Mistress and Commander

Mistress and Commander - Make and Mend

Both Dread Sovereign and her crew took a good pasting in a recent storm. And they all, the ship and her crew, need some shore leave. So this is an intermezzo in Mistress and Commander-To the End of the World. Again, strokers, this is not your kind of story.

The thin dawn rising on Port Stanley at the edge of winter kept the damp chill of the night close, as if afraid to lose both the cold damp and its own grey light to the sun. The sun was struggling to rise above the sealine. It was in for a fight against the thin dawn and the damp chill, thought Margarethe, as she pulled her robe close around her. But sun or grey dawn, there was work ahead, and not a little of that. Then maybe shore leave. It would be a tired Mistress and crew to go ashore then.

She went to the wheelhouse barefooted and looked about. Was all in order? Robin, trying it on as usual, had taken station in the sacred captain's chair, and obviously planned to un-ass the sacred chair as soon as he heard Mistress' approach. He would then jump up and look as if he had literally stood the whole dawn watch. He hadn't reckoned on the chill making him sleepy, the almost imperceptible swell in the harbor rocking him deeper asleep as he sat. His thin snore and dangling legs gave the game completely away.

"On your feet you damned lazy slob!" Margarethe screamed (yes, screamed, she was that furious). She grabbed Robin's wrist and hurled him to the deck. "As you saved my life you might get to sit in my chair for a minute or two if you grovel appropriately, but by Christ Jesus and His Blessed Mother you will never sleep on watch!" She dragged the shuddering man, blinking and stunned as he was, to the teak grating on the wheelhouse floor.

Holding him with one powerful hand, she half-lifted him from the deck and drove the other, fist clenched and powered with rage, into his solar plexus. He gasped, spasmed and fell back to the deck, clutching his guts. Margarethe unhurriedly got the three-eighths inch nylon stuff from her deck jacket, carefully hangared as it always was next the wheelhouse door, and tied his wrists to the grating. "A dozen of the best for me fine sleepy bucko of a watchkeeper," she snarled. "Count them--if you can." She pulled his shirt out of the way, loosened his trousers and slid them and his underpants off in a single motion, taking care not to tear them as she bared his buttocks. "Carefully, I paid for his fucking clothes," she thought. She stroked his bare ass gently once, to warn him.

Margarethe had studied flogging as her schoolmates studied languages, or science, or mathematics, or the fine arts of finding and securing a wealthy husband and a favorable ante-nuptial agreement. Navigation, meteorology, naval architecture and ship-handling filled out her curriculum, but flogging held pride of place.

The cat, black and supple, each of its leather lashes a good half-inch thick of top-grade cowhide left unfinished, would take the skin off back and buttocks and legs; in the wrong hands (or worse, in irresponsible, unskilled hands), it would leave the muscles showing white against the dripping blood and mangled tissue. That barbarism Margarethe would never allow; no blood, no torn tissue, no muscles white and distended. Just enough pain to make a wiser and better man or woman of her subject, and just enough sobbing and twitching by the subject to wet Margarethe's cunt and warm her breasts, to keep her in practice.

The cat sang out and tore from Robin the cry "One! Thank you Mistress!"

Again and again the cat sang, ripping the response from Robin's chest.

At the tenth blow, Jenny, fully dressed in jumper and trousers and with her heavy wool sweater in her hands, came into the wheelhouse. It was her watch, and she came without being called. She'd thought it strange Robin hadn't given her the ten-minute warning bump on the intercom; they'd made a pact, and Jenny had saved Robin's ass from Mistress' anger and her efficient lash enough times for him to honor it. Her mind on autopilot, she had wakened, washed hurriedly, and made a timely relief.

Margarethe delivered blow eleven. This was the reminding blow. Instead of landing crosswise on Robin's thoroughly welted back or butt or thighs, this was delivered head-to-butt lengthwise, so that the lashes caught not only Robin's buttocks, but the tips hit his scrotum as well. "Now that's artistry", thought Margarethe, as Robin's almost voiceless scream was lost in his retching and gasping, "most of those jumped up whores who call themselves "mistress" or "domme" would have torn his balls apart with that shot, or missed entirely and opened his prostate, or maybe a semi-skillful apprentice might have had him puking up his guts. But I can hit so the pain half-kills him, but he doesn't puke on my deck, and he can still jerk himself off by the time he next goes on watch. Damn me, no-- fuck my virgin cunt if I'm not the best!"

