The Wet Ocean Ride Of Masters Slut

The boat sways gently in the dark. Above us: a star-filled sky. Around us: only ocean and promises. Below deck: rules you have agreed to, and Masters who know them intimately. We've been at sea for two days. You know this isn't a vacation. This is a trial. A transition. A ritual.

You stand in the cabin, naked, rope tightly wrapped around your body. An intricate pattern across your chest, waist, and thighs holds you in balance between pain and pleasure. I watch you from the chair, slowly, as if weighing something you don't yet know you'll endure. Around you, others move in silence. Three women--bound, marked. Two men--both Masters. You know their names, but not their desires.

You've waited for hours. In silence. That's part of it. You smell the sea, the oil, the leather. You're hungry for touch, for permission, for being used. But you've learned patience. You breathe deeply, quietly, and wait.

I rise. Fetch a small bowl. Oil. Warm, scented with cinnamon and clove. You smell it before you feel it. The first drop lands on your collarbone. You flinch, but say nothing. I rub it in with the back of my hand, let it slide down your chest and lower. The rope creaks as you tense.

"Good," one of the other Masters says behind you. He steps closer. A finger across your stomach. Then two. Then a hand. I nod to him. This is where it begins.

The ropes hold you upright, bound to a ceiling hook. He kneels behind you. His hands stroke your thighs, part you gently, and you feel his breath close against your skin. Another woman approaches--also bound, but guided forward and placed kneeling before you. Her eyes meet yours. No words. Just connection.

She opens her mouth. You know what to do. You lean forward, take a breath, and let your tongue meet hers. Slowly. Sensitively. Another hand grips your hair and holds you in place as the kisses deepen. Behind you, something cold and smooth slips between your thighs. A finger, maybe two. You gasp. Rise to your toes.

"Hold still," I whisper. "This is only the beginning."

Time disappears. You don't know how long you stand there, but your body is used as a stage, a vessel. One Master strokes you with a brush. Another presses something vibrating against your clit. You are wrapped in oil and rope, in breath and control, in waiting and surrender.

One of the men unties your thighs and lifts you gently. You're carried to the mattress. Laid on your back, still bound, legs now spread and shackled apart. You're given a moment alone. Only the sound of water against the hull, and your own breath.

Then they come.

One sits at your head and lets you suck him slowly. Another kneels between your thighs, hand working deeply. A third traces your nipple with his tongue, locking eyes with you. They know exactly what they're doing. And you--you know you're safe.

There comes a moment where you forget where you are. You feel only scents, tastes, rhythm, intensities. You moan with open mouth, take it all, beg for more--without words, just your body.

And when I finally rise, step forward, and push inside you with all the control I hold, you feel it: the purpose of this voyage. That you've been opened, tested, used--and loved. In my way.