0 comments/ 9716 views/ 0 favorites S/Y Princess Mala By: Aftermath_day_after Someone once claimed that I am insane. > "I've got you under my skin." (as made famous by Mr. Frank Sinatra) >> 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." S/Y Princess Mala Raised eyebrow. Smile. I hurried down to the cabin and released my sea bag, which was stowed under a bunk. A freeze bag became the house of the things from the freezer. "It seems alright to me!" Of course, Mala wouldn't have found anything wrong. There was nothing wrong. "Look again! I'll be right up!" Carrying the two bags and more than a bit excited, I entered the deck and walked slowly towards Mala, who was examining the sail meticulously. Without thinking of it, I had stopped walking and found myself looking at her. I closed my mouth and wiped my mouth – it seemed a bit misplaced to appear as a drooling fool. I was opting for a tad more authoritative first impression. I put the bags on either side of me and assumed a stable astride pose, arms crossed and waited for her; watched her fingers run along the edge of the sail, looking for irregularities; watched her examine the mast, its bolts and joints, the shrouds. Finally, she sighed and turned around towards me. It was obvious that she realized that her assignment to check on the sail had been a diversion. She hid a sudden spark in her eyes by looking down and avoided a full smile by biting her lip. "Look at me!" Short, clear messages. No shouting. No abuse. Just clarity. She met my eyes and I witnessed her look go from amused to curious to insecure. I started to undress; shirt, Bermudas, briefs. I was shielded by only the white bandage wrapped around my curious cock – it was swaying from side to side, half erect. Her eyes alternated between my mummified member and my eyes. By judging from the growing anxiety that radiated from her, I could tell that she had started to understand what I had in mind. Reciprocity. It works both ways. By definition. "Back against the mast. On your knees." She obeyed without a single word. Sat down on her heels, her head and shoulders rested against the mast. "Rise up on your knees with feet on either side of the mast. Grasp the back side of the mast with your hands!" She looked a little bit puzzled but she did what I told her promptly. "Good girl." With the sea bag in my hand, I hurried behind her. From the bag, I pulled a three feet cord and started to tie her hands together, arms behind her on either side of the mast. She would be able to move her arms up and down along the mast. She would, however, not be able to worm her wrists out of the ropes. I continued with her ankles. Another cord, a bit longer, legs on either side of the mast, ankles tied together. Finally, I took her long, dark, curly hair in my hand and braided it together with a third cord until the cord was integrated with her silky locks. The cord was tied to the very same rope that would hoist the sail and much similar, I pulled it until Mala's hair was stretched by the rig along the mast and with it, her head and entire torso. I was confident that she would stay the whole session. No matter what. "Are you comfortable?" "Yes Sir." "Good." "I understand if it is a bit awkward. Do you know why I have made you assume this position?" "P-punishment?" "No Mala, not punishment. Punishment implies that there's a lesson to be learned and there is none. No, I'm just planning for us to play for a little while." "Thank you, Sir." "Why do you thank me, Mala?" "I w-was afraid that you would be mad at me after yesterday." "Why would I be mad at you?" "Because I was so clumsy. I'm so so sorry." "Don't be sorry, Mala. If it weren't for yesterday, I would never have figured out the theme of today's session." "May I ask what you expect of me, Sir?" "I don't expect anything from you, Mala." "I don't understand, Sir." "Actually, I do expect one thing. I expect you to not pass out. That's the most important reason why I made an effort to give you this cute hairdo." I had walked around her and eyed her very carefully and had reached the freeze bag. "You see, I brought some toys..." I slid open the zipper of the freeze bag and presented it to Mala. For one or two seconds, she was unable to see what was really in there, but once she realized, it was quite apparent because she gasped and almost tore her hair off as she jerked away from the bag; away from me. She didn't get very far, I mused and smiled at her. There was true fear in her eyes. Don't think I had ever seen it before. I almost felt ashamed for actually enjoying the situation; her trepidation, my total control. Almost. It was a sheer coincidence that I found it, the 16th century Holbein dagger; forged in Switzerland by the finest craftsman available; used by a century of mercenaries; mint condition, unmatched quality of the steel, daunting but beautiful; and sharp, not like the cut throat razor, but pretty damn close. The auctioneer did not know what he was selling. His bad. Nevertheless, I had kept it as a lucky charm for a good decade. It lay half-covered by ice and the cold had given the blade a grayish cover of mist. I cleared the ice from the knife and eventually I picked it up and wagged it before Mala's face. "I have this theory... I