Now for the twelfth. Jenny knew better than to interrupt Mistress, despite her pity for the tormented Robin, who had shared her bed and tried to comfort her when Mistress was angry with her. She would only suffer the same fate if she interfered. She twisted the sweater in her hands and winced as the blow landed. Robin pressed his head to the floor in agony, his lips bloodied with his biting of them.

Whizzzzz! Craa-ckkkk! Robin screamed and screamed again.

It was a mind-fuck. The cat whistled like a Force Eight gust and landed right next Robin's head, missing his face by a scant two inches, the rush of air making him blink, but no lash touched him. He screamed again, and lay still.

"Ah, there you are, dear little Jenny Wren," said Margarethe. "Our Romeo of the watch was sleeping in my chair. He thinks he's a fucking Goldilocks, don't you, boyo? Well, right now he's Redback O'RedAss of the Aching Balls, aren't you, sweetcheeks?

Jenny, I'll stand watch, I'm a better watchkeeper nude in a bathrobe than this oaf would be in BDU and full body armor. Now you clean up Robin RedBalls here as best you can. And give us a good fry-up for breakfast, there's a love, we'll be re-stocking today, so don't spare the calories. And pray try to get this half-dead wharf rat in some condition to work."

It was a busy day Margarethe had planned. Having arrived on the Thursday battered by a near-hurricane, the Friday was the day to set in train repairs to

Dread Sovereign

, maybe even a scratch job of a re-fit if Margarethe could trust the Port Stanley yard with her precious love. And if the chandlers had the spares; Margarethe had all kinds of necessary tools in abundance (pun intended), and would work alongside the artificers, but though she stocked the spares lockers well, not everything needed was to hand.

So first breakfast, a duly chastened Robin proclaiming in hushed tones his Franciscan repentance, devotion and humility ("and I'll believe that when I see cast iron backstroking past Rotherhithe at low tide," Margarethe thought, "though he did save my life. I guess that makes him a worthy bastard, rather than a worthless one"). Then bring on the scones, the Devonshire butter, the Cambridge jam, the eggs, rashers of bacon, pineapple juice, and pots of sweet strong Keemun black tea (all this was the last of the Ferreira re-stocking from Recife--give the devil his due, the bastard swindled her on the cordage, but he did provide good food).

"Time for a quick piss, and off to the yards," said Margarethe. "Robin, you're coming, so hobble off, piss if you can feel your cock, brush your teeth even if you can't, grab your peacoat and follow me. Jenny Wren, you're on watch, keep the phone handy and call my iPhone if I'm needed. Anchor watch orders in force. Let's go."

First to the Falkland Islands Company, Ltd. Margarethe made a certain stir, but hardly equal to the Argentine Amphibious Commando Group in 1982. The Company surveyor accompanied her back to

Dread Sovereign

, carefully keeping his countenance as Margarethe named her ship, marched him all over her precious vessel, and described her crew. "How novel," said Mr. Peeke, "but I'm sure we can accommodate your requirements, captain." "That's Mistress," said Margarethe. "Of course, Mistress."

"The old bludger will probably throw a hundred quid onto the bill for that," thought Margarethe, "but whit the fook, whitever the Hell is money for if not to enjoy what it buys you? If it's not that, it's just something to fight over with fookin' Inland Revenue."

With waiting on air freight from Hong Kong, and fortunately Poon Lim was willing to forgo Saturday golf and tiffin at the old Royal (mustn't call it that nowadays, just the Hong Kong Golf Club) to get the spares shipment on the first flight out to London, on to Punta Arenas and then to Mount Pleasant,

Dread Sovereign

and her crew could be spending a week in Stanley just waiting for the spares.

The survey finished; the work order prepared and signed; Poon Lim off to the airport and his cocktails at the club in lieu of his abandoned golf and tiffin; it was time to re-stock food and fuel, Margarethe's banker at Honkers and Shankers Peter Port having established a credit facility at the local Standard Chartered Bank to pay for all this.

Now she called Jenny to ready the ship to receive food and fuel. Fueling was a dirty job, and Margarethe kept herself and her crew busy swabbing up Diesel drips and leaks, then cleaning themselves, eating a scratch dinner and collapsing into bed, too tired to talk, much less fuck. Margarethe just nestled next to Jenny, kissed her sleepily, and passed out for the night. Robin stayed awake and on his feet for the first watch. Jenny slipped softly out of Margarethe's sleeping grasp to relieve him, but obeyed Margarethe's standing orders to call her for the cold watch, the four to eight a.m.

