. 38-39

XXXVIII.

How long they had been at sea was no longer even a matter of conjecture. Life indeed went on, but time seemed to pass by Jenn and Matt and their compatriots, without affecting them. Timelessness notwithstanding, the ship rested a while, at anchor, when, one morning, it finally reached Bombay. Many, perhaps most, of the guests had gone ashore when, after breakfasting, Jenn was fetched by a handler. He said nothing to her, other than to specify her required attire. That far into their journey, there was rarely call for the handlers to speak unless it was to give special instructions, whether from guests or trainers – or in taking liberties of their own. Wearing only her leather tack and high heeled sandals, she was, intriguingly, draped in a light cloak before being led toward the ship's stern. As they approached a rather more decorative door than the others around, they were met by a trainer under whom Jenn had worked many times. The handler was dismissed, then the trainer turned to Jenn and began to speak.

"The people who run this ship," he began, sounding as if he were launching into a rich and old story, "officers and sailors – the operations crew, as it were – besides getting paid exceedingly well, get, from time to time, perks." There was, Jenn thought, a trace of – was it envy or just irony? – in his voice. Filling his hand with her bottom cheek, he gave her a squeeze as he turned back to the door and gave a sharp rap with his other hand. "You are today's perk." It was almost an afterthought. The door opened with a flourish, but the man on the other side was already turning away as Jenn was led into the poshly appointed lounge. The quiet hum of relaxed ambience in which a few officers sat at small tables drinking and chatting didn't change as she paused inside the threshold with her handler. No one paid her the slightest attention.

The trainer removed her cloak then led her to a piece of furniture that looked as much like a vaulting horse as anything else. She was told to lay her abdomen across it. It was slightly more than waist height so that when the handler spread her feet apart to fasten her ankles to the legs of the affair, she ended up on tiptoes. Her arms were pulled taut and her hands fastened to the front legs of the strange piece. The result was that she was stretched across the padded top of a table/horse affair, supported from her hips to her lower sternum, with her breasts hanging down against the front surface. The trainer straightened up, after checking that her limbs were well secured, and quickly cinched a wide strap tightly across her lower back. He lifted Jenn's chin, and, looking her straight in the eyes with a look so completely unreadable that Jenn found it disconcerting, he said, "Well, my dear, this will be the end of your training. Once you're through this, you're done."

"Whatever do you mean?" Jenn asked, surprising herself with her boldness, a sense of foreboding trickling down her exposed spine. Had their year passed already? Were they going to be sent home? An incomprehension splashed across her face, leaking from her eyes.

But the trainer just chuckled and winked. Letting go of her chin, he added, "Oh, you'll find out." He moved casually behind her, and, grabbing her pudendum with a suddenness that drew a small gasp, he said quietly, "I'll be going now." His finger ran lightly up and down her slit. "Be good." Jenn detected some sort of implied warning. "Be very good." She felt a mild let-down sensation as he briefly inserted his finger knuckle-deep into her vagina. "I'm sure you will." Suddenly, she was alone – trussed and exposed. The people around her ignoring her and the quiet affluence of the parlour made her feel more naked than ever. Once again she waited. Her fate was not her own.

What would happen would happen. She tried not to appear anxious. She tried not to be anxious, deliberately refraining from looking around, she closed her eyes and let her head drop. Her mind wandered away to nowhere, but was brought back by the sound of more people entering the room – moving about. Amidst the milling, hands idly touched and stroked her. Slowly she raised her head once more, and opened her eyes to the buzz of conversation, rising and falling about her like windblown branches. The room was filling up with officers, drinks in hands, gathering into small knots that swirled past Jenn's field of vision with hardly a glance. The light smacks on her buttocks, and fingers trailing along her flank were almost incidental. She felt somehow invisible; until, finally, someone cupped her chin and, lifting her head, looked into her face, saying absently, "Not bad, not bad at all." His thumb moved up to press into the corner of Jenn's mouth. She responded immediately by sucking it and running her tongue around and down its length. She moaned softly, the personal attention igniting her lusty craving. She wasn't frightened, or even apprehensive, only impatient.

"Richard," a jesting voice called, "hasn't anyone ever told you: never look a gift horse in the mouth?"

