S Y Princess Mala

Someone once claimed that I am insane.

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"I've got you under my skin." (as made famous by Mr. Frank Sinatra)

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There are certain odd couples that one normally wants to avoid.

Stormy waters and straight razors is one.

>>>

Who am I to judge?

* * *

The slim lines of the fifty feet sloop shot through the water like a torpedo and the wake painted a straight, sizzling line through the water. The woman by the steering wheel was breathtakingly beautiful; concentrated, responsive and perfectly naked. In only a few months, never having set foot on a sailing yacht before, she had gained considerable skills in many aspects of sailing; the concepts of navigation were no match for an intelligent woman and she had already proved that she could single-handedly run the boat even in harsh weather conditions.

I adore her. The mere thought about her excites me at any time of the day. And I was madly aroused from watching her maneuvering the vessel, smiling, pointing at seamarks and far-away ships, wiggling her hips, stretching her legs – sometimes unconscious, other times with the clear purpose of teasing me. Watching her, imagining her under me, above me, around me; passion, lust, hunger, sweat. I was sweating, I was aroused and I did no effort to conceal my state of mind, my erection. It seemed to amuse her and encouraged her to extend her hippety-hop by the steering wheel into a seductive dance.

Our bearings took us straight to sea. Next land was several days away, which was more than a bit longer than we had prepared for, but another hour or so away, a solitary lighthouse marked the final sign of civilization before any sailor was left to the mercy of the ocean. I was not sure if Mala actually believed that the target of our cruise was still a secret to me, but I decided to not reveal my insight. Instead, I stretched back on some pillows on the port side of the cockpit, indulged in the spectacular beauty before me and stroked my sex slowly with my fingertips, encourage by the fact that Mala's eyes were less and less focused on the sea and more and more on my masturbation.

*

I don't think I've ever seen that smirk on your face before. Given your last assignment, you showed me a completely new side of yourself. Mischievous? No, you've been bad, oh so deliciously bad before. Curious? Well yes, but curiosity has always been your trademark and what I witnessed was something new. I believe I saw the exhilaration of being in control. Not that you haven't been in control before. Total, uninhibited, no-limit control. But this was something new. I think that you instantly knew what you wanted to do; what you really wanted to do. For the first time, the playground was all yours; when, where, what, how. With me. On me. To me.

You really have learnt to enjoy reciprocity, haven't you?

*

Another hour of mutual teasing – I had never realized just how slowly sunscreen can be applied on a naked body and – and we had reached our destination. Time to begin.

Mala luffed – sailed close to the wind – and before she started shouting orders, I was all over the electric levers, making sure that sails were hauled properly.

"Mr. J, drop the anchor! On the double!"

A trace, no more, of a giggle in her voice but I followed her command; a naked deck-hand or – considering my casual stroking for the last hour – a jack-tar, scurried over the deck to the bow anchor. Secure controlled, I let it plunge in the water. Over fifteen fathoms deep, it took over a minute until the chain's rattle stopped.

South-west breeze; S/Y Princess Mala adjusted in the water, chain stretched in the water, the anchor held.

"The anchor holds, Captain."

"The anchor holds, thank you Mr. J. To the rudder!"

"Aye, aye Captain, right away Sir!"

My attempt to mimic the language of a seventeenth century first mate must have been hilarious because this time Mala did no effort to conceal her laughter. Nevertheless, I darted back to her and assumed the position of attention.

Lewd smile.

Lips licked.

Damn, my self control is so bad – by now both of me had assumed the position of attention.

Giggle.

"Mr. J!"

"Yessir, Captain, sir!"

"You're a disgrace!"

"Yessir, pardon me, sir!"

"..."

"Beg your pardon, Captain, but thy humble servant doesn't understand..."

God knows where she'd hid it, but before I could blink, she had shoved the end of a cat o' nine tails under my chin and forced it upwards.

"You're filthy, Mr. J, you haven't shaved!"

By now I was genuinely confused. Sure I had shaved.

She smirked at my bewildered face, took a step back and swung the whip, quite gently across my chest. More of a tickle than a blow.

"Not your chin..."

The next swat made me jump but I amazed myself by not uttering a sound. Her arm had made a full arc over her head and now she hit me with an underhand blow directed straight at my crotch.

No. Tickle. This. Time.

