Times a hundred, she’d laughed, and what planet did Ash live on? She must have been the only catholic schoolgirl in history to ever follow the rules.
“I’m saving myself for marriage,” Ashley had said, a bit defensively. “With Tom.”
Libby had certainly sheltered her and doted on her. Was that what she hated about her sister, Andrea wondered, scrubbing herself clean with the soap, taking somewhat less than her usual delight in her excellent, well exercised body, was it the fact that Ashley got a mother and she didn’t?
Then again, she’d gotten a father, Malcolm, the free spirit, the cowboy monk, iconoclast to the end, teaching her delight in all things human, all things sensual.
And sensuality was exactly what Andrea had gotten. In high school she was conservative, for reasons of her own, but in college, she’d decided to use the body nature had given her. Boys proved pathetically easy to manipulate. Leading them by their dicks, she discovered, you could keep them perpetually off balance and drooling with just an occasional glance or a carefully turned phrase. Freshman year was like a candy store of sex. Then in her sophomore year, Andrea discovered the Ro Phi girls, the rawest sorority on campus. For her initiation, she was ‘auctioned off’ for the night to their brother Greeks, the Lambda Delts at a keg party.
Lisa, the ringleader, had her strip to bra and panties, dancing in time to a raunchy rock tune. They gave her a little doggie collar and chain leash, which Bo Massey, star quarterback, used to lead her upstairs to the beer soaked mattress reserved for the occasion. Bo was a bore in bed, a real letdown considering his physique, but Andrea got off just thinking about being paraded and humiliated in her underwear before a room full of drunken college kids.
She’d pretended to be shy and reluctant to do things like this, but secretly, she craved more. What would it be like, she wondered to be stripped naked and then made to perform? Bo had reeked of liquor and he was sloppy as hell, but her fantasies got her off over and over. She barely felt him come. A minute later, he was out like a light, still on top of her. Andrea couldn’t move, couldn’t roll him off or even slide out from underneath.
They found her hours later, still trapped. Andrea feigned annoyance, but the truth was she’d come five more times humping her body up underneath him, imagining how he was her jailer and she was his prisoner. For an encore, she gave blowjobs to anyone still left standing, kneeling herself on the stinking carpet deep-throating one wasted jock after another.
From there her reputation was sealed as campus slut and whore. Actually, she spread herself no more than many of the ‘good girls’, it’s just that she was honest about it. Most of the good girls’ boyfriends ended up with her anyway, when they grew tired of frigid hand jobs and inert lovemaking.
It hadn’t occurred to Andrea that it was the power she got off on—being used, forcing men to abuse her and take advantage of her. Sure, she liked to be tied, raffled off, ‘spread’ around the room at frat parties, but that kind of thing was just a lark in comparison to the feelings she got from being in the middle of a real power exchange. She could see that now, looking back, especially in light of what Malcolm had told her about blood and ancestry and wolf spirits. Power was an aphrodisiac for her kind, plain and simple.
The eroticism of force. Unmasking explicitly what is already implicit in sex, not to mention life in general. How well she remembered as a child, playing games with the boys, not only with ropes, but with live electric wires, which she would touch to her tongue, daring them to do the same. It had thrilled her in her belly, before she even knew what sex was.
Andrea could see how all that added up, now, her whole life marking her as a sexual deviant. Sin boldly. Steal any man you want. Defy all limits, every law. So far so good. But the question remained, did she want to hold the whip or wear the bridle? There was no doubt that testosterone made her swoon and she was a sucker for male power. But where would she find a man of power and compassion, someone like her father, to whom she could give herself body and soul, with whom she could be as strong and dangerous as she liked, secure in the knowledge she would never exceed her bounds.
“Well, Tommy,” she told the man on the bed, when she’d dried herself off. “Have you decided to be a good boy yet?”
“Oh, yes, mistress,” he panted like a puppy.
Mistress? So he’d played this little game before. Exactly how many other women were there, she wondered, even now?
“So, Tommy,” she crooned, swinging herself over the bed to mount him. “Tell me again how much you love me and how it’s got nothing to do with the money? And don’t lie to me,” she warned, “cause I’m the one holding the whip.”
