Postcards

Author's note:

You may want to check back up to the previous chapter. Sean has been up a while when this chapter begins.

Chapter 6

Sheila:

I woke with a start—Sean was not there. How quickly we adjust to new situations. Sleeping with Sean was one of my favorite things, though building sand castles had to rank high on the list.

From a technical difficulty standpoint, his work the previous night was only fair. For originality and execution, top grades. The wet sand bound my legs tightly. Sean did the wrist binding well, then used the stone on my back to force my elbows apart and put tension on the binding. The weight of the sand prevented any other movement. I tested it all and found I had no chance of escape. It mattered to me that Sean took the time and effort to completely immobilize me.

In the morning light, I looked at the poor scarves. Sand and salt water had ruined them for their intended use, though the pattern of the staining might be interesting. It struck me as a metaphor for how I felt. I was sand burned in several places and my ass still felt the invasion. Otherwise I felt relaxed to the point of limp. Five seconds of movement corrected that notion.

I took the scarves to the bathroom sink and rinsed them in cool water, which turned pink. As expected, there were now streaks and spots in the color. Fortunately, there were no holes. Silk is tough. I laid them on a towel to dry, then went outside to wash myself. As I passed in front of the cabin, I could hear Sean and Don talking about fishing, which changed my mind about the shower. Instead, I visited my stretching bar. It was like coming home.

Some aching time later, the sky began to lighten. I finished my stretch and went back to the shower. The cool water felt wonderful. Returning to the cabin, I found Barbara waiting. She kept glancing at the sky, which confirmed my thoughts about the weather. A storm was coming. Barbara gave our cabin a quick check, returning with a portable radio tuned to weather. The news was bad and good. It was a big storm, but the worst of it would pass between us and the Big Island.

I followed Barbara outside. She unlocked a door and started doing things to the generator inside. After a few seconds an engine started. Barbara threw a switch and told me we were on independent power for the day. After that, she started collecting the cushions from the outdoor chairs. The chairs themselves were tied with cable. She then showed me the switch for the powered shutters and the crank for the manual backup. It was all very routine, until I saw the idiot and his crowd.

Jan Sward was not acting like an idiot, which gave me pause. His posture lacked the aggressive, almost combative edge it held the previous two days. Instead, he looked at sky and water with resolution. He was Scandinavian, so storms would be an old enemy. I thought better of him as he herded his crew onto Don's boat. They set off, leaving only myself, Barbara, Sean and the fish.

Sean always had mixed feelings concerning the fish. Well over five feet long and weighing sixty pounds, it was beautiful in its predatory way. The fish would have made a fine trophy, but Sean gave no resistance to Barbara's desire to cut it up. Even that waited, since Barbara needed to lock down the island. Sean simply forced the fish into the cold box and helped Barbara with her chores. In the years since, Sean is more likely to mention the dinner of grilled filets than catching the fish. Yet, he always keeps an image near his desk. If someone asks, he will show the image and tell the story.

Preparing the cabin for a storm was not difficult. The house was designed with rough weather in mind. Lightweight items were collected and stored. Larger items were chained to an anchor. Barbara had already done most of ours. Sean went with her to lock down the other cabins. I stayed to fix breakfast—and other things. Sean had promised me a thorough lashing, with Barbara watching. I raided the picnic drawer, then searched for other possibilities.

Now that I knew to look, Barbara's hand could be seen everywhere. The ceiling had exposed wood beams. Several hooks were set into them, some having hanging baskets. The highest point had a pulley attached, with a scented candle hanging. It was trivial to remover the candle and use the cord to pull through a much heavier woven rope. The hardware was stout enough to support two people. The rope could support half a dozen.

Other things included a curtain rod with ringlike finials. It was a ready to use spreader bar. The curtain rings were pinch type, which were perfectly sized for nipple and labia weights. The tiebacks were three feet of inch thick scarlet twist rope. One of the blind controls was made of Lexan and would be a perfect caning rod. The kitchen had a paddle shaped cutting board. Sean had already found the silicon spatulas. There was no whipping horse, but the bar stools had a pair of metal footrest rings, one just below knee height and the other three inches off the floor.

