But doubtless the burgundy 
loosened her tongue, and moreover, it released a weight from her to be 
able to tell _someone_.  She swallowed a last mouthful of lamb -- tender, 
and delicately spiced, and began the tale of her ruin.
    "My family knows nothing of my whereabouts," she said, as steadily as 
she could manage.  "When my fiance terminated our engagement, I was 
distraught.  I determined to journey to the Colonies."  She lost the 
semblance of steadiness as she finished. "I hoped that back-breaking work 
and deprivation might exhaust me so that lust would not rule me so."
    "Ah," he said knowingly, hatefully, "the bloke found out you'd 
cuckolded him then?  Not technically, I suppose, but -- "
    "Nay, never!" Her denial was fierce.  Her cheeks felt as though they'd 
been set afire.  "This will amuse _you_, I may be certain."  She sighed.
    "I was quite sure I was alone in the house," she began.  "It was 
Cook's day off; the family had gone to a luncheon from which I'd begged to 
be excused.  Jeffers had gone 'round to the village shops.  I was reading 
in the drawing room, when my mood grew rather... amorous."  
    She squirmed a little in her bonds; he draped a long arm behind her 
neck and squeezed her shoulder.  "I was certain the house was completely 
empty, you understand?" she continued.  "I thought it would be... 
excitingly naughty to... pleasure myself there in the drawing room."
    "Did you strip bare there in the room?" he asked? "The garments 
propriety requires do _so_ restrict access."  He leaned closer against her 
and the hand on her shoulder slid down toward the slope of her breast.
    She nearly laughed at the thought, but without much humor.  Could it 
have been worse if she had? "No, it wasn't as though I were wearing a ball 
gown.  I could gather up the folds of my skirt with one hand and... touch 
myself with the other."
    "So you frigged yourself right there in the drawing room." There was 
no mistaking the relish in his voice.  She'd never heard that word spoken 
before, never dreamed she'd speak it, but it sent a thrill coursing 
through her to do so.
    "Yes, I sat on the chaise and... frigged myself."  His exploring 
fingers, God help her, found her nipple erect again.  "I buried two 
fingers in..."
    His teeth nipped her earlobe.  "In your cunt," he husked.
    "Two fingers in my cunt," she echoed.  She was getting very wet again.
    "And did you have good pleasure of yourself, that day?" his breath was 
hot in her ear.
    "Yes," she said.  "I was very near to... to coming off, when I looked 
up..."  She sighed again, reliving the humiliation and exasperation of it. 
 "And saw my fiance standing in the doorway."  Her words became a torrent,
struggling to escape her all at once.  "I don't know how, he wasn't
announced, I heard no one at the door..." 
    He set his other hand on her thigh, and his fingertips traced the
taught tendons there, trailing upward slowly.  "And your lovely display
didn't incite lust beyond all reason in him?  I wonder he didn't throw you
to the ground and ravish you there."
    "Oh, " she sighed.  "It would have been no ravishment, he could have 
had me but for the asking. It was thoughts of him fueled my amorous 
fantasies."
    "But no."  The fingertips of one hand toyed with her stiff nipple, 
while his other hand began to caress her soft folds.
    "No," she said bitterly.  "He was moved to no passion.  He was 
disgusted.  Such things he said to me."
    "'You little slut.'" He dipped a finger into her and she bit back a 
moan.
    "Those were among his very words," she admitted.
    "What a singular young man," he said.
    "He seemed so terribly shocked.  I do not think he had ever had any... 
intimate relations.  So proper, so very formal, was he."
    A finger, slicked with her juices, made circles in the small space 
between her anus and her vagina, and the skin there proved so wonderfully 
sensitive that she wondered that she had never touched herself there.    
    "You said he'd had no intimate relations.  Had you?"
    "Yes. I learned early what a creature of lust I am.  My riding 
instructor was first, when I was only in my sixteenth year.  He would give 
me a riding lesson, and then give me a riding lesson." She giggled.  "Or 
sometimes the other way around."
    He fucked her slowly with one finger now, twisting it around inside 
her.  "Your first? But not the last."
