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Whale of a Tale

By: WRJames



Martin woke up and assumed that he was in Heaven. At least, he hoped it was Heaven and not the alternative. Dying had been a disappointment, not at all what he had expected. No tunnel of light, no welcoming messenger, no flashback to events of this life or any former ones. Just the shock of the southern ocean, the impact of the rogue wave that had swept him overboard, his last sight the screaming face of his wife as she had reached to save him, tried to grab him, and perhaps had joined him in the icy depths.

They had been so close, so close. The evil Japanese whaling ship had been no more than ten feet away, close enough to smell it, close enough that he could hear the curses of the sailors, even over the roar of the waves. Of course, boarding it would have been problematic even with cooperation, in those heavy seas. The side of the larger ship was moving up and down at least twenty feet, in a cycle that lasted not more than five or six seconds. Still, he had been reaching out with the grappling hook, trying to make contact. On the other ship they had been brandishing big poles, trying to push him away. And Bob, from BBC, had been faithfully recording it all -- he'd even been on satellite phone, live back to London, commenting on Martin's heroic, foolhardy attempt to turn back the whaling fleet.

He probably had not saved a single whale, but he had managed to kill himself in the process. And his wife, what had happened to her? He had the sick realization that she might have been clinging to him as he had hit the water. After that -- nothing. Either he had passed out, or his mind had simply stopped recording, or the memory had been lost. Well, perhaps it was for the best. There are some things best left unknown.

We all die some time, somehow. Why not do it in a heroic, foolish way? Better than the way his parents had died, his mother so much younger than his father, dying first, unexpectedly, of cancer, her mind perfectly lucid to the end, while her body disintegrated into a mass of pain, or his father, body perfectly healthy, mind completely absent. Both had withered slowly into points, not slowly enough, outliving any reason to prolong their existence. Twenty-seven, he was going to be thirty soon, middle age was setting in. Wasn't there more and more hair in his comb each time? Little love handles, a layer of thick skin obscuring the stippled beauty of his abs? And his wife, all she was talking about was having a baby, how it was time to settle down, get a job, buy a house, an SUV, a dog. His life was over, in any case. He had talked her into this one last, great adventure, three months to save the whales, before he settled into the long slow glide to damnation.

And now he'd gone and killed himself. His wife too, most likely. So, it was time to find out what happened next. So far, Heaven was not what he had expected. It was very dark. It wasn't very warm. He was lying on his stomach on a rather hard mattress, a thin sheet or blanket on his back not doing much to ward off the cold. He thought that he was naked, but when he tried to feel his body, he found that his hands were bound somehow, up above his head. Feet bound too, when he tried to shift them. There was something covering his eyes and ears -- a sleeping mask, perhaps. He could not see anything, hear anything. He wasn't going anywhere. Someone had made very sure he wasn't leaving the bed, or whatever it was.

His muscles were moving, all on their own. He felt as if he were swimming. Images of the ocean depths flooded with brain. He was a penguin, flying effortlessly through the icy waters. Maybe he wasn't dead. Maybe what he was seeing was real. Perhaps, he was spurting under sea. He had suffered a sea change. He was a merman, a marine Marty. Then, something told him that he was a mermaid, with cute little breasts just budding, and he tried to feel them, but he had no hands, only flippers. Mercifully, the nightmare ended and he sank once more into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke again. Something was pressing at his lips. A feeding tube! He remembered with despair how both his parents, at the end, had fought off the feeding tubes. God! He wasn't dead! Not yet! But he was not going to live that way! He tried to clamp his jaw shut, and discovered that he could not. Something was holding it open. He was forced to swallow whatever was being injected into his mouth. He managed to taste a bit of it on the way down --- sweet, tangy, not too bad.

The blanket slid away, letting a cold draft hit his bare skin. The mattress shifted with the weight of another body, and he felt hands on his shoulders, kneading sore muscles -- strong hands, expert hands that knew how to work out the knots. The hands worked lower, down his back, then further onto the back of his legs. Above the hands, lips were kissing his cheeks, teeth were giving him little nibbles. Oh, he did this to his wife, just to torment her, just to make her squirm at the thought of where the next nibble, the next kiss, might be planted. But it never happened. She would lock her legs together and roll over to make sure it landed somewhere more appropriate,

But now, he didn't have that option. He realized how wide apart his legs were spread, but he could do nothing to draw them together. The hands moved higher, rubbing his ass, spreading the cheeks wider still, and the kisses worked their way inexorably downward and inward. He was moaning, in protest or pleasure. The kisses moved down, past the danger zone, to the back of his balls, and he almost relaxed. Then there was a lick, right on his asshole, fingers urging it open. He gasped as he felt a tongue attempt to invade him. It tickled. The fingers were scratching him, trying to pull him open, to make room for the tongue. The chin behind it was chafing him, giving him beard burn.

He gave a little whimper of discontent, the best he could do through the gag, and the tongue withdrew. He felt the warm pressure of another body on his back, kisses now on his neck, then a sharp bony finger where the tongue had been before. He squirmed a little in protest, but the finger kept shoving in, rubbing, probing, just like at the doctor's. His wife would try that sometimes, when she was giving him a blow job, but he had never really enjoyed it. Usually it was a sign that she was getting really impatient, and it was time to move on to something more interesting. The finger withdrew, and softer, thicker flesh pushed into its place. He had no doubt that it was a penis, a real one, not a dildo. He could feel it pressing, pressing, straining against him, then, suddenly, forcing its way through the barrier of his inner ring in a burst of pain. He groaned, and the flesh within him froze, letting him twitch around it. There were more kisses on his neck, hands stroking his lower back. Slowly, he relaxed. The twitching stopped. The pain began to subside. 

He felt the body above him moving, pressing down on him. The flesh within his bowels was sliding back and forth. He realized dimly that he was being fucked.

