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Tangled Passions Pt. 03 Ch. 32-34

By: Jazz E.



Part 3 – SURRENDER

XXXII.

The Club was not so unusual as to not have a bulletin board in the corridor that held notices and postings the administration felt might be of interest to members. A simple letter-sized fax, dog-eared and held up with a tack, caught Matt's attention. It was a single page advertising a rather specialized cruise around the world. The notice announced that the cruise would be making a brief stop in Vancouver, and might be hiring. The idea was so intriguing that Matt made a copy to show Jenn. He left a message for her, arranging to meet her at the condo one night that week. "You've really got to see this." He added, "It's incredible – incredibly interesting."

Jenn was there when Matt arrived. She was dressed in silk pyjamas, and looked fabulous. Taking the proffered scotch in one hand Matt hugged her warmly with the other, kissing her appreciatively. There was no longer any scrambling out of their clothes, no urgent need to thrash about on the foyer floor. They were very happy to see one another. That was enough. Moving arm in arm to the living room, they exchanged pleasantries, inquiring after each other’s health, before settling side by side on the couch. "So what is this that I've really got to see?"

"It's a cruise advertisement," Matt said, underplaying the significance he had already conferred, while he unfolded the sheet. "Look at this."

Jenn skimmed the notice as he held it out, then she slowly took it from his hands and read every word over again – and again. Matt was watching her, trying to read her reaction. He wasn't sure what he wanted to see, so he watched all the more closely. He saw a slow flush suffuse across Jenn's face. He saw her body tense, but he couldn't detect the moist warmth that sprang to her pubis, nor the forbidden excitement that vibrated within, sparkling along her spine.

"Well?" Matt wanted to know what she thought of it; was she as tempted as him?

Her voice was soft and breathy, with a deep, classically alluring resonance to it. "Wow. It's incredible all right."

"What do you think?" Matt's voice rang with excitement and a barely concealed childlike impatience.

Jenn looked him in the eyes, puzzled. She was trying to read him as well. "What do you mean?"

Suddenly he was flustered. "I don't know. I mean, would you...? Are you...? I mean, what do you think – about that?" he smacked the page with the back of his hand.

Jenn looked at it again, reading all of the words once more just to ensure that she hadn't got the wrong idea. "Incredible. Incredibly – uh – interesting."

"Do you think you'd want to, ah, look into it, eh?"

"Yeah." Jenn looked into his eyes again. She felt a tingly sort of attraction to him. She knew that they still shared an amazing love and respect. They just might be able to make magic tonight, she thought dreamily, as she leaned over to kiss him.

After freshening their drinks, Matt launched into the serious discussion of should they, would they, how, why, and what ifs. Deep down, they both already knew what they would do. They would apply to the post office box, and if they got interviewed, they could decide whether to accept. Though neither would voice it, it was mutually understood that acceptance was inevitable once offered. "It looks like,” Matt stuttered, “– to me anyway – for me, um – like an opportunity that I just – that couldn’t – that shouldn't be missed."

"Yeah," Jenn agreed, dreamily. Already her imagination had taken the idea and was running with it. "It’s somewhere to go, at least – it has some direction."

"That's right – a destination." Matt looked at the notice once more, before capturing Jenn's eyes and going on. "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling almost constricted by The Club, now."

"How do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just little things. It's not that I'm unhappy about it or anything, but there's this little – I don't know... I'm just a little bit dissatisfied with things as they currently stand. You know what I mean?"

"I was thinking that myself, just the other day. I feel like I'm just treading water. Everything is actually static – mired. There's only the illusion of progress."

"That's funny, 'cause that's exactly how I feel. It’s like I've been moving along all this time only to find that I'm on a merry-go-round. The Club has gradually become a dead-end."

"Same with Celebration. I've think done as much as I can, there, with them. Not that it's not still fun, it's just that I'm not getting anywhere anymore."

"Maybe we've gone – or been taken – as far as we can go through those venues. I mean, sometimes, the sex seems almost prodigal."