Rubbing his thumb over her bottom teeth, he turned and said, "Just checking." He pulled his hand away, adding, "Good responses," and smacked her cheek.

"Well, here goes," a voice behind her said calmly, belying its intention, but the suddenness with which she was split, the terrible force of the cock that rammed so deep into Jenn elicited a loud, surprised gasp and obscured the details of the quickly precipitating action. Before her eyes could regain their focus, hands clasped at her ears and an ardent prick was stuffed between her lips. The evening's fun had begun.

Suddenly she was no more than a mere sex toy. Cocks inserted into and pulled out of her continuously – into her mouth, her cunt, and her ass. "First tracks!" someone yelped, as, after pushing urgently against her anus, the hard, hot nut quickly overcame her resisting sphincter and pierced her with violent thrusts. Jenn felt the warm effusion jetting into her bowels before a rapid withdrawal left her feeling momentarily neglected. After that, her backside was never empty for long. No one spoke to her, but the feverish ordeal seemed forever accelerating. Always, someone was ramming his rod into her mouth, while a cock, or maybe something smooth and cool, like a bottle was being pushed forcefully into her vagina; a large cock, or possibly a dildo would saw away in her ass; her nipples were twisted; her breasts pinched; someone smacked her backside sharply, eliciting a few grunts and groans from her, but mainly she was silent.

With such an intense overload of sensation, Jenn unconsciously filtered her perceptions. She was actually aware of only random slices of the multitudinous experiences that rained over her constantly. Pounded and poked, pinched and pawed, individual assaults melded into one nebulous stimulus, and filled her to bursting. They were taking her beyond every limit she had previously known. She vibrated with a supernatural resonance. Helplessly secured, she had come and spit and booze all over her, oozing down every crack and out of every orifice. And still the tireless onslaught continued. Jenn felt a deep radiance growing, glowing in her soul. These men, she realized, were not people of leisure and privilege. She could taste their sweat, and smell its pungent odor on their genitals. It was somehow different. They were working men, who smelled of honest work, and took rough, honest pleasure in their rewards. And somewhere in her being, more meta-consciously than subconsciously, Jenn felt honoured to be that reward.

As her sexual battery continued unabated, Jenn knew that, even under such seemingly horrific conditions, she would dissociate herself from the sordid, ignoble physical situation, and allow her own arousal to proceed. Slowly at first, then accelerating like an avalanche, the tickling, ever-new, ever-welcome sensations raced to the surface, from her heated radiance. Despite the scurrilous circumstances of her stimulation, she was, once again, inundated with wave after wave of pure pleasure. Many of the gathered debauchees stepped back, and watched in wonder the violence of her climax and its subsequent peaks. Ignited by her unrestrained display, they were spurred to use her with renewed vigor, again and again. While she allowed herself to luxuriate in the vast spectrum of sensation, somewhere in her objectivity she felt that maybe she should object. Surely such treatment went well beyond the boundaries of her tacit consent, the implied limits of her contract. Yet, not only was she not in a position to make any protest, she knew that she wouldn't have regardless of what was being done to her. She could not understand her own complete acceptance of such abject degradation, but she felt totally bereft of moral indignation. Qué sera, sera.

The test, or trial, or whatever it was – the ordeal went on and on. Even in Jenn's anesthetized sense of time, it was an awfully long time before most of them were sated. In the closing acts of the game, almost as a finale, a young officer, while churning up her saliva with his tool, spoke candidly to Jenn. Only with a tremendous effort could she wrest understanding from his words, and even then, they left her puzzled. "I guess you should consider yourself lucky," his casual tone rather incongruous with his semi-turgid cock that still bumped insistently against the back of Jenn's throat. "I understand that the – uh – playthings chosen for the sailors' mess have a much rougher time." With that, he came. His climax was tired, his ejaculation almost dry. He pulled out. Jenn was too exhausted to acknowledge the final desertion. She lay insensible to her abandonment.