put this dagger on ice because I figure that it will work as a sort of anesthetic. Numb the nerves by the incision. What do you think?" Mala was unable to speak. Pearls of sweat had broken out on her forehead and her breathing was shallow. "Then again, this instrument is extremely sharp, so any cuts will be very clean. Possibly won't hurt a thing. Try?" Mala twitched and whimpered. I pointed the dagger at the inside of my forearm and let the broadside touch the skin. The frozen blade immediately stuck on the skin and when I lifted the knife again, the skin was pulled with it. "Don't lick this steel, baby." No laughter. No smile. I released the blade from my skin by a short tug but didn't remove it from the proximity of my forearm. Instead, I pointed the sharp end towards my arm. Slowly, I pressed the tip of the knife against the skin until I felt the skin breaking. True, it didn't hurt a thing; thus far my theory seemed validated. All the time, I felt Mala's wide open eyes on me; she had started to tremble and her skin had goose bumps as though she was freezing despite the rather comfortable temperature. She hissed when I made a twitch with my wrist and let the tip of the knife cut an inch-long slit in my arm. Damn, I've got a tendency to let my emotions rush away. I realized that I had become far more excited than what was good for me. The incision had become both deeper and longer than intended. Well, what was done was done. A quick look at Mala convinced me that my self-mutilation had had a profound effect on her. Her face had lost all of its color and her eyes watered. Breathing was rapid; even irregular. The braided hair hoisted in the mast served its purpose. Several times she jerked and straightened her back after having sunk together as if she had tried to huddle, escape or, perhaps, simply go to sleep. When I looked down at my arm, I hoped that my face wasn't going pale too. The cut was indeed deep and blood was if not flowing, at least trickling generously down my arm towards my wrist. I let the dagger shift hands and dipped my right index finger in the blood and served it to Mala's lips. Her first instinct was to press her lips together but I insisted and after a brief moment, she parted her lips. Even licked my finger. Tentatively at first, then increasingly greedily. My turn to get goose bumps. The mini-me mummy had also come to life and was scouting, only the head visible. "You've got too much clothes, darling." Sure. A cotton summer skirt over a bikini. Maybe it concealed her most intimate parts but definitely not her figure. Nonetheless, I wouldn't have her any other way but naked. Once again, the dagger glimmered in the sunlight before I gripped her dress and started to cut it in the front. The thin fabric slit easily under the sharp blade and the garments fell open; chest, stomach, mound, hips. A few extra cuts and everything she had on were hanging in shreds. It took no effort to peel off the rest and throw it astern. With some satisfaction, I concluded that I had managed to slice her clothes to pieces without cutting Mala's skin even once. Nevertheless, Mala was again shaking amid the presence of the sharp knife. Tears had begun to show on her cheek. My heart was almost broken. Time for yet another piece of equipment. "Was the sight of blood uncomfortable?" "Yes Sir, a b-bit..." "So I figured... This might help." I presented a dark blue scarf from the sea bag. I had almost forgotten about it, but I had decided that it was imperative that she wore a blindfold. Mala swallowed hard. I could see it in her eyes that she was thinking of protesting. She had never been a great fan of blindfolds even though she would normally accept it if I asked very nicely. This time I was not asking, but simply tied the scarf around her head, over her eyes. She stiffened and started to move her lips. "What are you going to do?" "What do you mean, darling?" "This is getting a bit creepy, J." "Tsk, tsk... where's my brave girl?" "I told you I was sorry..." "And I told you there was nothing to be sorry about..." "See? That's what I mean: CREEPY!" I didn't really like where this discussion was going. I had two options: Call the whole thing off, or take it to the next level. I decided on the latter. Gripped her chin and leaned towards her. Whispering in her ear, I said to her: "Darling Mala, do you trust me?" I had no idea what she would respond. Honestly, I had not planned to ask such a pivotal question at all but rather tell her that she was tied up and could not move but an inch or so; that she had already submitted to me; that I was all powerful. I looked in her face. She seemed so very fragile. Her lips trembled and although the scarf shielded her eyes, I could tell that tears were running. "Yes." No more. No less. Carefully I put the dagger back in the freezer bag and made sure it was covered in ice. The cold was important, as my little experiment had illustrated. Took a deep breath. Once I started, I would be running against the clock. The window of opportunity was open for only a brief moment before I would need to stop; before it'd be over. Second thoughts? None. * It felt as though the ice cold object was burning my hand. The sharp edge reflected the sunlight in all directions over the