Certainly, it had to be a rape. He was blindfolded, bound and gagged, completely helpless. Even if he had been able to move, he was so weak from his ordeal, so disoriented, that he would have been defenseless. A rape, no doubt about it. He would never have consented to such a thing. His wife had seen some stuff on pegging on the internet, and she had been teasing him about going after him with a strapon. She'd even said once she'd do anal if he would. But even that hadn't been enough to entice him. There was no way. Her finger was enough to make him squirm. And now he had an actual penis up his butt. He was being brutally raped. 

The only thing was, it wasn't all that brutal. It was slow, gentle, cuddly. He liked it. He liked the feeling of that other body rubbing against his back. His wife would do that sometimes, caressing him with her breasts, but it always wound up with him turning around. There was nothing much more she could do behind him like that. But now there was something, a very interesting something, a terrifying, exhilarating something. He had always wondered what it was like to be fucked, what his wife was feeling, on the other end, as he was driving himself into her. Now he knew. He was starting to like it. He wanted more. He squirmed a little, but only to push his butt up, to try to open himself wider. He could feel bone against him now. There wasn't going to be any more. The body behind him began to move a little faster, pulling almost all the way out, beyond the inner ring, letting it close, then forcing its way back through. It hurt each time, but in an interesting way. He was starting to look forward to that little burst of pain, that scratch for an itch he had never known he had. Then it stopped hurting. 

Then it stopped completely. All that was left was a dull ache, like blue balls only deeper, and sweat, maybe not his own sweat, on his back.

He felt a pin prick on his shoulder. He was very drowsy again. The blankets were on his back once more. That was the last thing he remembered.

* * * *

"How are you feeling?"

She had expected to see the doctor, that skinny little French faggot, but instead it was Bob. Blonde, beautiful Bob with the big fluffy beard, and the little bald spot like a skull cap. 

Feeling, how was she feeling? She tested her limbs. They were stiff, but all moving. Fingers, toes, wrists, ankles, knees, hips, shoulders -- they were all intact as far as she could tell. "A little stiff. Cold."

"Monsieur Le Doc says nothing broken. Yes, you will be cold. You took a little ocean dip."

"I did? Oh, my God! Marty!" It all came back to her in a rush.

"Gone, my dear."

"Gone?" She tried to fathom it. "Gone," she repeated. "How long?"

"Two days."

"Two days? I've been asleep for two days?" She felt bionic. There were little tubes sticking up into her nostrils, presumably delivering oxygen. Her left arm was swathed in tape, anchoring a long tube attached to an IV drip bag. Something was taped to her left index finger. A wire led over to a monitor, a green line that jumped into a squiggle each time her heart beat. A cuff on her bicep contracted painfully, and another monitor reported her blood pressure, presumably, in metric units that meant nothing to her. She was wearing some sort of band around her head also. Brain waves, they were checking to see if she had brain waves. Judging by that screen, apparently not. 

"We weren't sure you were ever going to wake up. We had to warm you back up very slowly." 

She realized that she had bags packed all around her, bags of water. Not particularly warm water, at that. Bob had his tiny little digital camera out. He was taking a video of her. He pulled back the blankets to get a better shot of the bags. She squirmed, as she realized she was naked. He shifted a couple of bags to cover her nipples and her crotch, and resumed filming.

"You can't put that on the air, can you?"

"Possibly. Someone will edit out the nasty bits." He gave her a predatory smile.

"Nasty bits?" She sat up to retrieve the blanket. It had somehow fallen completely off the bottom of the bed, down onto the floor, out of reach. Of course, that meant that the bags that had covered her breasts were dislodged.

"Well, of course, I don't think they're nasty at all." He was openly leering at her now. She probably wasn't looking her best, mummified with tape and tubes. After two weeks at sea though, any woman probably looked pretty tasty. Weren't there stories about sailors fantasizing that seals and dolphins were women -- wasn't that where mermaids had come from?

She had not realized what she was getting into. It was a mixed crew, Marty had assured her, there would be other women on board. Nothing to worry about, just like a cruise. But it wasn't like a cruise, not at all. A cruise lasted a week, with thousands of people aboard. There were only ten of them, and they had been together for two weeks now, on this tiny little ship where there was really no privacy, no way to escape constantly bumping into the same people all the time. And there was only one other woman, part of an older married couple. The two of them had felt as if they were under siege, from the first day they had stepped on board. 

She reached down over the edge of the bed for the blanket, but it was too far away. The various things she had tied to her were holding her back. All that accomplished was the dislodgment of the bag that had been covering her pussy. She lay back in exasperation. She could have closed her legs, covered her breasts with her hands. She probably should have done those things, but she didn't. Instead, she pouted. "You could be a gentleman and hand me the blanket."

"There are better ways to keep you warm, my dear." He was pulling off that thick fisherman's sweater. Funny, she had never seen him without it. The torso beneath it was surprisingly scrawny. It reminded her of the time her cat had fallen into the toilet. He was wearing a tee shirt beneath. He didn't bother with that. He just casually pulled off his pants, boxers along with them, and stepped out of them as they hit the floor. There was one part of him that wasn't skinny at all.

"Bob, wait, I'm ..."

"You're what?" He had crawled beside her, half on top of her, kissing her breasts, but he kissed her on the mouth to stop her protests. "You're what? Married? You are not married any more, my dear."

"Bob, please ..."

"Please what? This has been coming for a long time. You know it. I know it. We both know it."

"No!" She felt him half heartedly attempting to penetrate her, and she squirmed away. Bob's bravado seemed to be terminating at his waist. He wasn't exactly going to batter his way in. No, just like poor dead Marty, he was going to need a little help -- a nice blowjob, and she would have to be loose and ready for him.

"No, what? Sharon, you are not married any longer. There is no reason to deny yourself, any longer."

"It's not that. I can't do it, not like this."

