MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission

by J. J. MacGuire

  Elvira sucked ferociously as she sensed her mouthful growing, but it was not to be. Harry needs a little rest between encounters. I pulled her up by her hair and kissed her sweet-tasting mouth.

  "Look at 'em go! T'ree way ear'tquake any second' now!" opined Elvira as she caught sight of the frenetic action on the stage.

  Sure enough, Alvira's spare hand was between her legs and the sound effects, vibration and general enthusiasm indicated the end was nigh.

  "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!"

  "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!"

  "WUBBBAWUBBBAWUBBBA!!!"

  I leave it to the gentle reader to sort out which exclamation belonged to which of the climaxing trio. As the grunts and groans fell below the level of the pounding boom box the trio fell apart. My wife crawled across the floor toward me.

  "Harry! Take me home!"

  "Not without your frock, my dear. And anyway, we have Mrs. Goldmine to rescue from the clutches of Margaritas in the Lobster Pot."

  Alvira was still reconstructing her sense of reality, but Elvira rescued Jay's summer frock and buttoned her into it. I managed my buttons all on my own.

  Jay leaned heavily on me then stiffened.

  "Oh, that poor boy! All dressed up and nowhere to go!"

  I turned and saw the bashful Biggin lurking in the shadows, still holding his monster dong and dripping lubricant.

  A hopeful look started to appear on Biggin's face and Jay hurriedly hid behind me.

  "Oh no! We've got to go!"

  As Jay dragged me out into the fresh air the last thing I saw was Elvira and Alvira each with two hands around Biggin's shaft with plenty of room to spare.

  "Phew!"

  Jay looked as though she had had a lucky escape, and she could well have been right. I know babies' heads get out of that place, but with a certain amount of screaming and yelling on the part of the passage owner, so I imagine something the same size going the other way would similarly turn ecstasy to agony. Were I a shirt-lifter I would definitely be a stabber not a bender.

  "Taxi!"

  The familiar Caribbean imprecation led us to a typical Caribbean taxi. Take the word "decrepit," add the two words "beaten up," and round them off with "disreputable." Like I said, a typical Caribbean taxi.

  "The Lobster Pot, my friend, at a sedate pace and without killing too many civilians."

  "Yes, boss!"

  We set off at mach two.

  The landscape became a blur as we careened out of dockland and back into the commercial district. Jay had a firm grip on the seat with one hand and me with the other. She stared ahead with wide eyes and white face as pedestrians, other vehicles, livestock and occasional lampposts magically evaded our headlong rush.

  Like I said, a typical Caribbean taxi. I crossed my legs and relaxed. This was Miss Lawrence's first visit to the West Indies, after all. Not even Boston is adequate preparation.

  "I say!"

  I twisted in my seat and stuck my head out of the window to look back the way we had come. I pulled my head back in.

  "It's them! Coming out of a bank! What are they doing there? A bit out of the way to be cashing traveler's checks!"

  "What? Who?" Miss Lawrence kept her eyes fixed ahead but managed a contribution to the conversation.

  "Dunnett and Swat, that's who. Coming out of the Greater Antilles National Bank. Sniggering."

  "Sniggering?"

  "Yes, sniggering. Arm in arm. What the hell are they up to?"

  "Robbery. Rehearsing a pantomime. Smoking ganja. Who the hell cares!"

  Jay looked as though the rum might repeat itself on her as we negotiated a roundabout the wrong way and won a battle of wills with a lorry load of cement.

  "We care, that's who! Detectives, remember? We are sworn to discover who put poor Raoul in a body bag, and the way to do that is to track down mysteries. Here is a mystery. Let us track."

  It seemed simple enough to me, but from the word Miss Lawrence used, it was apparent she had other priorities. Never mind, she would feel more like it when her feet were on terra firma again. I patted her hand and got another rude word in reward.

  "Da Lobster Pot!"

  Our driver seemed very pleased with himself to not only have found our declared destination but also to have delivered us alive. So he should be.

  I paid in U.S. dollars with a moderately generous tip – we were after all indubitably alive – and handed my wife down onto the road. Sidewalks are a luxury largely unknown in this part of the old town of Sint Maarten.

  Mrs. Neptune took a deep breath, forwent kissing the ground in gratitude, and rapidly resumed her normal demeanor. It would take more than a first Caribbean taxi ride to faze her for very long. She would be ready for the next one.

