Sex Slave at Sea

We go into the saloon, which leads into handsome oak-paneled corridors lined with expensive-looking oil paintings. I’m recovering slightly, but my feet are still wobbly, and Greg has to shepherd me now and then by putting his hand on my back. Honestly, he is the most caring and solicitous guy I’ve ever met. If I weren’t dating Max, I think I could fall in love.

But as it is, I’m in love with Alice’s younger brother – who happens to be conveniently missing. But would Max have done anything to oppose his older sister? I belong to the family. They are free to do to me as they please.

Alice strides into the modern, steel implement-filled kitchen, where a chef is broiling something in a saucepan. The aroma of something meaty rises in the humid air. The chef looks up and almost upturns his saucepan when he sees me.

“Yeah, yeah, this gets old. She’s a sex slave, get over it,” Alice says. “Where are your plates?”

“Pl-plates?” the young chef stammers.

“Yeah, you know, circular enamel pieces we eat out of, mostly with forks and knives.”

“Uh . . . our plates are not enamel, Ms. Devlin.”

Alice rolls her eyes. “Like, duh. Get them anyway, OK? Or are you too dense to do even that?”

The chef darts his frightened eyes at me, and then scuttles to get the plates from an overhead cabinet. From all that clattering, I think his hands are shaking.

“OK, Greg, I’m going to give you your most favorite task of the day. You get to take the chains off Ms. Dainty here.”

Greg fumes, but he swiftly moves to unclasp the cuffs from my wrists. It’s such a relief to finally be able to put down my aching arms. He unbuckles my collar as well along with its merciless rod and anal hook. My asshole tightens like a drawstring as soon as the offending item is removed. I’m so thankful I feel like throwing my arms around him and giving him a big hug, but I’m sure Alice will find a way to punish me for that.

The chef holds a stack of plates. He’s still trembling, and so there is a discernable clatter within those plates – as if we’re in the middle of a minor tsunami.

“Put those down,” Alice commands. “Now go get us a dishcloth.”

“A . . . a dishcloth?”

“So you’re deaf as well as dense. Perfect combination. Who hired you?”

The chef places the stack carefully down on the central table before he can drop them.

“Uh, the captain did, Ms.”

“Well, you can go running to the captain and tell him to shove your hiring papers up your ass. Do it after you fetch us that dishcloth.”

The chef is so rattled that he almost drops the dishcloth as he hands it to Alice. He scuttles away as Alice turns on the tap in one of the sinks and wets the cloth thoroughly.

She turns to Greg. “Well, don’t just stand there. Get her to squat on that table.”

My spirits descend into abysmal depths. I’m not up for this, to be honest. I’ve had a really long day, starting since morning. I’ve been exhibited, photographed lewdly, fucked roughly and now made to be a sexual workhorse with household cleaning implements. I need a good long nap. Like, for a week.

But slaves don’t get to protest, and so Greg resignedly helps me up to the table, where he arranges me in a squat once again. My pussy lips are still red and raw from the bristle abuse, but at least I don’t have that punishing hook in my asshole anymore, and I can bend my back, which is a relief to no end.

Heather says, “What are you going to ask her to do?”

“Watch.”

Alice moves close to me again. I want to close my eyes because I’m so terrified of her beautiful, flawless face – she’s like this evil Valkyrie, perfect on the outside but all rotten and corrupted inside.

She peers at my obviously pale face.

“You’re pretty enough,” she says dismissively, “but I still don’t get what my brother sees in you.”

Actually, I’m not sure either. I still wake up every day wondering why Max is actually dating me –even if I’m a submissive. But my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth and I can’t speak. Not that I could have uttered a word.

“Keep still,” Alice says.

She peels my outer labia apart. Then she lines the undulating and very tender flesh that is revealed with the wet cloth. The cold wet cloth sinks into and covers the hooded folds of my clit. It snuggles into my valleys and very sensitive inner pussy lips. A thrill of erotic tension spirals deep within me.

Not content to leave it thus, she pokes her sharp finger into my vulva, pushing in the cloth. Its damp softness worms into my hole, sending a refreshing coolness into my chafed tunnel. She tucks my outer labia neatly back in again, around the cloth. The whole ensemble, though humiliating, feels quite pleasant, really. My juices are beginning to form again and flow – the hot staining the cold blanket inside me.