"Yes you can. See." Somehow, he had stiffened, somehow, he had managed to penetrate her, after all. How long had it been since anyone but Marty had fucked her? How long, for that matter, had it been since Marty had done it? Too long. He started to move, and it seemed completely normal. He was, perhaps, a tad bigger than Marty. She felt him stretching her, pushing down into places Marty had never reached. He was all the way to the bottom, pressing at her cervix, ready to part it, ready to shoot his seed directly into her womb.

Then, too late perhaps, she woke up. "No!" She kicked him, pushed him away from her. "Stop! Not like this!"

"What's the matter!? Bob's face was a mask of horror. "Sharon, for the sake of God, you can't leave me like this!" He would have thrust back into her, but she had rolled herself into a ball, legs pressed tight together.

"You're not wearing a rubber."

"My dear." Bob had recovered enough that his tone was sardonic. "I assure you that I am quite free of nasty little diseases. Even were I not, we have already been quite thoroughly exposed to each other."

"You don't understand!"

"You have AIDS?" Bob was wilting rapidly at that thought.

"No, asshole, I do not have fucking AIDS." Sharon rolled out of fetal position, sat up to glare at him. "It's just that I'm not on any birth control."

"What?" That thought seem just as unsettling. "You and Marty were planning to have a child?"

"I was." She could not hide her bitterness. "We've been, I've been, tempting fate for quite a while now."

"Did he know?" Bob sat down on the bed next to her, put an arm around her. 

She shook her head, and started to cry. "I'm sorry," she said, and caught herself. Sorry for what, that he couldn't finish raping her? What bullshit! But she was, genuinely, sorry. She'd been flirting with Bob for a while now. He was the only one that had any attraction at all for her. Not that it would have amounted to more than that. She never would have betrayed her marriage vows. But now she was a widow. A merry widow. Two days and she was already off and running. Really, about five minutes of consciousness. Somewhere in the great beyond, Marty was probably really, really pissed at her. She felt a brief spasm of guilt. 

Then Bob took off his tee shirt, and she decided he really wasn't all that scrawny after all. He was wiry strong, each muscle fully defined, like an anatomy book. She reached over to touch his cock, slippery now with her desire. "I can give you a nice blow job," she offered.

"I can't come that way." He was turning her over onto her side, lying down behind her back.

"What are you doing?" Everything seemed dreamy, unreal. She realized, dimly, that there must be a sedative in that drip. She should have been freaking out completely. Well, hadn't she wanted to try it up the ass? She had dropped hints to Marty, which he had ignored completely. What was she supposed to do, blurt out "fuck me up my fucking asshole," like in the porn movies?

"Yes, my dear, if you put it like that. Of course, that is exactly what I intend to do."

She realized with horror that she had actually said it aloud. She started to explain that she hadn't really meant it, but her protests were lost in a gasp as she felt him invade her. Wasn't it supposed to hurt? It wasn't hurting much at all. It just felt -- strange. Stranger still as he pressed in deeper, filling her completely, pushing through the end of her rectum and on into her bowels. She could feel his thighs flat against her, as he lay there, almost motionless, just relishing how completely he had impaled her.

"Are you going to do something?" Men chose the strangest moments to decide to get cuddly. She was lying on her left arm, the one with the IV, and she could feel the needle biting into her. Her right leg was already starting to go to sleep. The tape attached to her finger had slipped off, and the pulse monitor had flat lined. God only knew what her brain waves were doing. Or her blood pressure. The dick up her ass was the least of her worries. Let's get on with it! But he was snuggling against her, running his hands around the base of his penis to confirm just how deeply he had plunged within her.

"Eventually, my dear." He wiggled in and out just a little, just enough to make her wonder how interesting it would be if he wiggled a bit harder. "It's been a long time getting here. I'm going to relish the moment."

"I'm getting cold."

"Oh, very well." And he withdrew completely, he got off the bed, retrieved the blanket, draped it over her, crawled in beside her, a stuck himself back up her asshole, as casually as if they had done it all a hundred times before. "Better?"

He was just lying there again, moving almost imperceptibly. "Bob, are you planning on fucking me any time soon?"

"I believe, my dear, that I am doing that at this very moment."

"Could, you like, pick up the pace?"

"Are you in a hurry? You are planning on going somewhere? Personally, I don't have much else planned for the afternoon, do you? I am going to slowly work myself up to a point where all my flesh is glowing, and just hold it there. You should try it, my dear. It's a wonderful way to pass the time."

So she did. She tried to concentrate on each little thrust, the way it felt as his flesh slid through the valves at the end of her rectum, the way it was pressing against the sweet spot in her vagina. After a while, she gave up on that and reached down with her free hand to bring herself off, as if she were by herself, the way she did some nights with Marty snoring beside her. Then she dozed off.

* * * * 

He reached a point of awareness again. He could not be sure, really, if he was awake. What was happening to him? He tried to work through the possibilities. He was dead. This was his near death experience. Beyond that, this was his afterlife, some eternal limbo where he would drift alone, gradually giving up the remnants of his sanity. He wasn't dead yet. He was still in the icy waters of the southern ocean, waiting to die. Hypothermia had put him into a dream state. Well, this was one hell of a dream. If this was a repressed fantasy, it had been pretty well repressed. 


Whale of a Tale



His thoughts were interrupted by something pressing against his lips. The feeding tube, he sighed, and he resigned himself to the indignity of it. Some dim memory told him that this had happened many times before, that he was used to it, expecting it, his stomach almost growling in anticipation. The tube withdrew after a couple of minutes, and he was still waiting. For what? Something soft and firm was brushing against his lips, sliding over his tongue. There was no doubt it was a penis. Well, he should have expected it. He was expecting it. He thought dimly that this, too, had happened many times before. There was nothing he could do to resist it. Moby, it was Moby Dick. Moby was pushing against the back of his throat. Without thinking, he relaxed to let it slide through into his esophagus. Deep throating. His wife had tried that once, and managed to puke all over him. But he was doing it quite easily. He was used to it. It wasn't long before he felt Moby spouting once again.