    "Mm, no," she confessed.  "They all said Lord Abbingdon was such a 
rake, I had to see for myself.  We dallied for a whole season at his 
summer house."  She smiled a little at the memory, as well as at what he
was doing to her.
    She felt played like a violin by his persuasive, inventive fingers.  
He seemed to understand the mechanics of her arousal almost as well as she 
did herself.  She knew that she would come, or not come, solely by his 
choice.
    "It was Abbingdon who introduced me to acts of oral pleasure." She 
giggled again. "He and Lady Elisinore."
    "'Lady?'" he echoed.  "How you do surprise me.  So you have dabbled in 
the sapphic arts?"
    Surely it was the wine making her so giddy.  "'Dabbled?' Nay.  
'Nibbled,' rather, or 'lapped.'"
    "Frigged?"
    "That too."
    "Say it," he hissed, his breath urgent against her ear.
    "Frigged," she murmured. "My fingers in thrust into a lady's cunt, and 
 hers in mine -- oh! -- even as yours are now.
    He pulled those fingers away from her.
    "Do you know," he said abruptly, his tone grown more nonchalant.  "I 
believe I should like some berries.  Would you care for some berries?"
    Berries, she wondered. What odd practice this term might describe? Did 
it matter?  "Yes," she said.  "I should very much like some berries."
    "Does he have a name, this jilting gent of yours?" he demanded, 
changing course again. And what was this he did to her now?  Something, 
softer than a finger placed against the top of her nether lips, now 
sliding down -- oh delicious sensation! -- then pushing briefly the merest 
way inside her, and gone.
    She'd realized this shortly after she awakened, of course.  "I can't 
recall it," she mumbled.
    "How odd," he remarked. Again this small soft thing was drawn through 
her cunt.  "What did he look like, then?"
    "I can't -- " she started, and he popped something her mouth, and she 
understood.  It was a berry, a strawberry, unusually large, tangy and 
sweet, and she knew with a start what gave its flavour an extra piquancy. 
 It was her own arousal she tasted on her tongue.  "I can't remember that 
either," she said, when she'd chewed and swallowed.
    "Nor the sound of his voice?" he flavored another bit of fruit with 
her.  She opened her mouth to receive it, but frustration was mounting in 
her and lust was ebbing.  "No, nor that.  I can't remember anything about 
him, except those last hateful words."
    "I can not think you loved this man much," he said coldly, "if he left 
so small an impression on you."
    "No, that's not true," she said urgently.  "I don't know why I can't 
remember, I don't, but know I loved him utterly." She felt suddenly near 
to tears.  "His revulsion undid me completely.  But now I see I could 
never have been a good wife for him.  You, kidnapper, beast, monster, 
tormentor, you see what an easy plaything I am for you.  No decent man 
would want me. Perhaps there is only one thing for which I am fit."
    He was silent for long awkward moments.  She had no sense of his mood.

    Now that she had finished eating, she became suddenly, insistently 
aware of another pressing bodily need.  She was a little hesitant -- she 
knew that the depravity of some observed few limits, but she had to speak.
    "Please sir," she said.  "You must release me so that I can relieve 
myself."
    "Indeed," he said, rather heavily, she thought.  "I can not be so 
thoughtless."
    What happened next was a bit of a mystery to her, still blindfolded as 
she was, a confusion of metallic noises, limbs being moved, gently but 
firmly, this way and that.  He freed her hands at last, and drew her to 
her feet.  She tried to raise her hands up, eager to be rid of the 
blindfold, eager to see this appalling but thrilling villain, but 
something round her neck and on her shoulders kept her arms lowered.  She 
moved her feet experimentally; they were free, but constrained, it seemed, 
by a short length of chain between them.  An awkward shuffling walk was 
possible; fleeing clearly wasn't.  He stood on her right in a weird parody 
of gentlemanly escort, one hand cupping her buttock and the other holding 
her own, and steered her across the room carefully.  She was a little 
unsteady, having not got her sea legs under her yet.
