Martin woke up and assumed that he was in Heaven. At least, he hoped it was Heaven and not the alternative. Dying had been a disappointment, not at all what he had expected. No tunnel of light, no welcoming messenger, no flashback to events of this life or any former ones. Just the shock of the southern ocean, the impact of the rogue wave that had swept him overboard, his last sight the screaming face of his wife as she had reached to save him, tried to grab him, and perhaps had joined him in the icy depths.
They had been so close, so close. The evil Japanese whaling ship had been no more than ten feet away, close enough to smell it, close enough that he could hear the curses of the sailors, even over the roar of the waves. Of course, boarding it would have been problematic even with cooperation, in those heavy seas. The side of the larger ship was moving up and down at least twenty feet, in a cycle that lasted not more than five or six seconds. Still, he had been reaching out with the grappling hook, trying to make contact. On the other ship they had been brandishing big poles, trying to push him away. And Bob, from BBC, had been faithfully recording it all -- he'd even been on satellite phone, live back to London, commenting on Martin's heroic, foolhardy attempt to turn back the whaling fleet.
He probably had not saved a single whale, but he had managed to kill himself in the process. And his wife, what had happened to her? He had the sick realization that she might have been clinging to him as he had hit the water. After that -- nothing. Either he had passed out, or his mind had simply stopped recording, or the memory had been lost. Well, perhaps it was for the best. There are some things best left unknown.
We all die some time, somehow. Why not do it in a heroic, foolish way? Better than the way his parents had died, his mother so much younger than his father, dying first, unexpectedly, of cancer, her mind perfectly lucid to the end, while her body disintegrated into a mass of pain, or his father, body perfectly healthy, mind completely absent. Both had withered slowly into points, not slowly enough, outliving any reason to prolong their existence. Twenty-seven, he was going to be thirty soon, middle age was setting in. Wasn't there more and more hair in his comb each time? Little love handles, a layer of thick skin obscuring the stippled beauty of his abs? And his wife, all she was talking about was having a baby, how it was time to settle down, get a job, buy a house, an SUV, a dog. His life was over, in any case. He had talked her into this one last, great adventure, three months to save the whales, before he settled into the long slow glide to damnation.
And now he'd gone and killed himself. His wife too, most likely. So, it was time to find out what happened next. So far, Heaven was not what he had expected. It was very dark. It wasn't very warm. He was lying on his stomach on a rather hard mattress, a thin sheet or blanket on his back not doing much to ward off the cold. He thought that he was naked, but when he tried to feel his body, he found that his hands were bound somehow, up above his head. Feet bound too, when he tried to shift them. There was something covering his eyes and ears -- a sleeping mask, perhaps. He could not see anything, hear anything. He wasn't going anywhere. Someone had made very sure he wasn't leaving the bed, or whatever it was.
His muscles were moving, all on their own. He felt as if he were swimming. Images of the ocean depths flooded with brain. He was a penguin, flying effortlessly through the icy waters. Maybe he wasn't dead. Maybe what he was seeing was real. Perhaps, he was spurting under sea. He had suffered a sea change. He was a merman, a marine Marty. Then, something told him that he was a mermaid, with cute little breasts just budding, and he tried to feel them, but he had no hands, only flippers. Mercifully, the nightmare ended and he sank once more into a dreamless sleep.
He awoke again. Something was pressing at his lips. A feeding tube! He remembered with despair how both his parents, at the end, had fought off the feeding tubes. God! He wasn't dead! Not yet! But he was not going to live that way! He tried to clamp his jaw shut, and discovered that he could not. Something was holding it open. He was forced to swallow whatever was being injected into his mouth. He managed to taste a bit of it on the way down --- sweet, tangy, not too bad.