It was time to go back to sleep, time to forget again. But something different was happening this time. He felt pain on his wrists. Hands. He and almost forgotten he had hands. He thought that, perhaps, he had lost them, hands and feet, that he was like a whale now, smooth and sleek, drifting in a soft, hazy sea. But he had feet, too. He could feel his legs being tugged. It had been so long since they had moved that the joints had almost solidified. Pain at his mouth, and the gag was gone! Almost, he could not get his jaw to close, it was so frozen in position. But, after a moment, he managed to feel teeth against teeth, he managed to swallow properly. Then, tugging against his ears, and the mask was removed! He could hear, he could see! Well, he would be able to see if he could figure out how to open his eyes. They were pasted shut with mucous. But he could hear, deep mechanical rumblings and grindings. And even with his eyelids closed, he could sense the harsh brightness around him.

"Thank you," he managed to murmur, "thank you."

That provoked a sardonic chuckle, then, a sharp cracking sound, and a burst of pain on his rump. He yelped in protest. That only provoked a second crack. "Open your eyes!"

He managed to do that, finally. Everything was a hazy blur of overwhelming light. At last, he began to make sense of it. He was in a silver room, roof, walls, floor, all of polished stainless steel. In front of him was a little man, oriental features, in the brightest white clothing he had ever seen. An angel, it had to be an angel. The angel was holding a small riding crop. Maybe it was a demon, instead.

"I am First Officer Isuku." The angel spoke, with a slight accent. "The doctor has informed me that you are well enough now to begin your training for phase two."

"My name is Mar..." He was interrupted by another lash on his buttocks.

"Your name is of no importance. In any case, we are well enough aware of it. Your tragic death has been the source of considerable inconvenience to us."

"My death?" 

He was half expecting another blow for his impertinence. Instead, the little officer gave him a cruel smile. "Your death. You are a dead man, as far as the rest of world is concerned."

"A dead man."

"Yes. You are a martyr to the cause of whale preservation. A saint, almost. Your widow's poignant grief has been a source of inspiration to the world. You have also been a source of considerable expense to us."

"I'm sure my insurance would cover most of it."

"Insurance!" That provoked another slash, this time at his back. A voice behind him said something sharply in Japanese, and the officer handed over the crop. "A dead man does not have insurance."

"But I'm not dead. Why don't you just ..." He winced as the officer reached to slap his cheeks. The man behind him, though, grabbed the officer's wrists, restraining him.

"The time has passed," a voice behind him said, "when we could do that."

"How much time?" Martin was almost afraid to ask.

"Six weeks," the officer snarled. 

"You can understand," the man behind him said, "why it would be awkward to suddenly reveal your existence. Questions would be raised. And, of course, the alterations in your physique ..."

"You're the one at fault, Dr. Ito. You're the one who wanted a subject for your little experiment."

"What alterations?" Marty reached down reflexively to his groin. He still had his balls, he still had his dick. Then his hands worked upward. They were cupping perky little breasts.

"Whale fat is very high in estrogen. We have been studying its effect on a human subject."

:"The doctor's idea."

"You did not discourage it. You have been having sex with him at every opportunity."

"Sex?" Martin broke in. "You've been fucking me in my sleep?"

"Of course," the officer sneered. "We are going to continue fucking you, now that we have allowed you to awaken."

"Over my dead body."

"If that is the way you prefer it." The officer was starting to take off those radiantly white clothes. "Let me explain the situation to you. You have a choice. You can be cooperative, and achieve a relative degree of freedom. Or, you will be placed in restraints. If you are cooperative, we may perhaps be able to sell you into a brothel when we return to Japan, and your existence may perhaps continue for a while longer. Who knows, you may eventually be able to return to your former life. What happens after you leave us is of no concern to us. If you do not cooperate, we will dump you into the ocean far enough off shore that your body will never be discovered."

"You have not explained the situation exactly," the doctor said. "We have kept you in a passive state, initially to facilitate your recovery, but later as an experiment."

"An experiment?"

"To determine how well we could maintain physical function in such a state of near coma. Your muscles have been stimulated electronically. We have taken steps to maintain, even improve, your cardiovascular health, and your body mass index."

"And you've been using me as a sex toy?"

"Well, yes. To a modest extent. Merely as a preliminary to phase two. We now want to document how well your body will function under normal circumstances."

"You forgot to tell him about the collar."

"A yes, the collar. We have adapted it, from the ones we use to track marine mammals. I believe, in your country, you have electric fences for dogs?"

"Yes." Martin felt his neck.

"This works on the same principle," the doctor said. "But it is much more sophisticated. Do not attempt to remove it. It has been surgically implanted. It has electrodes attached directly into your nerves. The battery recharges itself on the thermal energy of your metabolism."

"Observe." The officer went over to a set of controls and adjusted them. Martin convulsed with unbearable pain. "If you attempt to leave this room, the pain level will mount as you move away. Within ten feet, it will kill you. Do you understand? If you disobey, you will be punished. Do you understand?"

Martin nodded. 

"Good. We are going to give you two weeks of rehabilitation and physical training. Then you will begin your duties."

"My duties?"

"You will be servicing the crew. During the training period, officers only."

"Servicing?" He didn't get a response. It was obvious what those services were going to be. "How many?"

"Thirty. There will be three shifts of ten, and of course you will normally be doing two at a time. Each shift will take about an hour. The rest of the day you will be expected to sleep and exercise."

"And if I refuse?"

"We will simply return you to phase one. Really, you have no choice." 

There was a commotion behind him, a blast of cold air, the sound of several feet on the metal floor. Someone with a voice of authority said something in Japanese, and the doctor answered back in that language, a friendly enough response. The next exchange, though, was not so friendly. "He has not commenced his phase two training!" The doctor said it in English. Martin realized he was being warned.