"What do you mean?" Jenn was puzzled. Wasn't it always prodigal?

"You know, just a waste; excessive but to no avail." Matt stared thoughtfully at Jenn. He was struck, once again, at how beautiful she was. But just now she looked a little lost and distressed. It seemed to Matt that, once again, their lives had reconverged; they had reached the same crisis point. "Now, I need something else. And this cruise, if it's what they imply," he tapped meaningfully on the notice, "looks to me like just the thing."

"Uh-huh," Jenn agreed, "just the thing – just right." Then she paused, not wanting to let her enthusiasm escape just yet. "But it almost sounds too good to be true."

"Almost. There's only one way to find out, eh?" Matt rose from the table to get another drink – juice, this time. He offered more to Jenn, then went on as he stood at the counter. "In some ways though, it doesn't matter so much that it's exactly the right thing. It's just that, right now, it seems like it's the only thing – the only alternative – know what I mean?"

Jenn nodded. She was suddenly worn out. "I don't suppose,” she said, softly, “either of us could ever consider returning to a 'normal' existence." It was a rhetorical statement and Matt's glance askance was response enough. They both knew they'd come way too far – too far to turn back now. As frightening as it sometimes was, they each accepted that they were well past the point of no return. This was just another plexus; one they had propitiously arrived at together.

Matt shrugged, "Is there really any question?"

Jenn echoed his resignation. "What choice do we have?" Indeed, the cruise was basically a 'mandatory option' along both of their routes; routes they'd chosen independently many, many months ago.

Matt mentioned the cruise Roland, his mentor, showing him the advertisement. Although Roland studied the notice, Matt got the feeling that he was quite familiar with it – that he was looking past the page. Matt chattered, his speech accelerating the more he thought about it. "Come." Roland took him carefully by the arm and led him into the lounge, ordering them both drinks while Matt went on, asking questions then answering them himself. Roland listened thoughtfully, sipping his drink and nodding. Finally, with his eyes full of a somewhat neutral empathy, he said, "You've got to do what you think you've got to do, eh, my boy? If you think this is what you want, then go for it. Exercise your liberty, Matt – while you still have it." The final remark puzzled Matt, but he didn't question it. They had finished their friendly drink. Now the terms of his employment were in effect. Suddenly subdued, Matt muttered his thanks to Roland before departing toward the change room, the yoke settling almost visibly about his neck.

Jenn, on the other hand, was only very vague when she mentioned it to Lisa. She wasn't sure she wanted Lisa's permission or advice. She simply said she might be going on a bit of a cruise with Matt. When Lisa raised her eyebrows in surprise, Jenn just dismissed it saying it was nothing definite; "Just an Idea, really. I'll tell you if anything comes of it." But, she thought, she still might not. This was something for just Matt and herself – something very private.

They mailed a letter of application to the box number on the notice, giving brief biographies of themselves, including recent activities. When the reply came, a mere week later, Matt felt like a kid – excited and apprehensive, reluctant to open the envelope in case it contained bad news. Of course it wouldn't, rejection would have been but a single page. A thick nine by twelve manila envelope sat on the table before him, beckoning to be opened. Matt stared at it, sipping his coffee, waiting for Jenn. It was addressed to Matthew and Jennifer Anderson (Mr. & Mrs.). When Jenn arrived, after a quick kiss, she hung her jacket and sat at the table staring at the envelope as if it were some kind of sacred talisman. She fingered it gingerly while Matt poured her coffee, and waited, not tearing the seal until he was seated once again. "Go ahead," he said with a nod.