  We stepped over the storm drain and into a shady, comfortably furnished restaurant and bar. A ceiling fan wafted cooling air. A couple of tall cold cocktails were called for.

  "Coo-ee!!"

  CHAPTER EIGHT: THE PLOT THICKENS

  Mrs. Goldfinkel was elegantly ensconced on a rattan sofa, several glossy shopping bags propped against its turquoise cushions. Nearby, French doors revealed a charming, sun-dappled courtyard, bright with dazzling flamboyant hibiscus. Finches chattered in the little oasis and the silvery jets of a small fountain danced against the vivid green of the lush shrubs. The restaurant's clientele were all rather smartly dressed and I looked around for the ladies room, painfully aware of my somewhat disheveled appearance. Harry plonked himself down in a peacock-back chair and wiped his glistening forehead with a large white handkerchief.

  "Phew! Now, that's what I call a liquid lunch!"

  The Black Widow looked me up and down with thinly disguised disapproval. I had received such a look before, from a straight-laced bed and breakfast proprietress in rural Spain, when I turned up fresh from a dip in the Mediterranean. It was the "you're a mess!" look.

  "Jay, honey. You really should take more care with your complexion! And what have you done to that pretty dress? I knew I shouldn't have left you alone, you bad girl! Never mind – Gigi has been shopping! I have a little surprise for you both."

  Harry and I exchanged a slightly worried glance. I suspected the B.W. had more money than sense or good taste, as is often the case. With childish glee, our benefactress rummaged in the packages by her side, swiftly retrieving two smartly wrapped boxes. I wondered at how she had managed to pick up so many items in such a limited span of time, but it looked as if she had plenty of practice.

  "Here we are! Just a little belated nuptial gift for the new Mr. and Mrs. Neptune. Oh, I do hope you like them, they're a matching pair. Quite rare too, apparently."

  "Why, thank you, Gigi. I'm quite overwhelmed."

  Gingerly, I untied the ribbon and opened the box. There, carefully protected by a large quantity of tissue paper, was what appeared to be a big black shiny phallus. It looked very familiar. Harry sniggered and I shot him a warning look. After all, it's the thought that counts, even if sometimes one wonders just what that thought was...

  "Why, it's, um, very unusual..."

  Mrs. Goldfinkel clapped her hands.

  "It's a fetish! Eighteenth century, Pokipoki tribe. The dealer who sold it to me suggested that it (here Mrs. G blushed slightly and coughed modestly) is rumored to bring greater satisfaction to the fortunate owner."

  "Oh, I say!"

  Harry had almost slithered to the floor with suppressed hilarity. I continued to ignore him. Bravely, I picked up the fetish and examined its polished ebony shaft. Actually, it was rather beautiful in a very rustic, visceral way. This wedding gift had potential. Much more fun than a pair of monogrammed bath robes. I gave the Black Widow a peck on the cheek.

  "Thank you, Gigi! I shall treasure it. Come on, darling – open yours!"

  With a Herculean effort, my dearly beloved ripped the ribbon off his matching package and pulled out a wad of tissue paper. I watched a sly smile curve his lips. Triumphantly, he pulled out another native ar
tifact, carved from the same dense, dark wood.

  "Well, I'll be blowed – it's a..."

  At that point, Mrs. Goldfinkel rather swiftly and surprisingly clamped her hand over my husband's mouth.

  "It's a matching fetish," she stated, rather pointedly. Harry peeled the woman's fingers from his chin and examined his gift.

  "It looks just like Elvira to me!"

  The Black Widow tittered.

  "Well, so long as dear Jay doesn't mind, I'm sure you can call it whatever you like! It is, um, supposed to have the same therapeutic effect as its matching piece."

  "I'll bet!"

  I took the other fetish from Harry and admired the set together. No wonder he was reminded of Elvira. His part of the pair was essentially a beautifully carved and burnished black vulva, with fat swollen lips and a prominent clit. The piece was cylindrical, smoothly hollowed out as if to accept a thrusting cock. Of course!