The other voice roared something imperious. "The captain is saying that he will commence the training himself." The first officer was whispering this to Marty. He sounded very worried. "If you are not acceptable, we will all suffer terrible consequences." There was a pleading tone in his voice.

The captain was standing in front of him, pants pulled down, penis at best half ready. Martin considered his options. He could bite the guy's balls off. He and the doctor and the first officer would be whale bait. Or, he could play for time. He licked those balls, he kissed them, he took the little cock into his mouth and let it slide as far back is it could. 

"Excellent!" He could hear the doctor's sigh of relief. "You will be most satisfactory."

* * * *

"It's so nice of you to invite me over like this." Sharon looked around the stateroom with some envy. This was the one place in the little ship she had never been -- Ben and Maria's room. Well, that wasn't quite true. She had never been into the bedroom of that little French fag who called himself a doctor, and his creepy little partner. "Wow," she added, "this is really nice."

"We've tried," Maria said. Somehow, they had overcome the sterile barren look of the rest of the ship. There were curtains over the porthole, a nice quilt covering the bed. There were paintings on the wall, religious ones, saints and the Virgin Mary. There was a bronze cross over the bedstead. On the dresser, photos of their children, both at least Sharon's age, a very pretty girl on a wedding dress, and a young man in a military uniform. Going to be an astronaut, she had heard, and he had that look to him. The bed was made, the floor was polished, nothing was out of place. On the little table to the side, three glasses of wine were waiting for them. Sharon felt as if she were about to take Communion.

Ben and Maria had kept more or less to themselves, right from the start of the journey. But that had been even more pronounced since Marty's demise, since the media frenzy that had followed it. Strange, how you could be world famous and totally isolated at the same time. Just an hour ago, Sharon and Bob had appeared on a morning news show, back in the UK, via satellite of course. Yet none of them had been in contact with a human being off the ship for over a month now.

Of course, Sharon had been in considerable contact with some of the human beings on that ship, and she had felt Maria's silent disgust at her behavior, eroding the tentative friendship that had bonded them as maidens of virtue fighting off the siege of male lust. They really had not talked for a week or so. The invitation to share an evening together had come as a very pleasant surprise.

She thought back to her exchange with that snotty little woman in London. A friend, Bob had assured her, and, he had added with a wink, a very good friend. But she had seemed as cold as ice, as ruthless as a icicle plunging into her guts. There were disturbing reports about the Whale Widow. That's what she was now, the Whale Widow, really just one word now, one that was on everyone's lips, and familiar as Madonna, or Britney, or the Octomom. Images of her were on every magazine. But now, there were rumors. The British tabloids, the National Enquirer, Globe, all of them had picked them up. Orgies on the pursuit ship! Bob had sent that one tape unedited back to London, and clips of the nasty bits had surfaced on the internet. Sharon had growled that they were all consenting adults and it was no one's fucking business. She wondered, suddenly, if Ben and Maria had seen that interchange, if that had prompted their sudden interest in her. But here was no hint of that as they ushered her into the room, sat down with her at their little table, offered her one of the glasses.

"I'm so glad you invited me," Sharon babbled, taking too deep a gulp of the wine. "Really, you are the only two people on the ship I feel comfortable with, the only ones who aren't coming on to me all the time."

That made Ben wince, and Maria blush. There was an awkward silence, a very awkward silence.

"Of course," Sharon said, "it's not that you're not both very attractive." It was true. Her own parents had imprisoned themselves in obesity, each at least a hundred pounds overweight. But Ben and Maria were both still slim and trim. Ben had his hair, more than Bob did, for that matter. Sharon had fleeting thoughts about all those commercials for Viagra, Flomax, Rogaine. "I didn't mean to imply ... oh God! Can we just start over again?"

"Ben and I both work as counselors," Maria said, with a gentle, soothing tone that was very professional. "We're pretty hard to shock or offend. Aren't we, Ben?" Ben just nodded. There was a look in his eye that hinted that he was in no need of Viagra.

"Is that why you invited me here this evening?" Sharon couldn't resist giving him her whore look back. "Because you think I need counseling?"

"You've suffered a terrible loss. You've been acting ..."

"Erratic," Ben put in. He gave her the same look her father had given her when she'd staggered back from spring break that one time, still hung over and barely able to sit on her aching butt.

"Fucking everything that moves?" Sharon tried to make it sound like a joke. "Acting like a whore? Maybe that's what I am, what I've been all along. Maybe it was a mistake getting married in the first place."

"Grief can take many forms," Maria said. "Sorrow, anger, denial, depression. People talk about phases, but you can be feeling all of them all at once. Your sexual activities," she made it sound like a disease, "may be a symptom of all of these."

"I like sex," Sharon pouted. "It passes the time. More fun that Scrabble." She absentmindedly took an S out of the box on the table and tried to fit it into one of the words on the board. "Okay, what of it? What if I've been fucking Robert, and Ian, and Reggie?"

"All at the same time?" Maria's question was so unexpected that Sharon choked on her wine. There was a look of amusement on the older woman's face.

"No," she sputtered, "not at the same time." She put down the wine glass, and stared at Maria. There was something about the way Maria stared back that was very unsettling. She'd never thought of Maria as anything other than an older woman, old and burned out, but now she realized maybe Maria wasn't burned out at all. "Why do you ask?" she ventured, at last.

"I've always fantasized about double penetration." That answer was enough to make the room seem very warm, all of a sudden. Sharon took another gulp of wine. Ben took a little sip, his face completely impassive. "I really enjoy anal sex. So does Ben. Of course, we've never really been able to do the double penetration thing properly. That would break our wedding vows."

"Of course not." Sharon relaxed again. The two of them were counselors. They were used to talking about things ordinary people would never talk about. True, in all the time they had been together on the ship, they had never talked to her this way before, but this was the first time the three of them had been in private. This was probably the way they related to their own children. God, she wished her parents could open up to her like that. It was hard to imagine that they had ever had sex.