Damn, it hurt!

She looked at me a bit anxiously and bit her lip. Too hard? No. Her face regained color.

"You look like a bloody animal, Mr. J!"

"Yessir! I'll get right on to it, Captain..."

She interrupted me by pressing the whip's handle against my crotch, squeezing my balls against my thighs.

"No, you're not!"

She pushed me against the steering wheel, leaned forward and kissed me gently on my lips.

"I am..."

"Oh... yessir... I mean, please my Princess..."

So, Mala, where are you taking us? I swallowed a giggle when I suddenly realized that I was thinking of the remote control of the television set – Mala had suddenly switched channels.

"Spread your legs and lean against the steering wheel!"

Apparently still the Dominatrix.

"Arms out, grip the wheel!"

Whatever your command, my darling. You're holding the whip. Lots of smartass comments that I chose not to say. Instead, I simply enjoyed the interesting turn of events while Mala diligently tied my wrists and ankles to the steering wheel. While she made sure that I was securely housed by the wheel, I noticed how her face slowly lost some of its steadfast sternness; her touches became increasingly gentle and her moves less of a naval officer's and more of the seductive femme fatale. Even though my balls still suffered from a bit of a dull ache due to that one slap with the whip, I had maintained the posture of a soldier in a starched uniform. There were no doubt with regard to my excitement; pre-cum made the swollen crown glisten in the bright sunlight. Mala brushed her fingers over the faint red marks on my thighs, which made my groins contract and cock stiffen even more – I felt as though my cock head would explode.

Well, it didn't.

This was only the beginning, I knew that, and it would be long before I'd be granted any sort of release. I wanted it in no other way and Mala knew it and took pleasure in it as well.

*

I'm a great fan of Gillette's. I admit it.

I threw away my electric shaver twenty years ago and decided to become a bit cooler. I spent a small fortune on a vintage straight razor; cut throat tool, brush, leather strop, Swaty – the lots – just to become the manly Marlboro-man I had decided was my true incarnation. Nevertheless, I spent the next six months in bloody battles with the damn thing and decided that my fine motor ability did, indeed, work backwards through the reflection of my mirror and I would have to choose between the razor and my life. I was positive that one bright morning, I would slit my own throat in desperate fury over yet another scar – yet another mark of my clumsiness.

Enters Mala. The Princess. A marvel of grace and soft touch.

Even I didn't know where I had thrown it away, but Mala found my old fashioned razor within a week of my giving her the key to my door. Asked me about the dried blood on blade and handle. Told me it was a shame that such a beautiful tool was never used.

"Oh, you can have it... but be careful – it has a life of its own and it's a bloodthirsty bastard."

Mala just smiled and tucked it away.

Until now.

Silver tray: Brush, bowl of water, soap, and razor – the sun's reflex in the blade blinded me for a second. I swallowed hard to avoid from gasping or, worse, groaning. She looked at me, visibly amused; she had heard me telling her about the vicious blade and must have pretty much anticipated my reaction to its return to the living. The depth of her eyes had never enthused me as much as they did right now; the intensity never felt more captivating. Without really thinking about it, I writhed in my restraints and it wasn't until Mala frowned curiously that I realized what I was doing.

A question in her eyes.

I nodded.

She moved to work.

The washing. Smoking water poured from a glass teapot. The heat startled me and I had to bite my lip to avoid any unwanted reactions. Yet, I could not help but witness how my cramping member lost some of its grandeur under the flow of hot water. Not for long. Soft strokes with a damp cloth, not much cooler but now I was mentally prepared, sent sparkling sensations through my groins, to my toes, my finger tips, the back of my neck. Finally, she wound a hot towel around my entire genitals and to make sure that it wouldn't come off, she secured it with one of her top-knots, or some other elastic ribbon – I couldn't really tell.

The soap. She must have practiced the art of whisking soap before. Even practiced a lot. Or perhaps she'd professionally whipped cream into butter in another life. Regardless, her wrist worked the silver tip badger brush at near super-sonic speed and thick and creamy lather shortly rose from the aromatic soap in the bottom of the ivory shaving bowl. She removed the towel from my crotch and smiled appreciating when she saw my half-erect cock spring forward. The shaft was healthily rosy from the heat. She puckered her lips and pecked the tip of the crown swiftly, lathery brush in hand, ready for application.