  I just couldn't resist. Reverently, I slid the penis into the vagina. Needless to say, it was a perfect fit. Then the oddest thing happened. A strange tingling sensation seemed to course through my body, from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, almost as if I had received a mild electric shock. Just for a moment, I felt quite peculiar. When I came to, Harry had ordered some drinks and a late lunch. Come to think of it, I was famished – perhaps that rum on an empty stomach had made me go a little queer. Not to forget the taxi ride.

  "Biggin and Elvira. Well, thanks again, Mrs. G – this is certainly a gift to remember. I know I can speak for my dear wife when I say that we cherish our fetishes. Buck up, Lawrence, the crab cakes are coming."

  Another wave of electricity coursed through me and I swore I could feel my hair standing on end. The Black Widow stared at me as if I'd gone completely crazy.

  "Mrs. Harry Neptune! It's time you got yourself some effective conditioner! Just look at what the sun is doing to your hair. I bet you took your hat off, didn't you? Naughty girl!"

  There was a mirror on the wall beside our table. Reluctantly, I appraised the flushed apparition that met my worried gaze. It was true. My hair really was literally standing on end! I looked like a reject from that hippie musical, "Hair." Harry let out a guffaw and I promptly laid the copulating bookends down. The moment the objects left my grasp, my coiffure headed south. My husband roared and slapped his thigh in delight.

  "How the hell did you do that?"

  "I'm not sure, darling. I do feel rather odd."

  At that moment, I looked out into the sunny courtyard. Two familiar figures sat on a bench beside the gurgling fountain. I lifted my ring finger to point at Dunnett and Swat, who were deeply involved in what looked like a rather intense conversation. Harry's rather bloodshot (not to mention blackened) eyes followed my gesture then sharply returned to the fake knuckle-duster. It never fails to amaze me how unobservant men can be.

  "Hmm, Barbie and Scrooge. Probably arguing over the drinks bill. Or maybe the bar staff tried to stick a paper parasol in his Glen Tipplet. Um, incidentally, what is that rock on your finger, Jaybird?"

  The Black Widow tutted and I ignored her, stylishly lifting my newly arrived drink in an expansive and theatrical gesture, as if showing the world my magnificent ring.

  "Isn't it stunning, sweetie? I just couldn't resist!"

  Harry blanched, a forkful of crab cake paused en route to his gaping mouth. He appeared to have lost his appetite.

  "Er, how much did you pay for that bauble? Can I pay for lunch or do we have to munch and run?"

  I looked coy.

  "Oh, I couldn't say. A girl never tells. After all, what price can one place upon true love?"

  My husband put his fork down and took a steadying gulp of wine.

  "Out with it, Lawrence. I want the facts."

  I was just about to confess the truth when our attention was distracted by a minor scuffle in the courtyard. It seemed Miss Swat had slapped the doctor's face. Well, well. A lovers" tiff? Seemed highly unlikely. She kept gesturing at her pneumatic boobs, today, modestly concealed beneath a jade green sun dress. How very odd. The intense patterns of light and shade in the garden almost suggested that Swat's chest was not entirely symmetrical, one breast a little higher than its twin. I took a pensive sip of the chilled white wine.

  * * * *

  The Neptune brain had not resumed firing on all four cylinders after the interlude at the Watering Hole. In fact, it was burping along on one and a half. That was quite insufficient to assimilate and generate an intelligent response to a pair of ebony male and female parts with magical powers, Swat and Dunnett pummeling each other, and a rock that must have left a dent in my credit card the size of the Grand Canyon.

  I worked out some priorities and settled on the rock.

  "How much, Lawrence? Did you run out of ink before the zeroes were finished? Do I have to turn to a life of crime to get Mr. American and Mr. Express off my back? Out with it!"

  "Turn to a life of crime? Return more like!"

  "That's enough of that. We're in polite company. How much? Where did it come from? Where's the receipt? Sale or return, I hope."

  Mrs. Neptune sniffed.

  "You'll find out when you get the statement. If you really loved me you wouldn't ask such questions! Heartless beast!"

  Sniff again. Mrs. Goldfinkel looked on approvingly.

  "You tell 'im, dear!"

  I could have sworn the Black Widow dropped an aitch.

  "Tell me!"

  "Shan't!"

  My wife turned her back and stuck her nose in the air. Mrs. Goldfinkel cackled and did likewise.

  Seeing as no one wanted to face me, a drink seemed in order. I drained the wineglass and looked at it, unsatisfied. Chardonnay was no contest for St. Vincent rum, but there was only so much of that I could take. All the same, something more bracing was called for. I gestured to the waiter.