"Tonight," Ben said it very casually, "we may make an exception." 

He paused for a moment, and gave the slightest hint of a smile. Sharon said nothing. She took another gulp of wine, and gave a little nod. That was all there was to it. Maria was smiling at her now, her face gleaming in anticipation. She came over and gave Sharon a little kiss, on the forehead. Sharon reached up to touch her breasts. She had never felt another woman's chest before. Maria was not wearing a bra. She opened her blouse so that one breast was floating free -- not droopy, despite her age, small and round and firm. Sharon kissed it, she ran her tongue over the nipple, feeling it harden.

"Would you like to meet Moby?" Ben asked. He also had left his seat. Sharon thought that he was going to pull down his pants, but instead he went over to the dresser next to that brass cross and took out a purple dildo, at least eight inches long and thick to match, and a tangled strapon harness.

"Have you ever used one of these?" Maria asked. Sharon shook her head. She was staring at the size of Moby with some astonishment. "Want to try it? No need to take your clothes off." But Sharon was already stripping naked. She was too hot, in any case, and she needed air on the wetness of her pussy. She pulled off her jeans, and the room was filled with the scent of her desire. 

"You really are beautiful," Maria said. Her hands, a bit rough and dry, were on Sharon's breasts, her lips, a little scaly, were sucking the right nipple.

"Why, thank you." Sharon broke away. "You know, you are the first person on this ship to say that?" 

Ben had managed to untangle the harness, and he gave it to Sharon to put on. Just like panties, but it was only a few straps, leaving her completely open underneath it. She stared at herself in the mirror. Five foot four, square built, nice big boobs and a dick to match.

"You look good with a dick," Maria confirmed her opinion. "Want to try it out?"

"On you?"

"On me." Ben did have his pants off now. He was leaning over the edge of the bed.

"She's not as tall as I am. You're going to have to squat down more." Maria had retrieved a tube of jelly from the same dresser drawer. She stuck a glob up her husband's ass, rubbed some more over the dildo.

"What do I do?" Sharon was looking at the tiny puckered orifice, the immense dildo. She had tried to convince Marty to do this, with no success. She wanted to see that dildo vanish, she wanted to pound it into that flesh. But now she was having second thoughts.

"Trust me, it will slide right in. Here." Maria took the tip and aimed it. "Just give a little shove."

Sharon did shove, perhaps a bit too hard, because Ben gave a gasp, and the dildo slid all the way in at once. Damn! Now that it was gone, there was really nothing to it. She pulled it out a little, so that she could admire how his flesh was stretched around its broad purple shaft. She had watched herself being fucked, a few times, but the mirror had been too far away to see any detail. As for the rest of him, it was buried under his belly. She sighed.

"What's the matter?" Ben asked.

"Could you turn over?" She wanted to see his balls, his dick hanging out in the air while she fucked him. That was what had always fascinated her about anal sex, when she had watched clips of it, the girls with their lovely pussies hanging out, the guys with their cute little dicks. Fucked and not fucked, all at the same time. Or double fucked -- how would that feel? 

"Of course." He did roll over then, pulling his legs up past his shoulders, leaving himself wide open to her. She pushed back in, all the way once again, grinding her hips against his. It felt good to fuck. Then it felt boring. Ben seemed to be enjoying it, though. He was fully erect, spouting a little at each thrust. 

"Slap his balls." Maria was behind her, kissing her neck, rubbing breasts along her back, and that felt, really, really good. 

"Slap, like this?" She gave a hard, open palmed slap, leaving her hand pressed against him. He spouted a little harder. Maria was kissing her lower down now, right in the spot between the back of her pussy and her asshole. She'd never realized quite how sensitive that spot was. She was pushing in to Ben, back to find Maria's waiting tongue. It was more interesting now, very interesting. So interesting she stopped thrusting completely, and just lay down on Ben's stomach, gasping. She was amazed how hard his body was. Big arms, shoulders, chest -- she had thought, somehow, that it was all soft fat. But he was rock hard, thick, solid muscle. He was probably twice as strong as poor Marty. There was not much comfort on that stomach. It was like lying on a stone bench. He wrapped his legs around her, and she sensed that he could crush her in an instant if he cared to. 




Whale of a Tale



"My turn," Maria said. Ben put his legs down, and she straddled him, letting him impale her. She leaned down on top of him, and Sharon tried to get Moby into her asshole. But she was up too high. Ben pulled himself up all the way onto the bed, and Sharon crouched over the two of them. Maria screamed at the first touch of Moby, harder at each thrust, so loudly that surely the rest of the crew had to be hearing all of it. She screamed for about ten minutes before she finally gasped that she had had enough. 

"Switch places," she said.

"No, I can't."

"Why not?"

The three of them were side by side now, on their backs, catching their breath. 

"I'm not sure if I'm pregnant."

"What?"

"I wasn't using any birth control. I'd go back on the pill, but I need to have a period first. And I haven't had one. Monsieur Le Quack assures me that I'm not pregnant, that it's just stress, but I don't know. I don't trust him. He's not a real doctor, you know. He's some sort of glorified nurse."

"He saved your life."

"Yeah, I suppose so. Anyway, I'm not letting anyone up my cunt without a rubber. I don't suppose you have one handy?" Ben laughed and shook his head.

"Give me Moby." Maria put it on. "It's not going to get you pregnant."

"Could you, like, wash it off first?"

"Oh, okay." Maria went into the bathroom. She lay down on her back when she returned. Sharon looked at her with some alarm. She had been wielding Moby without a second thought, but from the other end it was rather intimidating, at least an inch longer than anything she had tried before. She eased herself on top of it, and it filled her, completely. Maria pulled her down so that they were pressed together, breast to breast nipple to nipple, and so that they could kiss. But then she felt Ben at her asshole, and she realized Maria's intentions had not been entirely romantic. She'd been doing a lot of anal lately, but with Moby lodged inside her there really was no room. She lifted up a bit, Moby slid out, and Ben slid in. Then Moby came sliding back, and there was room for it after all. Maria bit a nipple, and she came. She kept coming for a long time.