Coincidentally, it was Matt who had been given the dubious honor of plaything for the sailors. At that very same moment, he was strapped similarly over a similar piece of furniture, still being buggered mercilessly; still being force-fed cocks, now less than rigid. He had been pinched and punched, slapped and beaten. The low, dirty sailors had continually taunted him in various languages, sticking things up his ass and pulling them out with a pop. Making fun of the noises, of his situation, of him. They took mortifying Polaroid pictures, which they waved before his face. The men who actually sailed the vessel were earthy – dirty and crude in all senses of the words. Matt could smell and taste the old sweat clinging to them as they repeatedly abused him. He was covered with come and spit, as well, perhaps, as other disgusting things – piss and shit and barf. Still, he realized he was in no position to complain. Furthermore, he felt somehow that his tormentors were just waiting for him to object. He wouldn't give them satisfaction.

Anyway, he knew that his life now was just one of on-going penance – a penitence of which he was fully deserving and fully accepting. Consequently, he not only tolerated the whole ordeal, he welcomed it. Such tactile, concrete tribulation was appreciable; it was real. Despite his age, he was really no more or less than a catamite. Yes, he mused, it had been a radical evolution of passion that had brought him from his spontaneous treatise, all those worlds ago, to where he was now. Still, the further Matt settled into his world of depravity, the more he found relief from the amorphous guilt that had stricken him for so long. He felt his life was, if somewhat paradoxically, improving, getting better and better the further he descended into the abyss of perversity. He was almost 'fine'.

At the end of the very long day, both Jenn and Matt, unaware of the similitude of their circumstances, were taken back to their cells, enervated and aching, dripping from sweat and the remnants of their travails. After sleep, they were cleansed and pampered, and that whole next day both were left to recuperate, alone in their cells. Jenn's new inner radiance had not been extinguished. She felt its warmth yet. She felt used, but not abused.

Bruises covered Matt's entire body. He had been ravaged. The keeper assigned to care for him flinched silently as he dabbed the more colourful wounds. He worried as Matt dozed and muttered through uneasy dreams; he tried to soothe Matt’s battered body. Nonetheless, despite being sadly swollen and sore, Matt’s misery was entirely superficial. When he woke, he was paradoxically happy. There was somewhere, too deep to make out clearly, a sense of fulfillment that he didn't really understand but was willing to accept. Under the watchful, fretful ministrations of his keeper, much of the swelling receded during his day of rest. Still colourful, he felt much, much better than he looked.

On the next day but one, both Matt and Jenn were brought to an upper lounge. Some trainers were apparently busy in the room, and only glanced up to dismiss the handlers, leaving Matt and Jenn standing just inside the door. Seeing Matt still black and blue all over, Jenn shivered. Her concern gleamed in her eyes, but she didn't know what to say. As they were stood next to one another, exchanging body heat in the interstice, Jenn glanced about to determine that they were unobserved, then she drew her fingers gently across Matt's bruised cheeks. A sympathetic 'oooh', whispered from her lips.

"It's all right," Matt said, in a low voice as they waited, "Really." He had needed the rough play to restore himself, for only the living bruise. His severe abuse had totally revivified him; more than extant, he felt, for the interval, at least, really alive. "Sort of keeps me in tune," he whispered, "reminds me that I'm still here, still breathing – feeling pain." Jenn felt his closeness as a soft chuckle drifted between them. It had been a long, long time since she had heard that. She smiled; she could still feel happy for him. He continued, barely audibly, "As Shaw said – or was it Wilde? – 'Life is not all beer and skittles.'" The attention of the trainers was turning back to them. Matt added quickly, as a final thought – in explanation, "This is my life. This is really me."

"Come here, you two," the trainer commanded, indicating spots in front and behind a leather couch. With an economy of words and gestures, Matt was positioned over the couch's back, supporting himself with outstretched arms against the seat. Jenn, from in front of the couch, was instructed to bend over and hold Matt's hands against the leather seat. That Matt was to be whipped was quite obvious, however, this time things were a little different. There were several others present, besides the Andersons and their trainers – other trainers and, apparently, management, as well as a few other vassals. It was one of the vassals, not a trainer, who, idly slapping a tawse in his hand, was eventually instructed to begin. The first crack of the strap snapped Matt's impassive torso off the sofa back, bringing a sudden gasp to his lips. Tears welled as Jenn leaned forward to pull his wrists back to the leather surface. The thrashing was especially brutal, although after the initial surprise, Matt was able to regain what composure was still available to him. He even allowed Jenn, whose eyes stared unwaveringly at his face, a humble smile between strokes.