    He guided her to a small chamber and bade her sit; a door closed 
behind her.  At first she thought this might be a yet crueler joke, for 
the room was lightly scented by roses, and what he instructed her to sit 
upon was like no chamber pot arrangement in her experience.  But when she 
had finished, a sudden rush of water sluiced everything away, and then a 
fountain-like jet of water sprayed upon her, cleansing her thoroughly.  It 
was an ingenious arrangement.
    More than that, as the stream of water played upon her tender flesh, 
it felt obscenely wonderful; it re-awoke her lust in mere seconds. Almost 
unconsciously she reached down and spread her cunt lips open, leaned 
forward slightly and the stream played directly upon her clitoris.  Oh, 
delightful!  Could she frig herself at the same time without blocking the 
fountain flow?  Yes; she reached a hand under one leg and thrust one 
finger in, then a second, as the jet of water pulsed against her clit.
    She bit her lip to keep from crying out.  Only a few more moments, and 
she could give herself release...
    The water slowed to a trickle, then stopped; her fingers didn't.  She 
didn't think about what else it might mean until she heard his voice.
    "Funny," he said dryly.  "I open a door, where one might not expect to 
see such a thing, and here you are with two fingers stuffed up your cunt. 
 Make a habit of this, do you?"  She felt her cheeks burn again. At least 
he didn't sound disgusted; there was amusement in his voice, certainly, 
but also a tell-tale huskiness.
    She pretended to stumble as he pulled her up, and fell against him.  
Her hands plunged to his waist, and found, through thick cloth, what they 
sought: a lovely, hard penis.  Cock, she corrected herself inwardly.  He 
will want me to say 'cock.'
    "Ah -- " he said, and she exulted.  She'd provoked a reaction in him; 
she'd broken the illusion of complete control.  Bound and sightless though 
she was, she could rule _him_ in some small way.  Her eager hands massaged 
the length of him, marvelling at the hardness of it, how it jumped against 
her hand.  He cupped her buttocks, pulled her hard against him, slid a 
finger in to frig her again.
     "Please," she moaned, sure that he could not refuse her.  "Fuck me.  
Fuck me.  Give me your cock."
    He guided her silently back to the bed, with one hand on her shoulder, 
and one finger buried in her cunt.  He laid her down -- it had flattened 
again -- and moved away from her; she heard the soft rustling sounds as he 
undressed.  Small clanking noises as the metal cuffs fell away from her 
ankles, then a rattling thud as the assemblage was pushed to the floor.  
She felt the bed sag as he climbed above her, felt the heat his body 
radiated onto hers.
    "No," she whispered as he set the head of his member against her lips.
    "No?" he sounded very surprised, but he didn't push forward into her.
    "Please," she gasped.  "Bind me again first."
    She could _hear_ his grin.  "Of course," he said.  He lay atop her to 
secure her wrists, his erection throbbing against her belly -- he was 
surely large enough for her, and so very hard -- the wiry hairs of his 
flat stomach scratching her nipples.  He nibbled at her ear, her neck, and 
suckled a breast briefly as he moved back down her body to fasten her 
ankles. 
    And then at last he took her as she best loved being taken,  his shaft 
thrust deep within her, the coarse hairs at the base of it rubbing against 
her clitoris.  His chest pressed against hers and she loved the weight, 
the solidity of him there. She loved the fullness of him as he pushed deep 
inside her, his breath short and hot on her neck.  After such long, sweet 
teasing, it took her very little time to climax.  She gasped as she felt 
it rising in her, flooding through her. She clenched hard around him as 
she peaked, and the sudden pressure made him stiffen, gasp, and spend 
within her.
    He clasped her tightly as he lay on top of her and she felt their 
sweat mingling between their joined bellies, running down her side.  They 
panted softly together, their breathing synchronized.
    "Mmmmmmm," she said dreamily.
    "Mmmmm," he nodded his agreement.
    She was a little sorry that it had ended quite so soon. Though the 
tremendous sexual pressure in her was much relieved, it had not -- quite 
--drained completely away.  She thought perhaps they dozed briefly, his 
head on her shoulder.  When she came back to herself she felt his penis 
slipping out of her a little, and she gave it a playful squeeze -- sorry 
to see you go, come back soon -- and was surprised and delighted to find 
it push back into her.  He was still half-soft as he began to move gently 
in and out of her, and she found the feel of him slowly expanding to fill 
her absolutely thrilling.