  "Panty Ripper!"

  My female companions swiveled back round and looked at the waiter with interest. He grinned.

  "Coconut, white rum and pineapple juice," he explained.

  "Make that two," said Miss Lawrence.

  "Three," added Mrs. Goldfinkel.

  I put the issue of the Kohinoor diamond on the back burner. I would return to it in the privacy of our cabin where I could apply some moral "suasion in peace.

  The rum cocktails arrived. Not up to the lethality of St. Vincent, thank goodness, but a healthy belt nonetheless. I felt the hair of the dog start to do its work. Another cylinder kicked in.

  Mrs. Goldfinkel knocked hers back appreciatively and waved her glass in the air.

  "Rip my Panties!" She collapsed back on the rattan sofa in helpless mirth as the waiter organized a refill. I could see we might need a wheelbarrow to get her back to the ship.

  I remembered the first mystery on my list, the hair-raising fetishes. I picked them off the table and examined them as well as my eyes could focus.

  They seemed to have almost a soapstone texture, yet somehow they didn't feel like stone. Ebony? Seasoned mahogany? Bone? There seemed to be very faint striations under my fingers, but I couldn't see any variation in color under the dim indoor light.

  I levered myself to my feet and took the fetishes out into the dappled sunlight of the courtyard. The light was best next to the fountain, where Dr. Dunnett and Loretta Swat were engaged in a quiet, fierce, heads together altercation. I ignored them and held the anatomical replicas up to the light.

  "Harry, be careful!"

  Jay's voice came from far away.

  The light around me faded. The fetishes seemed to become even darker and more mysterious. They also seemed to be taking on a life of their own, as if they were absorbing energy from the disappearing sun's rays.

  I felt as though I was back at school in a physics class, striving to hold two magnets apart as their opposite poles attracted. The hairs on my arms prickled and bristled. The parts tugged at my hands, willing me to join them. I saw no harm in that, so I relaxed my muscles and the dark shiny willy
shot into dark shiny heaven.

  "Mistah Neptune!"

  Miss Swat's pseudo-shocked tones pulled me out of a reverie. There seemed to be violent action around my groin level. I looked down and stared in amazement.

  A ferret was trying to fight its way out of my trousers and doing a lot of dribbling in the process.

  I have heard of self-gratification, but this was ridiculous. Unaided by human hand, the Neptunian pride and joy was straining my trouser material in a pulsing rhythm and spreading Neptune seed as liberally as butter on breakfast toast.

  "Mistah Neptune!" exclaimed Miss Swat again, leaning forward and resting her chin on one hand.

  I resolved to retrieve the situation.

  "A little trick I learned in the Antarctic, where it's too cold to take your gloves off," I said airily.

  "Mistah Neptune, honey, I surely would love to see that trick in the open air!"

  "Och, indeed..." added a male voice in a tone that can only be described as "dreamy."

  I looked to Miss Swat's right and saw Dr. Dunnett in identical Rodin pose, his gaze fixed on my ferret. I backed hastily away and pulled the ebony penis out of its girlfriend.

  As I did so Miss Swat sat upright. Or rather, most of her did. While I am sure her breasts engaged in a perpetual battle with gravity, I imagined they always prevailed in unison. Not this time.

  Her right boob thrust eagerly as ever against her sun dress, but its companion seemed to be on strike. The effect was decidedly lop-sided.

  Miss Swat gave a scream and landed a roundhouse left on Dunnett's nose.

  "I hope they hang you! And fry you! And boil you in oil!"

  She leapt to her feet and fled through the restaurant to the street, clutching her chest in both hands.

  I ignored Dunnett, flat on his back in a bed of cactus, and turned plaintively to my wife and Mrs. Goldfinkel.

  "What did I do?"

  * * * *

  "It's what you haven't done!" the Black Widow and I chorused in girlish glee, before collapsing in gales of rum-soaked laughter. Mrs. Goldfinkel was practically flat on her back on the little couch, clutching her ample tummy and drumming the heels of her espadrilles on the parquet floor. I looked at Harry and promptly spluttered out a large mouthful of Shredded Panties, neatly soaking the front of my dress. I stared at my wetted bosom with little regret.