deck; icy rays of white light. I let the reflection touch her chest, circle her breasts, around her stiff nipples – the fact that she was excited amused me; let the beam of light run the very same distance that I intended the point to take. Blood still trickled from the cut in my arm and I dipped the point in it in a sudden streak of gothic mysticism. Somehow the symbolic act seemed appropriate. Or at least a bit amusing; mixed blood, eternal bonds, beginning and end. The painting of a picture on her torso, her limbs, her soul. She gave up a shriek when I let the edge very lightly touch the skin of her chest, just above her bosoms. Pressed just a tad harder; Mala held her breath as I let the icy knife slide in an arc over the breast, forming something of a brow. Next breast, yet another brow, even swifter. Both of my first two brushstrokes appeared to be crying. Tiny drops merging into threads, outlining the curves of her breasts. Again I dipped my index finger in the blood and touch her lips. This time she didn't hesitate but hungrily devoured my finger until I pulled it back, at which she moaned, lips puckered. The eyes: I let the peak circle her nipples, once, twice without touching; the third time I let the edge of the peak trail her areola. The nipples immediately responded, stiffened, trembled, and stretched out as though they were searching for contact. They made close contact with the icy dagger. Her response was instant. Again a cry echoed over the lagoon, our natural haven. Once and again she tugged her constraints, which immediately made her moan as her hair was viciously pulled by the rig. The more Mala wringed, the more she moaned, the more excited I got, the more feverishly did I brush her skin with the icy peak. The more feverishly did my cock try to crawl out of its constraining bandage; the glans shone purple and looked as if it would explode any second. The painting of other features of the torso-face I was sculpting led Mala to continuously breathe out a guttural whimper that seemed to swing from desperate moans of anguish and fear to excited shrieks of perverted excitement. Cheekbones, nose, erase, redo, mouth, lips, chin. I was in frenzy. The trails of my icy pencil shone on her undulating body; every single muscle in her abdomen appeared to be vibrating. Delicate carves, points, details creating a wholeness; soft impressionism. Swift strokes. Right to left, up and down. The angles, the power; increasingly expressionistic. The frosty point had gained a life of its own. I was merely a passive supporter, following its lead whereas Mala was the very purpose of its existence. It continued downwards, over her belly. It was slippery and it wasn't without a bit of an effort that I could still keep the thing in my hand. Continuously downward. Was this the Grand finale? The painting of flowers around her sex? The re-sculpting of her most intimate parts? The ultimate mutilation? Her tension intensified to the point where she froze and held her breath. Her whimpering, moaning, shivering vanished. Then she sighed and relaxed. A long deliberating exhalation. I looked at her and she smiled her wonderfully warm smile. "Do you want me to take away the blindfold?" "Yes please, darling." "How long have you known?" "Only just now." I liberated her from the scarf around her head. She winked several times as she adjusted to the sudden bright light. Then she tried to look down but the rig holding her hair stretched hindered her. "Please?" I released the rope somewhat. This game wasn't quite over yet. Her chest, belly and thighs were soaked in the pinkish liquid created by the blend of my blood and the melted ice dagger. The dagger of ice. The icicle. I showed her what was left of the peak in my hand. The piece of ice had transformed from a sharp, very sharp, dagger-like frosty saber into a three inch watery lump; still cold and rigid but hardly the ominous weapon it had been only five minutes ago. Shallow breath had turned heavy and wanton. The twitchy responses to my every touch had turned invitingly sinuating. I had moved the lump of ice below her belly button; the shimmering moisture covering her swollen lips was not caused by melted water, I was sure. Brushed the ice over her mound. Gasp. Moan. Of pleasure. Of excitement. Of arousal. More than a brush; the icy dildo slid between her lips. I moved it slowly all the way from her stomach, through her slit, to her warm and alluring entrance, and back up again. Down, up, repeating the tour. Slowly her breathing turned shallower again; increasingly erratic; twitchier movements. Closer. Closer. Let my left hand follow the cold trail of the ice, letting the warmth of my palm, my fingers leveling up the chill. The effect was profound – Mala's hips shot out towards me and her pussy seemed to be screaming for even more attention, a more intensive caress, a deeper penetration. I obliged and entered her with my fingers while I sucked her taste from the piece of ice. Edged closer to her, looked in her eyes; brushed her lips with the scented icicle and she readily put her lips around it and sucked it. She moaned as I moved my fingers inside her; pushed deeper. Her eyes were pleading for more. Her whole being was pleading for more. I leaned towards