Next, I prepared a waiting place. A folded tablecloth covered the rug. On it I placed the flogger, then arranged restraints and implements to either side. Behind these I put bottles of lubricants, lotions, Sean's massage oil, aloe and first aid astringent. The tableau finished, I set the available imaging devices around the room. One still camera was set to shoot every fifteen seconds. The other sent video direct to the laptop. My old laptop would use its integral camera to gather a different angle and my smartphone would cover the tablecloth. Once I had disrobed, emptied and cleaned myself, I assumed Second Position and waited.

Christine loves Second Position. It fully exposes her, which feeds her exhibitionist streak, yet it is suitable for long term use. She can stay in it longer than most people can sit in a chair. I expected Sean at any moment, but I might wait a hour or more. Using Christine as my guide, I searched for a quiet place in my mind. I found something.

Barbara was the first through the door. Whatever she had been saying died. Sean nudged her out of the doorway, then continued into the room, his eyes intent on me. A thrill went through me. His gaze left me to inspect my work. My breath stopped, not to begin until his tiny nod conveyed approval. Sean looked at the preparations around the room, then turned to Barbara.

gYou

have

been busy. How much does Don know?"

Barbara preferred silence, but Sean's will is a thing of iron. "Some", she admitted, "but not much. Madame tied me up for him yesterday. Cobra weave with monkey paws in the loose ends. Danté was impressed."

Sean nodded. "You may stay, but understand that this session is being recorded. Do you consent? Speak aloud for the record."

Barbara hesitated at the formalities, then said, "I do." When she realized her phrasing, she blushed deeply.

Sean ignored the obvious wordplay. "Sheila, prepare her."

Barbara started disrobing before I could rise to my feet. There were many possibilities, but I elected only a gag and wrists tied behind her. Once she was settled on her heels I squared her shoulders and pulled her head up, saying "Taller." That done, I presented myself to Sean—eyes down, heels together, wrists together in front. It was a bit pushy, but Sean seemed to be in a permissive mood. Naturally, Sean went a different path.

The curtain rod was a ready made spreader bar, but there were no cuffs. Sean had me stand on one foot while he wrapped leather around my ankle, then tied it in place with all three colors of paracord. Once both ankles were cover and tied to the rod, Sean told me to grasp the bar. His warm up swats started firmly and quickly went to stinging. After about a dozen on each side, he switched to the cutting board paddle. It was only the warmup, but neither Christine or Mario would consider it trivial.

The flogging flowed smoothly from the warmup. Sean used the heavy curtain tie to bind my wrists together, then to the pulley rope. With little apparent effort, he hoisted me off the floor, then stuck cushions under my feet, to prevent twisting. Nice touch. He began with light, thuddy strikes on the small of my back. After half a dozen as foreplay, he started spreading the strands and snapping his wrist. Ten stinging blows covered my back, then four more on my ass. Finally he set the flogger aside and picked up the Lexan rod.

Caning is not something I do lightly. Usually, it must be on Friday, so the client has the weekend to recover. I already anticipated trouble sitting on the plane. If Sean used the rod, it would be a difficult flight. Recalling the time Christine declined the heavy lash, I looked at the rod and nodded. Fire exploded low on my ass, followed by a slapping sound. Another blow, followed by another slap.

For a heartbeat it made no sense. Then I burst into tears and shook my head. Though I could not see it, I know the sound of cane on flesh. If it was not my flesh it had to be Sean's, most likely his palm. I could not let him bruise himself for me. The problem was that I started crying and could not stop.

Sean let me down, released my arms and legs, still I cried. He released Barbara, then pushed us together. Still I cried, but Barbara cried with me. Sean guided the two of us out the front door and around the house. Shower water put an end to the tears, but not to Sean's purpose. He pulled us, dripping wet, to the ocean. I had never been skinny dipping and that was not how I envisioned my first time, but I made no protest.

When the water was armpit deep, Sean ducked me and held me under for about twenty seconds. I could hear Barbara objecting. When he let me up, Sean said, "I'll go get towels. Explain to Barbara what is going on. Next time I hope I don't need to be so literal." I love that Sean is pushy, but sometimes it can be a major pain.

