Paradise does not exist. I'd spent enough time in postardesque destinations to realize that it's all a front, a beautiful slight of hand. Where there's white sand, blue water and warm breezes, there's also cockroaches, dengue fever, eight-dollar heads of broccoli, over fishing, cyclones and drinking water swimming with parasites.
Paradise does not exist. That's what I believed until the afternoon Jules and I spent torturing my new slave.
Sommer's passion was not limited to protecting marine life, I discovered. Every task she was given, she attacked as surely as she had attacked the illegal fishermen. Every ounce of pain we delivered to her, she absorbed with a determination made all the more beautiful by the agony carved on her bronzed face. Even when she hated it, she loved it.
And then, suddenly, unexplainably, she didn't.
From her bag of toys, Jules had pulled a dozen super balls. Small, rubber balls, kids toys, that bounce like crazy as soon as they hit a solid surface. She had tossed them in the air for Sommer to fetch, in her mouth, on her hands and knees, within a specified time limit. There would be a punishment for failure, and failure was a given considering how erratically the balls bounced and the multitude of directions they bounced in. It was one of her tamer tasks, a break between our other activities, which were growing progressively nastier -- one-upmanship starting to rear its competitive head between Jules and I, just like the old days.
Sommer, still gloriously naked, had scrambled off frantically after the balls - the classic over achiever, determined to beat the system. But after retrieving the third ball, which had dropped inside Jules's purse, her energy vanished, and she loped back to Jules, ball in mouth, with a flat expression on her face. After a halfhearted crawl to the next ball, she flopped over onto one hip and uttered her safe word.
"Sommer, are you OK?" I asked, striding to her side.
She spit the ball into her hand. "No," she said, standing and hurling the ball across the room as hard as she could. It ricocheted from wall to floor to table, barely missing Jules's head as it whizzed by.
"Whoa! Easy Babe Ruth, you almost took an eye out with that one!" Jules said, rising from her chair.
"Good," Sommer said, yanking the collar off her neck and hurling it to the floor.
What had just happened? Was she jealous? Angry? This girl was such a riddle. Five minutes earlier she had been lapping up everything Jules threw at her, now she was glaring at her as if willing laser beams to shoot from her eyes and disintegrate the buxom blonde where she stood.
"Sommer?" I asked, stepping cautiously closer. I recognized the volatile mood and kept a safe distance; who knew what she might do. "What's going on?"
When she turned her eyes to me, I could see a conflict swirling behind them. "Nothing. My foot hurts," she muttered, flicking her eyes down to the quasi-cast Jules had made for her.
An obvious lie, but why? I moved until I was standing in front of her, blocking Jules from her view, then I spoke in a voice that was low but commanding, "Tell me the truth." I watched her bite her lip then I grasped her chin between my thumb and forefinger, hard enough to let her know I was serious, "Now."
She didn't answer, just pulled away from me and stomped over to the table where Jules's purse sat, grabbed the straps in one hand and threw it to the wood floor, the guts of it spilling out everywhere.
"Hey! What the fuck?" Jules came running to the aid of her wounded handbag.
Sommer crossed her arms and glared at her with her laser beam eyes.
I looked at Sommer, looked at the purse, asked myself what the sea god's daughter could be angry at now, then the light bulb flipped on.
"I'll take that," I said, snatching the purse from Jules's hand, much to her surprise. I examined the offensive accessory then held it up toward Sommer, "Eel skin?"
She nodded. Lips pressed together.
"Ah." I placed the purse back on the table then helped Jules to her feet before wedging myself between the two angry women.
Now I had a dilemma. My new slave was livid and I knew that all the orders and masterly commands in the world weren't going to make one dent in her anger. Besides, I liked this about her, her passion, and I wasn't in any hurry to strip it from her. On the other side, was my best friend who had traveled several thousand miles to rescue me from an imagined broken heart. She would never be the PETA poster child but she wasn't a bad person. We were all stuck here for the night and I would be damned if that night was going to be spent with the two of them giving each other the stink eye across the room.
"Jules," I said, "remember how you offered to bottom for me when you arrived?"
"Yes but that was bef--"
I raised a silencing hand. "You offered, I'm taking you up on it. No more arguments. You've offended Sommer -- unintentionally, I know, but you need to make amends for it. Let's call it a lesson in environmental awareness."
I turned to Sommer, "And you can wipe that smug smile off your face right now. I asked you a direct question and you lied to me. If you want to be my slave you'll damn well learn to respect me, right now."
I can't speak to what possessed me, only that I was on a control high and my body was being guided by instinct. I raised my hand and delivered a solid smack to Sommer's face. There was no anger in it, only a need to clarify our respective positions.
Outside the wind was beginning to howl, adding to the rising tension in my veins.
"Here's how this is going to work..." I began, walking away from two very shocked women, hands clasped behind my back, mind racing.