But I’m sure she doesn’t intend to leave me in a comfortable state.

I am right, of course.

Alice picks the top plate off the stack and hands it to me. “You’re fortunate I’ve allowed you the use of your hands this time. Now wipe this plate with your cunt. Do it thoroughly.”

Heather lets out a chortle of delight. She claps her hands in glee. “Well, I never would have thought of that. How clever of you, darling!”

Greg’s face blackens.

My trembling hands take the plate from Alice. I place it face upwards beneath my hips and press its smooth surface against my cloth-covered pussy. The hard material palms onto my soft flesh, squishing the nub of my clit so that a shudder passes through me.

“Rub it,” Alice says. “Rub your cunt hard against it.”

I comply, turning the plate upside down.

“Bury its edge between your cunt lips and clean it that way.”

I slide the edge of the plate in between my right pussy lip and my clit. The hard edge digs into my tender groove, and I gasp as erotic spasms shoot throughout my entire groin. It’s like a wheel that grinds into my intimate rail track, and a big area of clit and labia along with it.

“Roll it,” Alice commands. “Put it in the other side of your cunt.”

I obey, transferring the plate over the soft hood of my clit to press it against my left valley instead.

“Deeper. I want to see it squeaky clean.”

Alice seizes the plate and wedges it in deeper.

I cry out as the blunt edge cores into my wet flesh. Another exquisite spasm shoots through my pussy. Greg tenses, his forearm muscles straining. Really, he’s a gorgeous man and Alice doesn’t deserve one iota of him. I’m not sure if this is Alice’s intent – to give me pleasure along with the humiliation. Or maybe that’s the point – to make me aware that pleasure can be found with humiliation.

After the fifth plate or so, Alice hands me two plates.

“Rub them together in both sides. Make it count.”

This is going to be a bit more difficult. As I hold those two plates, wondering how I’m going to ease them into my grooves, Alice does the unexpected. She helps me by peeling my cloth-covered pussy lips apart so that I can insert the twin edges into the revealed grooves. As soon as the rims touch my damp furrows, they compress my already overstimulated clit.

A palpable blossom of pleasure unfurls from my nub, and I almost squeal.

“Yeah,” Alice says in satisfaction, “squeeze that little piece of meat in. Pound it. Knead it. Pancake it for all I care.”

I don’t have to do much, to be honest. The plates sort of decide between themselves that my clit is a massage ball, and they clamp the nerve bundles inside my poor little hood so much that I can’t help but moan in the deliciousness and debauchery of it all. Wave after exquisite wave shoots from my clit and splinters throughout the quivering flesh of my pussy.

I don’t want to climax. Not really. Not in front of Alice.

Greg eyes me in concern. Perhaps he’s thinking I’m enjoying my debasement a little too much. I catch his imploring eyes, and give an almost surreptitious shake of my head. Alice and Heather are too focused on the way the plates are jostling against my external genitals to notice, thank goodness.

My pussy creams are already soaking the finger of cloth inside my vagina, so I don’t know how much longer the rapidly drying dishcloth will continue to cling to me. Alice senses this.

“Oh, don’t worry. We can always re-soak it.” She smiles at me evilly. “You better be prepared for the long haul.”

She waves at the stack of plates, and my heart sinks.

Alice makes me clean all the plates that way, until my clefts are raw with overuse. My legs and thighs are shivering with being kept in that squatting position for so long. Heather finally removes the cloth, which – as I suspected – is soaked in my juices.

Alice says, “OK, Greg, you can help princess here down now. We’re going to the sun deck.”

No. No. I’m really too tired, I want to say, but I know I can’t. There’s nowhere in my contract that says I’m entitled to a modicum of sleep and rest. They can Gestapo-torture me with sleep-deprivation, and I’ll have to take it if I want to see my contractual money.

Yes, I know. I got myself into this.

Greg has to carry me off the table – I’m that shaky. He doesn’t ask me if I’m all right anymore. I’m not, and he knows it.

“Take her up, Greg. Heather, go get those whips.”

Dread pools in my stomach.

“Whips?” Heather asks.

“Those whips.”

“Oh.” Heather scrunches her face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“But I thought we’re not allowed to – ”

“Just do it, Heather. I’ll meet you up at the deck in five.”