The blanket slid away, letting a cold draft hit his bare skin. The mattress shifted with the weight of another body, and he felt hands on his shoulders, kneading sore muscles -- strong hands, expert hands that knew how to work out the knots. The hands worked lower, down his back, then further onto the back of his legs. Above the hands, lips were kissing his cheeks, teeth were giving him little nibbles. Oh, he did this to his wife, just to torment her, just to make her squirm at the thought of where the next nibble, the next kiss, might be planted. But it never happened. She would lock her legs together and roll over to make sure it landed somewhere more appropriate,
But now, he didn't have that option. He realized how wide apart his legs were spread, but he could do nothing to draw them together. The hands moved higher, rubbing his ass, spreading the cheeks wider still, and the kisses worked their way inexorably downward and inward. He was moaning, in protest or pleasure. The kisses moved down, past the danger zone, to the back of his balls, and he almost relaxed. Then there was a lick, right on his asshole, fingers urging it open. He gasped as he felt a tongue attempt to invade him. It tickled. The fingers were scratching him, trying to pull him open, to make room for the tongue. The chin behind it was chafing him, giving him beard burn.
He gave a little whimper of discontent, the best he could do through the gag, and the tongue withdrew. He felt the warm pressure of another body on his back, kisses now on his neck, then a sharp bony finger where the tongue had been before. He squirmed a little in protest, but the finger kept shoving in, rubbing, probing, just like at the doctor's. His wife would try that sometimes, when she was giving him a blow job, but he had never really enjoyed it. Usually it was a sign that she was getting really impatient, and it was time to move on to something more interesting. The finger withdrew, and softer, thicker flesh pushed into its place. He had no doubt that it was a penis, a real one, not a dildo. He could feel it pressing, pressing, straining against him, then, suddenly, forcing its way through the barrier of his inner ring in a burst of pain. He groaned, and the flesh within him froze, letting him twitch around it. There were more kisses on his neck, hands stroking his lower back. Slowly, he relaxed. The twitching stopped. The pain began to subside.
He felt the body above him moving, pressing down on him. The flesh within his bowels was sliding back and forth. He realized dimly that he was being fucked.
Certainly, it had to be a rape. He was blindfolded, bound and gagged, completely helpless. Even if he had been able to move, he was so weak from his ordeal, so disoriented, that he would have been defenseless. A rape, no doubt about it. He would never have consented to such a thing. His wife had seen some stuff on pegging on the internet, and she had been teasing him about going after him with a strapon. She'd even said once she'd do anal if he would. But even that hadn't been enough to entice him. There was no way. Her finger was enough to make him squirm. And now he had an actual penis up his butt. He was being brutally raped.
The only thing was, it wasn't all that brutal. It was slow, gentle, cuddly. He liked it. He liked the feeling of that other body rubbing against his back. His wife would do that sometimes, caressing him with her breasts, but it always wound up with him turning around. There was nothing much more she could do behind him like that. But now there was something, a very interesting something, a terrifying, exhilarating something. He had always wondered what it was like to be fucked, what his wife was feeling, on the other end, as he was driving himself into her. Now he knew. He was starting to like it. He wanted more. He squirmed a little, but only to push his butt up, to try to open himself wider. He could feel bone against him now. There wasn't going to be any more. The body behind him began to move a little faster, pulling almost all the way out, beyond the inner ring, letting it close, then forcing its way back through. It hurt each time, but in an interesting way. He was starting to look forward to that little burst of pain, that scratch for an itch he had never known he had. Then it stopped hurting.
Then it stopped completely. All that was left was a dull ache, like blue balls only deeper, and sweat, maybe not his own sweat, on his back.
He felt a pin prick on his shoulder. He was very drowsy again. The blankets were on his back once more. That was the last thing he remembered.
* * * *
"How are you feeling?"
She had expected to see the doctor, that skinny little French faggot, but instead it was Bob. Blonde, beautiful Bob with the big fluffy beard, and the little bald spot like a skull cap.
Feeling, how was she feeling? She tested her limbs. They were stiff, but all moving. Fingers, toes, wrists, ankles, knees, hips, shoulders -- they were all intact as far as she could tell. "A little stiff. Cold."
"Monsieur Le Doc says nothing broken. Yes, you will be cold. You took a little ocean dip."
"I did? Oh, my God! Marty!" It all came back to her in a rush.
"Gone, my dear."
"Gone?" She tried to fathom it. "Gone," she repeated. "How long?"