*
I like to hurt women. I can say that now but for years it was the shameful secret I kept as buried as the comic books stashed beneath my mattress - their images of hapless superwomen, chained and beaten, calling out to me late at night as my parents slept in vanilla bliss down the hall. I was well into my twenties before I learned that there were women who actually
liked
to be hurt, who craved it, who wanted what I had to offer.
In many ways, Sommer, now on all fours on the wood floor, eyes full of new respect for her 'master', was the mirror image of the person I had once been. Struggling against what society said was "normal" to accept what she was inside.
Jules, naked gagged and bound to the wooden post in the center of the room, had long ago embraced her sadism. But she did not like being on the opposite end of that spectrum, which at this moment, watching her pained expression as her face pressed against the wood, made me feel very, very warm inside.
I was taking my time. Letting the women's minds do much of my work for me, heightening the fear.
There was a decorative display on the wall -- an old fishing net, with various fishing lures hung in it. I pulled off the largest of the lures I could find, checking the hook to ensure it was free of rust. It was.
It was also very sharp.
At the speed of a sloth, I walked until I was directly in front of Sommer, she tilted her head up, her eyes wide and fearful.
"Poor fish," I said, clucking my tongue and shaking my head in mock pity. "Can you imagine what it must feel like to get hooked by this?"
I dangled the long, metal lure in front of her, then hung it from my thumbnail to demonstrate how sharp the hook was. When Sommer's mouth twitched, I felt my cock stiffen.
I walked away again, just out of sight. Neither she nor Jules needed to see that I was pinching down the barb of the hook. Just like in those movies where they use ice to make the bad guys believe they are being burned by a hot poker, a little trickery on my part would go a long way to increase my victim's distress. And the hook was still plenty sharp, even with the safety precaution.
"Now, Jules, you sweet butcher of eels, I'm going to place this nasty piece of tackle in Sommer's mouth," as I spoke, I motioned for Sommer to spread her lips. She did, despite the fact that they were trembling. "Then I'm going to have some fun with her hind quarters." I ran my hand along Sommer's back, stopping on one ass cheek. The cheek tensed, which was all the Madman inside me needed to assume full control.
"When I'm done with my precious slave, I shall remove the lure and have her spit into a cup. If there is so much as a micron of blood in her saliva, then you get a pass, Jules, I shall untie you, and we'll carry on with our evening."
I walked over to Jules, who was positioned just perfectly so that she and Sommer could see each other, and rested my hand on her voluptuous cheek, as well. "But if that saliva is clear then I am going to let Sommer here have her way with you and..." I paused, reached over to grab the purse that had started this mess and sat it in front of Sommer's face, "something tells me she is not going to be merciful."
If I'd had a black moustache I probably would have twisted it and laughed maniacally. As it was, I kept my cool, double checked the lure hanging from Sommer's mouth and grabbed one more goodie from my stash.
When I showed the butt plug to Sommer, I thought she was going to faint.
"Almost forgot this!" I said, with a peppy grin.
Jules and I had already used a smaller plug on Sommer and, despite being so embarrassed she had turned red from bow to stern, she had taken it surprisingly well.
I took my time working the plug into her, using copious amounts of lube and also pleasuring her pussy, which I was not surprised to find dripping wet and eager. But once I had the toy in place, the time for gentleness was over.
I started with the crop Jules and I had used earlier. As a warm up.
Raising my arm, I took a moment to savour the tableau: Jules bound and staring desperately at the lure dangling from Sommer's mouth, Sommer staring at the eel skin purse, fighting her embarrassment and fear, determined to win, the golden ass cheeks already painted with welts, and the blue base of the butt plug as a reminder of what I had planned for a finale.
I brought the crop down. Hard. Sommer squealed around the hook in her mouth. God but that was delicious. Once more I smacked her ass, and again her muscles tensed and that pitiful squeak escaped.
The Madman was hungry. I lashed her at least a dozen times in quick succession, each strike more brutal than the last. The squeals became genuine cries of pain. Muted, garbled cries, which was even better.
Part of me wanted her to win. But part of me, the worst, darkest part, wanted her to lose, to bite down, to hear a genuine scream as her flesh was punctured. Just the thought drove me further.
I raised the crop, except this time I didn't strike, just followed through to one side, letting it slap against the floor. All Sommer's muscles jumped, waiting for the hit that never came.
The mind fuck is every bit as satisfying as corporal punishment.
The crop fell to the floor, I placed my hands on her burning cheeks for a moment, and felt her relax, then I jostled the butt plug and worked her swollen clit with my fingers, keeping it up until she moaned around the hook. She had become my instrument and I wanted to hear every sound I could produce.
As I pleasured her, I turned to look at Jules. She was wet too, I knew it. And jealous. This, what I was doing to Sommer, was exactly what
she
wanted to do.