    "You're a man of considerable stamina, milord," she said, without 
quite meaning to, and wondered instantly, Milord? Why on Earth did I call 
him that?
    If he noticed any incongruity, he gave no sign.  "And you're a 
terribly exciting, filthy little slut," he replied, his voice tender 
despite his harsh language.  He bent to tease a nipple with a wonderful 
combination of teeth, lips, and a flicking tongue.
    "Slut," she said, tasting the unfamiliar word -- surely she'd never 
said it aloud before?  She liked the way her tongue had to push forward as 
she mouthed it.  "Oh, fuck your little slut.  Fuck her hard!"
    "'Hard?'" he panted.  "Like this?"
    He pulled almost all the way out of her, just the tip of him in her, 
and slammed his whole length back in her, grinding his pubis against hers 
with almost bruising force.  She pushed up to meet his thrusts.
    "Oh, yessss," she hissed.  "Just.  Like.  That!"
    When he was deep inside her she felt not just filled, but complete, as 
if something missing for a long time had been supplied to her.  When he 
pulled away she hungered to draw him back, her vagina tightened around him 
and she strained her arms and legs against her bonds, futilely trying to 
wrap her limbs around him.  Then would he ram into her again, and it felt 
so good, like the most natural and proper thing in the world was for this 
man to be fucking her so deeply.
    This time her ascent to the pinnacle was slower.  She felt 
hypersensitive, as if the folds of her vagina could map the pulsing veins 
on his penis, as if her areolae were tracing the whorls on his finger 
tips.  His breathing and hers grew steadily more ragged.  She wanted to 
urge him on, but speech seemed to have fallen away from her, and anyway he 
needed no urging, he was tireless.  The pressure built in her inexorably, 
until it filled her like a vessel, was almost unbearable, and broke over 
and through her like a long, rumbling explosion.
    Her first orgasm had been good, but the second was nigh indescribable: 
there was a long, dizzy, suspended moment in which she was almost outside 
her body, a free-floating shape of pure, unadulterated bliss.  
    Afterward he lay against her, his finger tips running down her sides, 
almost tickling, tracing the curve of her neck, her breasts, running up 
along her arms as a series of aftershocks rippled through her.
    "I love you," she gasped, without knowing quite why she said it.
    "I love you too, darling," he replied, and he snapped his fingers.
    Awareness crashed on her like a breaking wave.
    His hands gently pulled the blindfold away from her eyes.

    After however long they had been away from light, it took her eyes 
some time to adjust to the world flooding back into vision, and even after 
they ceased watering and blinking, it was some moments longer before she 
trusted that their evidence wasn't some confused hallucination.
    But no, the man above her, still within her, whose sweat dripped on 
her and whose seed filled her was none other than her fiance.

    With so many things struggling to tumble from between her lips, was it 
inevitable that one of the stupidest should escape first?
    "You're supposed to be in England," she said.
    "Obviously, I'm not," he replied with gentle mockery.  He pulled away 
from her and loosed the velvety straps from around her ankles.  She drew 
her legs up under her for the sheer pleasure of feeling them move.
    "How... why?" she started helplessly, then stopped, examining the mass 
of newly-returned memories.
    "An alchemist of my acquaintance has concocted a formula," her fiance 
began, falling into the slightly professorial tone which she found almost 
amusingly pompous in one so young, "which when coupled with hypnotic 
suggestion, is remarkably effective at suppressing certain memories.  
Unbeknownst to you, the captain of the ship on which you hired passage was 
secretly in my employ."  He unbound her wrists, and spun the wheel which 
folded the bed up into a bench.
    "That's redundant," she muttered. "'Secretly' and 'unbeknownst.'"
    "Be that as it may," he said airily, sitting beside her, draping a 
long arm around her shoulder.  She snuggled against him without thinking 
about it.  "The good captain administered a common sleeping draught with 
you first meal aboard the ship, and you were transferred while you slept 
to my vessel.  When you awakened you were hypnotized, and given the 
alchemist's concoction." 