Confession is supposed to be good for the soul. I was not Catholic, but I knew that much. Sean seemed to believe it. He ordered me to tell all to Barbara. Even though she had heard most of it before, it helped. The second time through was easier, but I was unprepared when Barbara jerked in shock. After a moment I realized I said that one of the muggers almost died. Barbara did not know that detail. Funny. I did not go ten minutes without thinking about it.

I began to tell her the details, but Sean returned with towels and footwear. He asked Barbara to leave, saying he wanted to fuck me senseless. That was ironic, because I was feeling very stupid. Barbara pinked at Sean's language, hugged me close, whispered thanks for her anklet, then fled. In other times, watching a middle aged woman running naked on a beach would have been funny. That day I had awareness only for Sean. As he led me to the house, I realized I was wrong. Last night, for two hours, while Sean built the sand castle, I never once thought of Ugly and Stupid.

Sean:

The big fish was a bit of a rush. I never pretend to be an outdoorsman, partly because there are so many of the real thing around. Still, the stories had always been interesting and now I had one of my own. It put me in a good mood. Barbara promptly put it in perspective by mentioning the storm.

For half an hour we went around tying up and locking down. Sheila went back to the cabin to get things ready. I did my best not to think about what was coming, because I did not expect to enjoy it. Sometimes I hate being right.

Sheila did her usual thorough job of laying things out. It wasn't her studio in New Jersey, but it came surprisingly close. There was even a hoist. While I took everything in, Sheila did a quick job of gagging and tying Barbara. Good. An audience is necessary for a public whipping.

The whipping itself was a workout. I started with my hand, switched to a cheeseboard, the flogger finally a clear plastic rod. Every step was to warm Sheila up for the next one. The problem was that the rod was as far as I was willing to go, but Sheila had no such limit. In desperation, I used the rod on my own palm. Holy shit.

Sheila reacted exactly as expected. Her desire for punishment did not extend to me. She also started crying. With that crack in her resolve, I changed the nature of the scene. As quickly as I could manage, I unbound both the women, then marched them naked out of the cabin. Sheila was still in tears when I turned on the shower. That stopped the crying.

Next came the ocean. The plastic rod left a red stripe, which had to burn in the salt water. I left them there while I went to get togs and towels. It gave me a chance to think about who I could get for guilt counseling. With any luck, my sharp lesson would have effect, but there was no chance things were fully settled. I knew too many military men with the same problem. At least Bozo hadn't died.

All that was beside the point. The time was right to push some issues. Handing Barbara her towel, I said, "Please don't take this wrong, but it's time for you to leave. I want to take my wife inside, tie her to the bed and fuck her senseless."

Sometimes the truth can work magic. Barbara disappeared.

Sheila:

There are times I wonder what goes on in Christine's head. Sometimes, I think I have a small clue. As Sean led me into the house, I knew there was nothing I would deny him. He could call me names or use me as a toilet. I would do it willingly. All I wanted was to bask in the glow of his fire.

Sean and Siobhan have a strange inferiority complex. They think of themselves as slow and plodding. To compensate, they are systematic and very thorough. If you saw

The Accidental Tourist

, Sean is a bit like Macon Leary. Part of it comes from Sean's inarticulate nature. He speaks well from a script, but not out of hand. His thoughts run ahead of his mouth, resulting in a tangled, confusing mess.

Another part is the older brother, George. He is enough smarter than Sean and Siobhan that no one argues the point. George was described to me as an absent minded professor crossed with Taz, the cartoon Tasmanian devil. He graduated Berkeley because the department thought things like missed final exams were less important than being able to claim him as an alumnus. It was not completely improper. His instructors tracked him down and gave oral exams—for advanced quantum mechanics and high energy physics. George did the math in his head. He also showed up three days late for his brother's wedding.

Sean is a complex package of contradictions. The one that mattered most to me was the pushy, self-confident business tycoon vs. the devoted family man. Sean's usual style is blast-through-the-obstacles. His nickname is the Bear, which fit, but not. Bears are loners. Sean used a team approach for his mayhem. He would point out an obstacle and we would all take it down. My role on his team was as the cutting edge. It is not a nice place, but it both important and respected.