Then it was back to the Company in the next grey dawn, with only tea and toast to eat, to break an important rule by going food shopping when hungry. They kept pushing shopping baskets full of food to the registers, Margarethe zipping her credit card through again and again, as the cashiers looked amazed.

"Daddy," piped up a little girl, "they must have many children at home."

Her dad answered with a broad smile, "Yes, Penny, but they should really leave some food for t'other folk."

Margarethe laughed, smiled at father and daughter, and led the convoy of vans back to

Dread Sovereign

. The artificers were already at work on the repairs. As Robin and Jenny directed the Company men where to put the food, Margarethe was inspecting the repairs. "Bitch has got eyes in her arse," muttered a worker, as Margarethe found fault with a new deck fitting. "I heard that, mate, and you're too bloody right. I'm paying for good work and I'll bloody get it!"

With a modicum of slave-driving, tempered by a few cans of Foster's she'd been saving, Margarethe got enough preliminary work out of the artificers before they quit for the weekend, so that when the workers returned on the Monday, they could have all in readiness for the arrival of the spares on the Tuesday, if the flight came in.

Now it was Friday night, time for a big meal and maybe some fun.

The dream meal was ready for the cooking of it. Margarethe and her crew joined together, all the friction and tension of the last voyage put behind them, cooking and eating. There were the broiled pork chops, stewed apples and red cabbage, and foaming steins of Australian beer. "Bananas Frisby again," thought Margarethe, "I almost forgot what it tastes like". She dug into the tub of ice cream alongside and slathered the Sainsbury's Best Vanilla over the firm penis-like fruit, dripping warm chocolate sauce over the whole and liberally pouring on the Gosling's. "And enough left over to do Jenny Wren's pussy."

Dinner over, crockery washed and dried, and her obligatory Uppman smoked down to the nub, Margarethe rose from the Great Cabin settee and said, "No watch before midnight, and Robin goes first. But until then--" Margarethe took Jenny's hand and led her into her stateroom. As they came to the door, she said, over her shoulder to Robin's dour face, "All right Robin, don't sulk, you can play too."

The welts had calmed down, but Robin was still stiff from the day's work, stiff, that is, everywhere but where he wanted to be. "Jenny, you may help the boy out--or up."

Jenny kissed Robin and took off his clothing gently. "Did you need more lotion?" she whispered, meaning the topical anesthetic she'd applied earlier. "No, just your lotion," he replied, barely moving his mouth. "I can't," she replied in kind, "Mistress wouldn't like that."

"Too fucking right I wouldn't like it, lambchop! Dear Robin, your balls'll be for the nutcracker the morn, as they say in Gleesca. You may suck him off, Jenny, if you like, when I'm not looking, but if he tries to put his filthy meat in your pussy--but then again, he did save my life. And one good turn, y'know...."

Margarethe took Robin's cock deep in her mouth. Tongue and lips working together, she radiated sex, even fully clothed as she was. Robin reached to pull her head closer, but she grabbed his arms and threw them down, working her mouth back to the tip of his cock. Working only on the knob, she brought Robin closer to his Moment of Truth. Then she deep-throated all of him (he wasn't that big, just an average six-inches-and-a- fraction), and as he finally sought and found release, she pulled her head back, seized the tip of his cock in her strong teeth, and bit him hard as he ejaculated, chewing his cock as the pain and the pleasure merged in his spasming, screaming orgasm.

Robin was gasping, lying face down on the berth. "If you get your filthy pecker tracks all over my clean sheets and blankets, you'll launder them with your tongue," snapped Margarethe. "You were treated better than you deserve (but so were we all, she thought). Get up and clean up! You can use my bathroom, as a special dispensation. Any time you save my life I'll suck you off and make you free of the facilities."

Mustering his waning strength, Robin went to the ensuite bathroom and washed himself, noting the toothmarks in his cock and marveling that she hadn't broken the skin. She was something else, he thought, Mistress, Commander and super-bitch. This was one motherfucking voyage, but who would believe him if he told it? Best to go to sleep, if he had the midnight to four watch. He'd need to stay awake and stay the Hell out of her bleeding chair.

Jenny had watched Mistress pleasure Robin. She sat with folded hands, observing with apparently polite interest but with her mind miles away, as if being treated by an inconsequential acquaintance to a rather dull stroke-by-stroke account of a game of golf. Her turn soon. She was waiting for Mistress. Mistress knew what to do. Just wait, just wait, she thought, don't show any eagerness. Trust Mistress. Trust her.