    She _did_ recall something now, a hazy memory of a dark place, a fluid 
both sweet and bitter on her lips, a dreamy mumbling in her ears.
    "That explains much of 'how,'" she  said.  "But rather little of why. 
 When last we spoke, you gave me to understand that you found it... 
distasteful for a woman to find pleasure in such acts as you've subjected 
me to."
    "'Distasteful?'" he laughed, his hand stroking her shoulder, 
fingertips skating down along the swell of her breast.  "Never.  
'Unseemly,' in a lady, I should say.  'Distasteful,' never.  'Essential,' 
perhaps."  His tone grew more sober.  "My dear, for one thing must I 
earnestly and seriously beg your forgiveness.  I knew that for society's 
sake I must wed a lady, and that for my own sake I must keep company with 
a libertine.  I never dared to dream that I could find the two joined in 
one flesh."
    "And so this been some sort of a... test?"
    "Yes.  I had to be certain that you were truly a debauched creature.  
Are you angry with me my love?"
    "I should be furious," she said with all the heat she could muster.  
"You've deceived me, and used me bestially, treated me as no lady should 
ever be treated."
    "But," he said, his voice teasing again, "I think we have established 
that you are only a 'lady' when you choose to be."
    "And it would be hard for me to deny the pleasure your 'abuse' gave 
me," she sighed.  She stroked her long fingers up along his muscular 
thigh, curled them around his penis.  "Perhaps when this drug of yours 
wears off I'll be able to be properly angry with you, but just now I can't 
manage it."
    "I thought as much."  He smiled broadly. "So, you have a choice to 
make.  Shall I return you to your vessel, and let you continue on to the 
Colonies, or will you come back to England with me?"
    "Do you really have to ask?" she teased.  "Oh, England, my love."
    "Good," he chuckled.  "You've never seen the north wing of my mansion, 
after all.  I do believe you might find much there to amuse you."
    She shivered in anticipation.  She turned, swung a knee over him and 
straddled him, and kissed him deeply.
    "Tell me," she asked when she broke the kiss, "this hypnotic potion of 
yours... is it safe?"  She twined her fingers in his chest hair.
    He was offended.  "'Safe?' I should say so!  Do you think I would have 
given it you otherwise?"
    "What I meant was...could you do it again, before we go back to 
England?  Hypnotize me again?  Seduce me again?"
    His eyes glinted wickedly.  "Somehow I thought you might ask that," he 
said.
    A suspicion awoke within her.  "Have we played this scene before?"
    He chuckled.  "Not nearly enough for me to tire of it.  My love, you 
have no idea how thrilling it is to learn where your limits aren't."
    Another long kiss, a loving duel of lips and tongues.  "You'll push me 
a  little farther?" she murmured, nibbling an ear lobe.
    "Each time," he agreed.
    "Why you beastly, beastly, man," she sighed.  "Whatever new indignity 
can you possibly subject me to?"
    He grinned at her.  "You'll have to wait and see, my love."

                                 * * *

    She awoke slowly, rising from the depths of sleep as if through some 
viscous fluid.  Awareness flowed into her gradually: she first felt a 
sense of warmth and comfort, then felt the gentle rocking motion of a 
ship.  The darkness was Stygian, complete, she could see absolutely 
nothing.  She tried to wiggle her fingers before her face, but when she 
tried to move her arm, she found it firmly held by a soft but strong 
strap.  Her other limbs were similarly restrained.  It was very quiet...

                               -- fin --

My problem: I needed some way to get her hands free so that she can touch 
his penis, which is key to how I'm attempting to structure the story: she 
has to _know_ he wants her before she can admit she wants him. This was 
the best I could come up with, and I'm not at all happy with it; I think 
my intended audience is more interested in the ambience of bondage than 
specific mechanics and I think any suggestion of pee games would be a real 
turn-off.  But I need a credible reason for him to uncuff her hands, and a 
credible device to stop her ripping the blindfold off immediately.  Any 
bright ideas?  meem17@mwmw.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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