Somewhere on the scale between sublime caresses and relentless tickle torture. Or both. Maybe something completely different, but I don't have the words for it. Nevertheless, the touch - the tiny circles by which Mala applied the soft lather - were heavenly as well as all-fired. I twitched, hips jerked; guttural sounds emanated from my throat – I had no idea what I was trying to say, if anything but to express ravishment. The more I moved, the louder my moans, the more elaborate became the brushing. Circling sac, shaft and even crown with the foamy brush. Gently, then playful. Painting. Sculpting an ivory pillar - raising a white obelisk from my thighs. My undulating movements, the twitches, even my grunting appeared to fan out and rock the boat – the yacht's bobbing in the water had become more intense and the giant vessel seemed to be turning around the anchor accompanied by squeaking joints. A gust of wind gripped Mala's dark hair – the wind was changing.

Mala's mind, however, was not – it was still set on her self-proclaimed task, and she went by with utmost nicety. Stropping – countless roundtrips on the leather. I had to stop myself from yelling out my anticipation of her touch. Please, please, go on! The horizon neighed behind the rail of the boat. Wind was getting stronger and the sun waved goodbye behind a grey cloud.

The cold blade felt like a release as it carefully cut through the lather until touched the very lower part of my scrotum. Then – a moment of anxiety, second thoughts – what was I doing? Then – realization – what could I do? I was tied secure to the wheel, which turned slightly from side to side as the boat moved up and down in the waves. Finally – excitement, arousal, lust. Please Mala, my darling princess, go on.

Delicate fingers holding the razor, others stretching my skin. Blade moving ever so slowly over sensitive sac.

I gasped for air. Felt my knees weaken. The sensation was overwhelming enough to make me pass out, had it not been for the astounding excitement; Mala's concentration, the potentially lethal knife in her hand, her intimate task – the gentle caress by the blade.

Friskier moves. Bolder strokes. Lather came off in large chunks and splattered all over the cockpit. By the time she reached the shaft and moved towards the throbbing crown, still hid underneath white foam, I felt as if I would climax.

I probably would have, had it not been for a sudden rock of the boat.

I did not feel a thing but I shortly guessed what had happened when the blade came to a sudden stop and Mala suddenly stiffened, holding her breath.

"It's nothing, go on."

I was desperate. The cut was a bit deeper than I had initially realized; the lather turned pink and I felt a slight stinging as Mala continued. A moment of nausea – the horizon's movements were getting greater as the yacht bobbed increasingly heavy in the waves.

The barbering continued. The caresses were as gentle, as balmy as before. But the magic had faded. The anxiety of the sea had got hold of Mala as well as me. There was a tangible nervousness in the air, thick enough to cut by knife. The knife, nevertheless, continued its traverse over my genitals. Long, careful strokes. Almost every last trace of the lather had disappeared when I felt a sudden bite. The knife had cut into the skin at the base of the cock. Mala let go of a faint moan and looked at me with sad eyes.

I wanted to smile to her and tell her that it was alright. Comfort her. Give her courage to continue. But I couldn't muster a single word. Instead I urged her with a fierce look, emanating from a growing frenzy. Go on! Go on! Don't stop! Her eyes showed fear. And obedience? Her eyes pleaded for this game to stop. The reptile inside me wouldn't hear about it. I felt like I was about to explode. The sublime arousal, prompted by her creativity and ingeniousness, her soft touch, her sexuality had been replaced by a raw and primitive hunger spun from the intoxication of adrenalin.

Pain. Blood. Never any of my greater fetishes but the balancing on a sharp edge, literally, was irresistible. Whatever message my eyes conveyed to Mala, the purpose was achieved and she continued; new lathering, a lukewarm snowy package for my cock.

S/Y Princess Mala was now heaving violently in the water. Despite being tied up, I had to hold on not to lose my balance. The vessel's namesake was nearing panic as she again held the obnoxiously sharp tool between her fingers. Took a deep breath and began her second journey over my irreplaceable body parts. She had hardly begun shaving when, again, skin broke – this time on the scrotum. I hissed, she sobbed. I shot out my hips, aiming for her face – I wanted to shout to her to continue, never stop. She understood the meaning of my body language and continued. Trembling hands. Sobs and sniffles. New cuts. The man in front of her turned into a madman, driven wild by the bloodshed, engorged by his love of lethal danger.