Tom groaned, wanting the degradation, but at the same time terrified that his number was up, not only with Andrea, but with Ashley as well.
“Good boy,” she said, when she’d ridden him to climax, allowing him his own meager eruption in exchange for some very valuable information concerning his hidden sex life, a life unknown to either sister. “Now tell me you don’t mind if I use your cell phone, Tommy.”
“I don’t mind, mistress.”
Andrea had memorized the number. As soon as someone answered, an older man she recognized as the butler, she asked for Ashley. It was time for Tom to come clean, she decided; assuming, of course, her sister would even take the call. Climbing off him to assume a more discrete position by the nightstand, she asked for her sister.
“One moment, please,” the butler said.
“Hello?” chimed a voice a moment later. Andrea froze. It was Libby.
“It’s Andrea,” she replied, bracing herself for the worst.
“Andrea,” Libby sighed, sounding anything but furious. “Thank God you called. Your sister’s missing.”
“Missing?” The word stuck in her throat. “What do you mean?”
“She came here last night, I told her too much, and she stormed off. No one’s seen her since. She won’t answer her cell and it’s after two. She’s never done this before.”
Andrea felt the weight on her chest. All of this was her fault.
“Andrea, honey, are you there?” Libby asked. “I hear you breathing, so I’ll assume you can hear me. You need to listen carefully to what I’m going to say. Nothing that’s happened is your responsibility. This was going to happen anyway. In fact, you made it easier, forcing Ashley to deal with me and Tom—and her own feelings—sooner rather than later. Do you believe me?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” Andrea said, looking out the window as it all came swirling back: Ashley’s’ surprise entrance, her father’s dark secret, watching her car disappear down the rainy road.
Her car. Ashley had taken her car and her purse. “Libby, I need to ask you something, and the details of what you remember are very important.” Andrea switched ears. “Did Ashley give you any clue as to where she went?”
Libby thought for a moment. “I hadn’t thought so, but now that you mention it, there was one thing, and it struck me as strange. There was this matchbook from a club, and directions on her dresser. I’ve called the police, but they say I can’t file a missing persons report for 48 hours.”
Andrea gripped the phone. “I need you to keep this matchbook thing a secret, even from the police. Can you trust me? I know it’s a lot to ask.”
“Baby, you’re my daughter,” Libby exclaimed. “I trust you with my life.”
Andrea felt a tear well up in her eye. “Good. I know what to do then, just sit tight.”
The Edge. Ashley had gone to the edge. She’d found the matchbook in Andrea’s purse and under the circumstance had decided some slumming was in order. The only thing Andrea cared about, though, was that Ashley hadn’t found her way to the back rooms, the chintzy ‘dungeons’ where the pain was all too real. If someone as sweet as her were to suffer, she didn’t know what she’d do.
“I will, Andrea. Be careful, okay?”
“I will… Mom.” Andrea clicked off the phone. “Did Ashley leave any clothes here?�
�� she asked.
“Yes,” Tom answered, panic gripping him. “You won’t leave me like this, will you?”
She slapped his belly. “Of course not. You get one phone call.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A call.” She showed him the phone. “I’ll dial one number for you and tell whoever answers to come over here ASAP to help. Now who will it be? Mumsy and Daddy? Your boss at the bank? I know, how about the police?”
“Andrea this isn’t funny.” He strained at the cords, grunting ineffectually.
“I know it’s not. Now are you going to pick a number in thirty seconds or do I leave you here like this for the landlord to find?”
At twenty five seconds, he screamed out a number, said it was a woman named Karen he was looking for. When a soft, sultry voice answered, she held the phone to his face. “Call in the cavalry, snookums.”
Tom cried out for Karen to come. Andrea tossed the phone on his stomach so he could continue whining while she found something to wear. Five minutes later she was on the road, doing well over the speed limit. The best part of the whole thing was that after Tom had spilled the beans to Karen on the phone about Andrea and Ashley, she’d untied him anyway.