When they were through, she asked if she could borrow Moby for a night. She wanted to try it out on Bob.

* * * *

"Congratulations, you have completed your training." The little doctor had awakened him. Not, it seemed, that he was ever fully conscious. He had a dim realization that he must be under very heavy sedation. Otherwise, would he have been so compliant? He had surrendered completely, abjectly, to his fate. He had opened his mouth as wide as possible, his throat as wide as possible, his rectum. He had learned how to contract his bowels to milk a cock, how to rub his teeth along the shaft just hard enough to excite, but not hard enough to threaten. He had learned how to find his own pleasure, so much so that his bowels felt empty, aching, when they were not being fucked. He had turned into a perfect little whore. He was as happy as he had ever been, at any time of his existence.

"We are going to have a banquet, to celebrate," the doctor added.

"Banquet?" Martin echoed, still only half awake.

"You are going to be the centerpiece." The doctor gave a little chuckle. He had a needle, not unusual, there were always needles. Martin expected that he would fall asleep. But that was not what happened. Instead, he lost the ability to move his limbs.

"Medical curare," the doctor explained. "The dosage should be small enough that your breathing will be unaffected.

Should be? Martin wanted to scream it, but he had already lost the ability to speak. Wasn't that the horror of curare? You remained perfectly aware of what was happening, but unable to do anything about it.

Two men he had never seen before came into the room, picked him up from each end, and dumped him onto a metal cart. He was naked, of course. He had been naked since his arrival on the whaling ship. He had forgotten what it was like to wear clothes. Somewhere along the line, by accident or design, he had lost all his body hair. His breasts were more than budding now, they were beginning to fill out nicely, almost as big as his wife's. He had been working out, hard, three or four hours a day. The hormones had made it hard to build muscle mass. Instead, his body was chiseled. He looked like a Greek god with boobs, or a goddess with a dick. The men were making little remarks as they wheeled him along, leering at him. The doctor came along and draped a sheet over him, so there wouldn't be too much commotion in the hallways as he rolled past, so the glory of his debut would not be dimmed. He was, he realized, the doctor's masterpiece.

The masterpiece was delivered, without much ceremony, into the back of the galley, where it was scrubbed with cloths that were too rough and water that was much too hot. There was nothing he could do to complain. One of the cooks took a big basting tube, filled it with hot water, and shoved it up his ass. Then the same tube was used to suck everything back out, much to the mixed amusement and disgust of the kitchen crew. 

The preparations must have lasted no more that twenty minutes. Martin was wishing for death the whole time. But his lungs kept working. Even when he tried not to breathe, they refused to let him suffocate. He was not going to die so easily, after all. 

He had seen sushi parties where the delicacies were served on naked women. He realized that this was about to happen to him. So he was not surprised when the cooks started to cover him with little bits of raw fish. 

"Whale meat," one of the said, sampling a chunk. "Just caught. The very best."

It was then that Martin knew that he had sunk completely to the depths. He had gone from whale protestor to plaything for the whalers, to a platter for the fruits of their slaughter. He was filled with a rage that should have made him explode. But he could not move a muscle. He could not even close his eyes to avoid seeing what was going to happen next.

They rolled him out into the mess hall to great cheers. The room had been decorated in his honor, festooned with banners and paper lanterns. Everyone was dressed in gleaming white kimonos. It looked like a martial arts ceremony, except, he noticed, all of them were bare legged. They gathered around him in a tight circle. The captain said a few words, in Japanese, of course, and there were cheers. The doctor said a few words, and there were more cheers. They sang a boisterous chant, like something you might hear at a baseball game. Then the captain gave what sounded like a word of command, and the crew descended on him in a frenzy. In a few minutes he had been stripped of his veil of delicacies, licked clean by a dozen tongues. 

There were snickers. The licking at his breasts had hardened his nipples. Hardened, it appeared, some other part of his anatomy. The ceiling was polished so brightly that he could see himself reflected in it, his dick sticking up incongruously through a little ring of cream cheese. There was some banter back and forth. Then one of the crew leaned over and took that dick into his mouth. He got about half of it in, and began to gag. Laughter and cries of derision followed. There was another attempt, with about the same results. There was a lot of banter, a lot of laughter. It sounded as if they were placing bets. A skinny little guy, not much more than a boy, came forward. He took a deep breath, and then got his lips all the way down into the cream cheese. Great cheers. Another man, older, came out and duplicated the feat. More cheers. More conversation. More bets. The two of them faced off, one on either side Martin's inert body, and they started to take turns. At the end of each plunge, a man at the bottom was running his finger over the tip of Marty's penis, shaking his head. They were having a contest to see which one would make him come! There was nothing he could do one way or the other. He was completely paralyzed. Normally, he needed to close his eyes, he needed to push with his hips, to get himself to ejaculate, but he couldn't do either of those things. He wasn't even sure he knew how to come any more, without a cock up his ass. It was going to take a long time. Then the old guy cheated. He took a fork, and stuck into Marty's balls, and Marty nearly choked him to death. 

The old guy was grinning, white cream dripping out of his mouth, the kid was yelling something in protest. The captain said something, and they all shut up. One of them intoned something that almost sounded like a prayer. They stood around Marty in a circle, bowing their heads. Then, quite solemnly, they opened their kimonos. It was, it appeared, a dedication ceremony. Each man put a hand out to the right or left, to share a penis with another hand. Then they started a group masturbation, chanting and stroking in a rhythm that built up gradually to a frenzy. Almost in unison, they all ejaculated onto his face and breasts, smothering him in their semen. Then, they licked him clean once again.