Mala, however, did not love it.

"Please, J, this is too dangerous! We must stop!"

"..."

"Are you listening to me? I'm going to clean you now and lay some bandages on your wounds..."

There were still half a sac and a whole shaft to go before the shaving was finished.

"Go on! Continue!"

"Please..."

Her voice trembled. Eyes watered.

"You finish what you have started, damn it!"

I was terrified of my own voice. It was as though someone else was talking. Neither the words nor the sound seemed to come from me. I wasn't suicidal. I wasn't this mean. My voice was never this harsh. I was never this aroused. On second thought, I was. I grinned at the thought only to realize that Mala must have interpreted it as a vicious leer.

Flashbacks to my twenties. Straight razor also known as cut throat razor also known as butcher knife.

On the positive side, my balls and cock had never been as smoothly shaved. But it was at the expense of countless cuts, a few of which were deep enough to bleed rather voluminously. Mala wept and ran her fingers over my bruised crotch as if she was trying to soak up the trails of blood with her fingertips. In vain. Trickles along my thighs and legs. A pool was already forming on the teak deck.

She continued to weep as she untied me and shook violently when I finally put my arms around her for her comfort. My frenzy had slowly started to fade away. Maybe it was the rain. It usually has a soothing effect. We hugged each other hard for several minutes, leaning against the steering wheel –the waves were throwing the boat up and down – until Mala was finally ready to wipe her tears, clear her throat and regain composure. Once she did, she also regained some of her previous zeal and command and led me inside the cabin. I was a mess but her previous anxiety had completely vanished. She readily accepted her new nursing duties.

Wash. Disinfect. Bandage.

I've got you under my skin. At last: a smile on the pretty face. Still not circumcised. Okay, that was too much, I'll stop.

I was somewhat concerned about the mounting storm. Even though the yacht was designed for sailing the oceans in any weather conditions, I did not consider it very wise to lie by anchor in the middle of a storming sea. The nearest safe harbor, a tiny lagoon-shaped island, was half an hour away, given the strong wind. Without any delay, we set sails.

We did not speak much. Neither on our way to the island, nor after we had anchored once again. Tucked together in the cabin. Listened to the storm. Watched the night fall. Fell asleep.

*

The next day, the storm had subsided and although the sun was still fighting to show its face, it was quite calm and reasonably mild. I woke early, as always at sea. Carefully removed the gauze bandage, even more careful when I realized that echars were stuck in it. Grisly sight but at least there weren't any signs of infections. I decided to let the fresh morning breeze gain free access to my battered member for a while. That would save me from rummaging around in the cabin for new bandages, alcohol for disinfection and clothes; Mala was fast asleep and I could use an hour or so for preparations. Grim smile.

When Mala opened her eyes, it was as though all dark memories of the previous day had been washed away. A bit drowsy, she sparkled when I brought her breakfast "in berth" and the loving look in her eyes almost had me change my plans for the day and decide to spend a lazy day running for the wind. After a swift bickering between the angel and the devil, nevertheless, the latter stood tall and I stood by my plan.

She did look a bit concerned when she inspected the mince meat experiment but decided, just like I had done, that it was healing fine. Scars would most likely create whole new landmarks along the love pole but its functionality would hardly be narrowed in any way. My reaction to Mala's gentle touch provided ample proof; neither blood flow nor muscle activities were inhibited. She winded new gauze bandage around a proud erection. My cock looked like it was fighting its way out of a white cocoon, only the head showing in the end. The Return of the Mummy was also the return of Mala's laughter; the melodious ringing of her spontaneous happiness had been absent for almost twenty four hours.

Daily chores onboard after the stormy night: Check joints, secure hatches, hang sails to dry. Mala darted to and fro over the deck whereas I cemented all chauvinist prejudice by checking on the diesel engine.

"Are we sailing soon? Should I prepare some sandwiches before we go?"

"Don't worry about it; we won't go for a while yet."

I didn't want Mala to forage in the caboose and start wondering about the various objects I had stuffed in the freezer.

"Aren't you hungry? I'm starving?"

"I'll put something together... will you just check on the mainsail? It seemed to jam in the notch in the mast. Maybe it's kinked."