Being part of his team had perks, but the big one was Sean himself. There were many things I would have been hard pressed to explain, but Sean never needed an explanation. His support was unwavering and his timing sublime. The protective side is easier to understand. It is natural for leaders to defend their subordinates. Sean goes the next step and cares for us more than we care for ourselves. When it was necessary, he carried me home. It is a big reason why I love him.

Another is because he understands me. Take the flogging. I would not have connected my mood to the mugging. Sean had, and so it proved. His way of telling me that I was wallowing in self pity was pointed, typically so. What I would have seen in one of my clients, I did not see it about myself. It was insight I not only prized, but needed. The thing that made it work was that Sean needed my insight nearly as much. At that moment, Sean wanted to live out his fantasies. I was going to help him.

It would not be an easy service. Like many—most—men, Sean fantasized about my tits. Sean understood why I hated my forward development, so he had been restrained in his urges. That day it would change. His message would not have been more clear if he had text it to my phone. Oddly, I found myself anticipating his attentions. Perhaps I had been too hasty. If nothing else, my baby would be able to nurse.

My nipples were hard as erasers and ached terribly. Naturally, Sean made me wait.

Sean:

After I ran Barbara off, I had Sheila lie down on the floor. I smoothed coconut oil over her back, butt and thigh, tweaking things as I went. I took particular interest in the anus, since the area was a little swollen, as expected. Swollen means sensitive, so Sheila reacted to the slightest touch. That was good. If she were in sub-mode, she would suppress her reactions. I made a decision.

gI am going to tie you to the corners of the bed. Then I will do as I wish. Since this is for my pleasure, you may cum at any time. I will blindfold you. No gag, but no talking. Clear?" The Army has what is called "command voice". I learned it as an NCO and use it often in a business context. Sheila accepted with a nod.

Everyone has fantasies. Sheila evoked a few of mine. Call them what you wish—boobs, tits, knockers, melons, jugs, hooters, headlights, puppies, peaches, pears or sugarplums—most men have an appreciation of female breasts. I was no exception and Sheila's breasts were premium. From the time we met, I wanted to worship her breasts. It might be taking advantage of Sheila's weakness, but I was going to indulge.

Breast tissue is unique in the body. It sits on top of the chest muscles, but has no muscles internally. There are many fat cells, and their size increases as the body deposits fat, but size only partly depends on fat content. Sheila was a fitness fanatic. Her muscle/fat ratio would be the envy of many star athletes, but she also had truly massive mounds.

Sheila hated that mass, so she hid them in a corset-like undergarment. As a side benefit, she found the tight fit comforting. I think it was a metaphor for control. The bustier also supported the full weight of the tits, so that gravity had never gotten a grip. The results were two of the firmest breasts I had ever seen, regardless of size, and the smoothest, whitest, tenderest skin possible. For the next several hours they were all mine.

Barbara had given Sheila some lubricant, which was supposed to be safe and not unpleasant tasting. That would be good. In my younger days, several of my lovers had used perfume in their cleavage. Perfume is nasty on the tongue. I tasted a bit of the lotion—not good, but not bad. I could cope. I spread some on my hands, preparing to attack Sheila's bassooms, but I stopped.

How do you describe perfectly shaped tits? Lying on her back, with gravity pressing her breasts down, Sheila still projected further than many women in full sag. What was the line from Wilde? Something about breasts falling like hanged men. Sheila was pregnant. In mere weeks she would put on weight, including her milk cans. That would be something to document. After putting an oily sheen on her skin, I went in search of the camera. Sheila loved images. She could provide a few.

As I considered the scene, many potential angles suggested themselves. Rather than try to choose, I shot them all—straight overhead, bed level profile, worm's eye view, bird's eye view, everything in between. The one between the legs was nice, but I thought the vulva was distracting. It did give occasion to note that Sheila was showing clear signs of arousal. Her lips were parted and the tip of the clit was visible in the hood.

I stopped for a moment to lick her toes, so I could stare a bit longer at her sex. That brought a reaction. I am no foot fetishist, but I know one. It would be something to consider when she was gravid. CC jumped to mind. I chuckled as I pictured Sheila, very close to term. I suckled her breasts while CC suckled her toes. She was in my office, in my leather President and CEO office chair, with her legs over the armrests. Sheila's dress covered her privates, but the door was open and Helen was taking pictures.