What was going to happen next? Were they all going to fuck him as he lay there helpless on the table? He never found out what their plans were. Just at that moment, his breathing ceased at last. The world became dim. He waited patiently to die. The last thing he remembered was the doctor yelling something, the prick of a needle on his shoulder.

He woke up in total darkness. He thought, at first, that he had the sleeping mask on his face again. But his hands were free, he could move them. He could feel that there was nothing at all on his body. Except, of course, for the collar. That was always there. They had turned off the fence, of course, to wheel him out to the kitchen. But surely it was back on now. The door was, tantalizingly, open, the dim red of an emergency light glowing in the hallway beyond. It was always open. They knew that he would not dare get anywhere close to it. He was their good little dog, completely broken in. They had tamed him completely.

Suddenly, he remembered, and the rage that had consumed him during the banquet returned. Whale meat! They had served whale meat on his naked, helpless body! He wasn't going to take it any more. He was going to launch himself full force, into the doorway. He was going to end his torment. He was going to deprive them of their plaything. He was going to kill himself.

It was only when he got out of the bed that he realized how violently the ship was pitching. By now, he had become so accustomed to the motion of the seas that he barely noticed it. But he almost lost his balance as the floor tilted violently, in an unaccustomed direction. He was used to the ship bobbing up and down from stem to stern. But this was a side to side roll, one that took a long time to return back to normal. A spurt of water rushed by in the hallway. That couldn't be good.

He realized that his plans to dash himself into the electric fence were going to have to be revised. He was having enough trouble getting any distance from the bed, before he lost his balance. He was going to have to wait until a moment when the door was downhill, and then make a dive for it. The moment came, he jumped, miraculously he hit the doorway -- and went through, out into the hall. No pain at all, except the bruising impact of the hallway floor. He realized, belatedly, that with the power off the fence was not activated. He could have taken his time getting past it.

He was considering that as he was sliding on his butt along the six inches of water in the hallway. The floor had pitched at a considerable angle, and it was just like being on a slide in a water park. Any second now, the tilt was going to reverse, and he was going to be swept into the back of the ship. Or was it the front? He really had no idea of the ship's layout. Just at the moment when everything was level and he was slowing down, he reached an end wall. He managed to grab onto the door frame and hold on as the floor titled back and the water rushed past him in the opposite direction. The next level time, he scrambled to his feet. Just in time. The ship went into another violent side roll. This time, it did not come all the way back to level position. It was listing ominously, almost ten degrees.

The power came back on. He expected to die at once from the collar, but it seemed that he had moved out of range of the fence. Were there alarms going off, betraying his escape? He was sure that the collar included a powerful homing device. It had been designed for tracking marine life over thousands of miles. It was only a matter of minutes before he was discovered. 

The door beyond was sealed shut, one of those watertight doors like in the submarine movies. He turned the wheel to open it, and stepped through. What he saw beyond was enough to make him retch. It was the holding tank for whales. It was full of a half slaughtered carcass, still steaming -- most likely the source of the whale meat he had served up a few hours before. Beyond that, what looked like a giant garage door. There was a big green button next to him. He pushed it. The big door began to swing open, from the top. Water came surging over it, tearing it away. Time froze as he stared at a ten foot wave bearing down on him as it raced across the holding tank. Dive under it. That's what instinct told him. He dove into the pool, into the open carcass of the whale. The last thing he remembered was the shock of the water as he was swept out into the wild ocean storm.

* * * *

"We're here with the Whale Widow on what may very well be the last day of her voyage on the southern seas." It was that annoying bitch from the London BBC news room, her image a bit hazy on Bob's computer screen. "Of course, our own reporter Robert Hall has been covering these events from the very beginning. Robert, what can you tell us about the latest startling developments in this story?"

"Rebecca, the Japanese whaling fleet has just confirmed that one of their ships, the Nagasaki, is indeed missing after the storm."

"By missing, you mean sunk?"

"They have not confirmed this. However, we have recovered debris which may have come from that ship."

"Isn't this the same ship that was involved in the tragic incident?"

"Yes," Sharon broke in. She was feeling happy, almost, for the first time in weeks. "Ironic, isn't it? I guess there may be such a thing as divine justice after all."

"Robert, do I see a third person with you? Is that Doctor Le Croc? Doctor, what about reports that you have found a survivor?"

"We are not sure," the little man was bubbling with excitement, "who or what it is that we have found. There were tracking signals, we thought, perhaps, that they had in fact been intending to release a whale for research, and it had been injured. But when we approached ... Mon Dieu!"

"What, doctor?"

Bob broke in. "The whale was dead. Obviously it had been dead for some time -- cut open, slaughtered."

"And in it's belly, a, a ..."

"A what? A man, a woman?"

"Something of each. A creature of the sea!"

"Something," Bob said, "to make you believe in mermaids."

"You have no idea who, or what, it is?"

"We do not know, even, if it is truly human." The doctor was trembling now. "It is unlike anything I have ever seen,"

"We'll know for sure," Bob added, "when it wakes up. If it wakes up."

"The Whale Man!" The anchor woman breathed the name. Soon, it would be on the cover of every tabloid, on the lips of every celebrity gossip monger. "Bob, can we get a picture? Please?"

* * * *

Martin woke up and assumed that he was in Heaven. This time, he had to be dead, for sure. His eyes came into focus, and he saw his wife. Sweet, lovely Sharon. It was sad that she was dead, too, but a comfort that they could be together again.

"Sharon," he said, "I'm glad you made it." Glad they let you in, in spite of all those frat parties. Assuming, of course, that this really was Heaven, this time around. It felt better, this time around -- warmer, brighter, and of course, there she was, beside him.

"Do I know you?" She seemed genuinely puzzled.

"It's Marty. Your husband."

"Oh my God!" 

She should have kissed him. She should have cried tears of joy. But instead, she ran out of the room, shrieking.