Someday she hoped they’d be laughing at that, the three women, Ashley, her and Libby, too. In the meantime, the hunt was on.
Chapter Five
Ashley moaned in her sleep. Fitful, half dream, half terror. The images, the sensations, repeating over and over. She was on the shore, in the wet flimsy dress, barefoot. A hundred times, climbing out of the water, coughing, shivering, even in the hot sun. And always, always the man is waiting, bare-chested, in boots and breeches, a sword belt slung across his waist. She knows he will be there, and yet each time it feels brand new.
She screams, but he merely grins, his face largely obscured by the leather mask, his brown eyes flashing, rapacious.
“You are mine,” he says each time, uncoiling the rope, flexing his impossible biceps, tanned by the blazing heat.
Ashley tries to run, sometimes past him, other times back into the sea, but he catches her always, holds her fast like a rag doll. Her struggles only cause her to rub against him, quickening his breath, hardening his cock. His muscles are like iron, and her own flesh can but yield in response.
“Do you lay as good as you fight, milady?” he asks, his voice hot and strong in her ear, his breath vaguely tinted of rum and flavored by the scent of his skin. He is male, all male. No shame, no apologies for his hard cock and his primeval desire to take what is his due: a vibrant female, unattached, in her sexual prime. Sometimes he tears off the dress, other times he makes her strip, as he watches, clenching the rope in one hand, the other gripping the curved sword. He could cut off the garment as easily, if he wished, or slit her open like a ripe melon.
The dress has no buttons so she must pull it over her head. She is so scared, so weak yet her belly burns and her thighs moisten. The material is saturated; it slips from her hand landing with a splash in the shallow water. At once the fresh air tingles on her skin, her naked skin.
“Put down your hands, wench!” he commands when she tries to cover herself, shielding her nude body. It had been difficult, trying to hide both breasts and vagina, but now she must show both.
“Back straight,” he growls, pressing the point of his fearsome sword to her throat. It is a sharp sensation, causing her to suck in her breath.
“What is your name, girl?” the pirate demands, his eyes hot and flagrant on her body.
She tells him ‘Tia’ and he repeats the name, smiling slyly as he slides the tip of the blade over her cheeks and under her left ear. “Are you going to be a good girl, Tia?”
Ashley pulls her head back, trying to avoid the subtly sliding metal, cold to the skin and razor sharp. The pirate moves the blade to a point under her chin, forcing her onto tiptoes. “Don’t move again, Tia. Not without permission.”
It is real. So real…
“I-I’m sorry,” she winces, feeling the point prick her skin like a needle.
“I asked you a question, wench.”
Ashley nibbles her lower lip, sucking in a shivering breath as the sword begins to trace itself down her neck, between the hollow of her breasts, finally coming to rest at her belly button. Her nipples throb as she imagines what he could do to her there or a half dozen other sensitive places.
The question, he’d asked a question!
“I will,” she stammers, calves strained as he raises her higher on her toes, the blade back under her throat. “I will try to be a good girl.”
Behind the mask he frowns. Drawing a dot of blood at her belly, he says, “Trying is not good enough.”
“I will be good, then!” she cries. “I will—only please don’t hurt me!”
“Tia will be good,” he corrects. “Tia will be a good lay for you and your crew.”
When Tia fails to respond promptly, the blade slices the air and finds as its new target her left nipple. The merest inclination of his wrist, the tiniest amount of pressure and she would be sexually scarred for life. “Forgive me, sir,” she begs, “but I—I mean, Tia is a virgin! She doesn’t know how to please men!”
The pirate grins. “Better still,” he says, swinging the sword back into his scabbard. “This will make good sport. You have twenty seconds.”
“Twenty?” she repeats numbly, her palms still plastered to her hips. “Sir, I don’t understand.”
She watches him remove the sword belt and take off his leather vest. “To run,” he finally told her, as though she were an imbecile, “I am giving you that long for a head start. Now run!”
Tia shrieks as he strikes her buttocks with his hand, delivering a cracking blow. When he raises his arm a second time, she takes off. But where to go? Through the jungle, that is the only way. The undergrowth is rough on her feet. There were briars and brambles, too, which scratch and abrade her bare skin. Twice she falls, her nude breasts and sex crashing ignominiously onto the jungle floor.