her, arm around her, pulling her to me – me to her – and kissed her while my fingers massaged her pussy from the inside. Held the kiss; affectionate, increasingly passionate, wet, hungry. Despite her constraints, despite her fragility and exposed posture, Mala embraced me as fiercely as I held her; with her warmth, with her aura that was vibrating around us. Glued together, our tongues danced fiery through our kiss. Her tense trembling gave evidence of her raising climax and I let my fingers move friskier, rhythmically meeting her thrusting hips. Crescendo. Acceleration. Driven by primitive lust. Faster. Harder. More. Climax. Her whole body cramped, and I felt how her vagina clenched my fingers in a violent orgasm, flooding my hand with warm juices. Our lips were still fused in a feverish kiss. The sound of our moaning voices blending together in a raw, animalistic roar. Spasms. Twitches. Undulations. Waves. Gentle caresses. Feathery strokes. Kisses. Smiles. Looks. Laughter. Calmness? Not quite. The Mummy was never as aggressive as it was right now. Almost breaking its bandages, my cock was shivering erect and achingly swollen. The crown had ballooned and had obtained a dark bluish purple color. Mala licked her lips. Grinned mischievously, which gave rise to an almost hilarious impression: The tortured victim of a medieval witch hunt, tied to the pole, waiting for the flames to engorge her, all the while leering at her persecutors. Hilarious because the sun was shining, gulls were laughing, and because the Mummy was crying for attention. There's no question as to what is my most sensitive erogenous zone; it's the frenulum, or rather the whole area on the low side of the glans, from the opening to where the shaft and crown meet. Even more so, a soft tongue's wet laving this area will make my toes crumble and fingers go numb from loss of blood as though every centiliter is needed to fill my erection. Admittedly, it's not quite that large. But I can only state my true and honest impression. So, in essence an ideal stimulation of me that should take me to a swift and gorgeously explosive orgasm would be to concentrate on this area. In theory. Not that simple. Somehow, my body requires a constant intensification of the stimuli to take me all the way to ejaculation. Intensification in the sense that although not as sensitive, more parts of my body need to take part of the action. Equally important is the dynamics; the movement, the surprising shifts, the pressure, the... Do you catch my drift? The out of control experience. A concentrated effort on only my cock head will have different effects depending on where I am; foreplay – bliss, mid-fucking – frustration, at the very edge of orgasm – release. The purple ball that Mala was looking at was lubricated by pre cum; every breath led to an involuntary twitch led to a new overflow of clear liquid from the opening. Her mouth was open, lips beckoning to the bandaged cock to come closer, to enter her warm and eager mouth. The Mummy said hello and entered. And it was heaven. Wet tongue circling, lapping the pre cum from the smooth surface; playing, toying, teasing. Then lips closing. Carefully. Gently. Suckling, all the time her tongue swirling round, round, round. My fingers dug into her hair and I had to fight my urge to hold her head steady and thrust my cock down her throat but let her suck the swollen part that was not covered in bandages. My knees barely managed to hold me upright and I moaned; no I cried out loud in frustrated pleasure as I could feel the familiar but yet so distant feeling of a rising climax held away on the other side of a seemingly endless plateau. I had reached a level just next to orgasm, next to ejaculation, and Mala's sucking mouth and frenzied tongue pinned me to this level; not letting me drop off, not driving me further into a releasing ejaculation. A denied orgasm was never more tantalizing. Suddenly, the boat rocked; a wave passed the lagoon – maybe a large ship had passed by far away, maybe it was a crest of mercy by the gods. Off balance for a brief moment, I stumbled. Rather than letting go, Mala closed her mouth a bit harder around my cock, as if to keep me from falling (dreadful thought). S/Y Princess Mala This was the releasing impulse: A moment's imbalance, thoughts elsewhere for a split second and a tad more pressure on my cock. Eruption. Explosion. Bells and whistles. Let the analogies flow: I came in a violent orgasm and my ejaculation shot hard into Mala's mouth. Again, Mala's reaction was not to pull away, but close her lips more firmly around my twitching crown, greedily gulping burst after burst of warm semen. An echo reached my ears and I realized that I heard my own scream of passion. * We did not move for several days – the weather gods must have experienced our exhausting climax and decided to hibernate – but remained at anchor in the lagoon; cuddling, swimming, exhausting food supplies. Making love. Judiciously careful at first but steadily increasingly passionate – the sea water did marvels to the eschars on my genitals. Planning; new trips, new adventures, new kinks. Sea burial: Straight razor, brush and soap, bowl, strop, Swaty hone. They all rest at the bottom of the sea. Rest in peace. (ends)