Margarethe stood up. She stretched vigorously. "Need to do my fangs, love, and have a wee wash. So do you. Go brush your teeth, but don't wash your pussy. I like it

au jus

. Be here in ten minutes, ready for whatever." "Yes, Mistress."

Margarethe undressed. She ran a damp washcloth under her breasts, lifting each in turn to the cool air. Her nipples tightened. She admired herself in the full-length mirror behind the door, her muscles rippling, her firm thighs showing no wobble for all that she had passed forty years a wee while back. 'Take it easy on the beer and watch the Bananas Frisby, me old darlin', and you'll be just as hot at sixty," she thought--"some hopes"!

Jenny Renfro (her real name at last!) walked into the stateroom. She carried her robe over her arm, the silver colored silk robe Mistress had given her. Naked of course, and waiting.

She had used lipgloss on her nipples and clitoris. "Wherever did she get it?" thought Margarethe. "Must have found a place in Recife, but when had she any time, or a minute alone? Must be like a British sailor, who could find spirits and get drunk in any place on any occasion."

"Strawberry," murmured Margarethe, lifting her head from Jenny's breast. She had taken the slender waif-like creature in her arms and placed her on the bed like a baby, then turned her and lay beside her, mouth on her breast. "Strawberry, you dear sweet child, how did you know?" But of course Jenny knew, this was just part of their love ritual, the well-trodden path so familiar, so comforting. And Margarethe knew full well that Jenny had drawn a few Reals from a cash machine in a bank in Recife, and vanished into a cement block store near the beach, ostensibly to buy a can of lemonade. Her crews' wages were deposited with Honkers in London, and they had ATM cards to draw cash if needed.

"I have eyes in my arse, remember," she thought. "Now let's see what Jenny has in hers." And she turned Jenny on her stomach. She licked from pussy to anus, thoroughly. Using the new Purell sanitizer just purchased from the Company, she cleaned her fingers, took the Astroglide and lubricated them, and thrust firmly into Jenny's anus. Jenny gave a little whimpering moan, pain mixed with pleasure. Margarethe took her other hand and fucked Jenny's pussy hard. This was pure pleasure, and Jenny came, squirting all over Margarethe's hand.

"Now rest, darling. You can do me if you want."

"Oh yes, Mistress."

Margarethe opened her legs to Jenny's questing tongue. Her little Jenny Wren knew how to please and pleasure. She was a good and a loving child (even though 22 years of age, Jenny was still a child to Margarethe). Margarethe had a gentle, relaxing, sensuous orgasm, sighing and breathing deeply. She kissed Jenny twice. "I love you, darling," she said.

And she did, and meant it and believed or thought she meant it, for all that her mind, breaking away like a desperate convict escaping a warder, went back to Sharyn and the week in her house in Hampstead. Oh the crashing orgasms, like the breaking seas! Oh the lips and fingers and tongues, the hands pulling at each other, holding on as if drowning, finally drowning in each other. And the end, the rationalizations, the tears and ultimately, inevitably, the curses and recriminations. "I won't cry like that again," thought Margarethe, "not like that. Nothing will hurt like that."

Jenny turned to sleep beside Margarethe, even though she knew she'd be soon called to the watch. "Goodnight, Mistress, God bless you." She prayed, like a child, in a child's sleepy voice, "Dear Jesus, bless Robin and Mistress, and forgive me my sins. And bring us safe home. Amen." She was soon asleep.

Margarethe couldn't sleep. The memory was too fresh. Then she shook herself like a dog, pulled the blanket over her, and drifted into a troubled sleep.

Saturday morning. Margarethe hadn't stirred when Robin came into the stateroom, gently awakened Jenny and exchanged a furtive kiss. Jenny went off to take up the anchor watch, and Robin stumbled off to sleep. Eyes in her arse, indeed.

Saturday in Stanley. Back home it would be football, played on a patch of earth (no turf here), twisting and weaving, playing the ball, not the other side. But football was the great game. Margarethe, though built for Rugby, despised it. "Excuse for a booze-up and getting groped in the scrum by some ugly dykes," she said, when asked why she, with her five feet eleven and almost fourteen stone of muscle, didn't join the Ladies' Hampstead RFC. She thought, but if there's now some pretty dykes in the scrum, the case is altered, quoth Plowden, whoever the fuck he was.

Still and all, it was Saturday in Stanley. They could keep standing watches, but there was nothing to watch for, no pilferers, no thieves, no bumboats fouling one's anchor cables or demanding one's anchorage on the flimsiest pretext, with a machete or a Glock for backup. The AK-74 tended to discourage those types.