Each time, she gets back to her feet. She is prey. Naked, hunted prey and the predator is hot on her trail. She can hear the pirate behind her, moving efficiently, minimally, making only the tiniest sounds.
He is playing with her. Circling round, herding her. She hears him on one side, then the other. In the end she spins helplessly, teetering on the brink of collapse. She will die out here. She has no hope. Head throbbing, she tries to escape again, and this time she succeeds, covering unbelievable ground, the way she could in school, when she ran track and field. At last, she feels herself alone. There is sand beneath her, again marked with claw prints. Something lives here, something big. There is a cave, at the bottom of a large cliff. She looks up at the treetops, and she realizes there is something worse than being hunted by a lust-filled pirate.
Being alone.
“Help” she begins to cry, but before the sound has escaped her throat, he is there, behind her, his hand over her mouth.
She relaxes against him, relief overcoming her fear and sexual terror for a brief second. “Thank God,” she whispers, when he releases her for air. “You are here.”
He turns her to face him, holding her fast by the upper arms. The mask is gone; she sees his face, ruggedly handsome, fierce and marked by a long scar.
“I give myself,” she whispers fiercely, looking into his black eyes.
But the pirate only shakes his head, his brow narrowing, the jagged scar on his cheek lengthening perceptibly. “You do not give. You are taken.”
Ashley moans as he thrusts his tongue between her lips, savaging her mouth. When he releases her, there is a trickle of blood at the corner. Gripping her arms like steel, like shackles of flesh, he forces her down, onto her knees and then onto her back. His rod is huge and punishing and he shows no mercy for her tender virgin sex. At first stroke she is made to take the length of him, his muscled body pressing her hard, breasts to knees.
As he continues to plunder her depths, she avoids his eyes, a
shamed because of the slickness of her canal, her vulnerability, her complicity.
“Don’t look away,” he commands, and Ashley has to bare her soul, revealing her every emotion, to the precious depths of her maidenhood as he studies her expression, reading every nuance, down to the very shading of her eyes.
“Please don’t,” she begs, offering a last scrap of resistance to preserve her shattered honor.
The pirate shows no mercy. Dissolving her protests in the echo of his guttural roars, she feels herself drowned. Twice he makes her come, a mere slut on her back in the clutches of a ferocious captor. He is a pig, an animal, using her poor body as a cushion to pleasure himself as he punishes and pummels her violated flesh.
“Do not look away,” he repeats again and again, forcing her to give him her soul. Ashley looks at him through moistened eyes, her mouth soft, rounded, opened like a flower. Below, she comes again, and again, a stranger to her own traitorous body, lost and broken until finally he claims his prize, building to a monstrous orgasm. Alert, obedient, she receives him, hands overhead, palms up, eyes clear and cooperative, cunt overflowing with submissive juices.
Her body is wracked with pleasure, wracked with sensation, sandwiched deliciously and agonizingly between a wall of muscle and a layer of dirt and sand and palm leaves. She writhes, caught in a whirlwind, rising to heaven, spiraling upward into the impossibly blue sky, up towards the impossibly yellow sun of her visions. Grunting in pleasure, the pirate holds her wrists fast; she cannot ascend, and yet she pushes to the limits of ecstasy.
His breath hot in her ear, bolstering the unspeakable passion, he whispers harshly, “This is to prepare you to lay for my crew. You will serve them all.”
It is a rocket’s blast, the secret overdrive. Tia explodes again, and in this moment, she is born anew, born a woman, a slave, a dream to be exploited. Obediently, she waits beneath him, beneath the one who is her lord and master.
Meanwhile, somewhere above and beyond the island, tethered in soaked sheets of silk, in the bed of the mysterious Simon Rice, the brain, body and soul of Ashley Van Voorst Daniels is trying to separate out from the dream. To return to reality, seeking to communicate, to surface, using the only language possible: namely that of self generated, spontaneous orgasms.
Backwater Bondage Page 25