As the flogging continued mercilessly, Jenn saw some other unidentifiable emotion tug at the corners of Matt's mouth. That same moment she felt someone place hands on her hips a press the solid tip of a rampant erection against her sex. An abrupt, violent thrust that sank the shaft fully into her drove the wind from her lungs with a whoosh. Without so much as a pause, the invader began to pound at her doggy-style; churning her rapidly released fluids. Everything was happening at once. Someone had crawled under her. She felt hands and fingers and lips caressing her nipples and clit; she couldn't tell how many, only that her orgasm was imminent. Still she kept her gaze riveted to Matt. His eyes had gone wide and distant, his complexion red. She knew that he was approaching climax as well. What she couldn't see was that a young female vassal, had crawled beneath him as well, and frigged him continuously.

Matt's perceptual field had narrowed and focused. All he knew or felt was the rhythmic, repetitive smack of the tawse, the caressing of his chest and the fondling of his genitals, gathering together into a steaming monster sensation that came on and on like a long freight train. Jenn's awareness, although just as intense, was more global. Through the swirl of arousal, she could see and appreciate Matt's rush towards climax; she could feel the impending anonymous ejaculation in her own throbbing sex; she could feel the towering waves of orgasm washing relentlessly forward. Was it a sudden warmth, or perhaps an imperceptible quiver through his arms down to his hands, or was it some less tangible sixth sense? Whatever the connection, as the strap continued to rain on his backside, Matt's roaring climax coincided with Jenn's, which triggered a gushing spend inside her. The liquor of Matt's profuse spending was collected in a glass, fingers milking his wilting erection. Without missing a beat, he felt the wet warmth of a mouth engulf him, and a smooth lingual stimulation begin in counterpoint to the pounding beat against his buttocks.

After only a few more deep, stomach-pulled-tight-to-rump strokes, and a sharp smack against her flank, the cock pulled abruptly out of Jenn. The pulsing void remained only long enough for her to become aware of it before another steely shaft filled her with a sudden, rough stab. The fingers and lips below continued, insistently irritating, aggravating, stimulating her. The replacement stud pounded into her with such vigor she could barely hang on to Matt's hands, still held against the leather of the seat. Below her a tongue mercilessly circled and prodded her clit in syncopation with the pounding cock. Like dancers, they all seemed to gyrate vigorously, harmonically until stiffening as one, the collection of bodies – how many were there, five? six? – exploded into one huge all encompassing climax that shook them. Gasping and moaning loudly Jenn felt the powerful blasts of tribute fill her vagina as she squirmed on the tireless tongue at her quim.

The rest of Matt's semen dribbled from the mouth of his felator into the collection glass, as the last blow cracked against his ass. For a moment, the only noise was heavy breathing that filled the atmosphere with a sultry humidity. The woman with Matt's collected spunk turned to his flogger, and quickly – she didn't need much time – jerked him into the same glass. Without a word, she took the glass over to the several handlers who were waiting unobtrusively, and one by one masturbated each of them into the glass. The level of sexual energy in the room was almost unbearably high so that it took little time for her to wring orgasmic, guttural gasps from each in turn.

Jenn hadn't moved, although the hands and tongue beneath her had dropped away. As she hung from the softening cock, leaning with shaky arms against the couch, another cock traded places behind her, and, in a quick almost mechanical frenzy of strokes, added its load of come to her reservoir. Again and again, someone new entered her. She lost count. Without pulling out, Jenn's final ravisher leaned forward to cup her breast, and lifted her by them, to standing. Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Jenn felt once again, insistent fingers against her cunt, accompanied by a cold, smooth something. She didn't have the energy to look at the woman who held a wine glass to Jenn's slit and milked her of the draining semen.

The glasses were place reverentially on a table next to the trainers' chairs. Waiting handlers were summoned then dismissed with the other vassals. "Give them a moment to catch their breaths," said a sympathetic voice. Jenn was lowered onto the couch, where she rode out the emotional vortex until it finally began to settle into calm. She opened her eyes to see Matt standing at her side. His awareness had returned quickly, riding on the burning waves emanating from his glowing backside. He watched the men – trainers and management – tucking themselves back in, closing fly-fronts and straightening trousers; silently observing him and Jenn. He felt her eyes open and looked down to greet them. Her sheepish grin, glittering above her still heaving, shuddering breasts, was enchanting. He returned it in kind.