Inside was a sheaf of pamphlets and forms. One gave a few details of the ship – the Celestial Concubine; another gave a rather vague prospectus of the ‘Billionaires’ World Tour’ cruise, including the rights and responsibilities of both passengers and employees; there were a couple extensive personal information forms, and legal waivers; finally, there were directions for the initial interview, which would apparently be conducted on 'neutral territory' at a restaurant in Vancouver. The info sheets asked the usual age and weight sorts of things as well as some interesting questions, such as: "About how many orgasms have you had per week on average over the past six months? Describe in the space provided the circumstances of your most intense recent orgasm. Give the names of people or establishments from whom suitable references might be discretely obtained." The waivers were couched in quasi-legal terms and written in such a way that they would make little sense to anyone except those who already had an idea what sort of activities they might expect. In short, they conveyed that employees had the right to creature comforts – food and shelter, and would be safe from permanent injury or disfigurement. Other than that, they could expect that the basic rights and freedoms they knew ashore were not guaranteed. Jenn and Matt looked at each other without saying a word. They understood the stronger implication: during their period of employment, simple liberties and privileges would be withheld arbitrarily.

The instructions had been quite specific. "Wear light casual clothing without undergarments." Butterflies danced between them as the arrived at the restaurant nervously holding hands. Reservations for four had been made in their name and they were shown quietly to their table. It was empty. Ordering a drink each, they spoke softly, leaning their heads together and looking furtively about the room. They had been there ten minutes, the tension growing, their hands clasped on the table, before two men rose from a neighbouring table and approached.

They were dressed casually but expensively – both were probably in their mid-forties. “Good afternoon. You must be the Andersons.” Matt and Jenn nodded mutely. “May we sit down?”

Snapping out of his reverie – or enchantment – Matt stood and gestured to the empty seats. “Please do.”

“Thank you.” There was a studied calm, a deliberate slowness in the way both of the men settled in their chairs before speaking. “I’m Angelo – Ange. And my colleague is Hamil.” The silent partner nodded, as Matt reached over and shook his hand. There was, perhaps, a hint of a patronizing smile on his lips as Jenn stood and shook their hands as well. Once they were settled, Ange went on. “We’re associated with the Celestial Concubine – agents for the Billionaires' World Tour. We were rather interested in your letter of inquiry.” They all shared a tiny, wry grin – all, perhaps, understanding the necessity of such a euphemistic approach to the subject. Initially, Ange did all the talking, with Hamil simply nodding his agreement now and then.

Ange was most persistent, apparently trying to ensure that both Jenn and Matt knew what it was they were applying for. He never used the words 'sex', 'submission', or 'dominance' but manipulated the conversation so that both Jenn and Matt were required to use those words in their own replies, several times each. At last satisfied that the point had been made, he seemed to relax. His companion nodded sagely but otherwise remained impassive. Matt felt an irrational dread germinating in the pit of his stomach while Jenn felt only the excitement of a new adventure unfolding. She was amazed that she was able to speak of such things, there in public with no hint of reticence.

Finally, the other gentleman, Hamil, spoke up. His slightly accented voice was soothing and calm. "Some would-be applicants are still astounded when the enormity of their required commitment is fully explained. We try to avoid such unpleasant surprises."

Ange smiled beneath a large black moustache. "You seem to be under no misconceptions." His Italian accent was cultured, his voice low yet authoritative.

A waiter took lunch orders, and Matt handed over the questionnaires-come- applications, as well as the waivers. The two men scanned the information silently, passing sheets between them, curiously circling things and making brief notes in the margins. The Andersons sat immobile, watching intently. Jenn felt an odd curiosity. How many times before had those two done this same thing? How often did something like this happen? Matt only hoped for a quick decision, although, at that moment, he wasn't at all sure what he wanted more – acceptance or rejection.

Once they had been served, the interview proceeded. It was surprisingly short and casual. Jenn and Matt were told that they would be, if they were accepted for the positions, quite a novel pair by nature of their maturity; most submissives are young – up to thirty, maybe. And being married to one another, they would certainly be a curiosity. The combination could, conceivably, make them rather popular with the guests. Hamil, the more reticent of the two, smiled and nodded at that. "Yes, very popular, I would think." Still the interviewers warned them that they, themselves, did not make the final decisions – Matt thought of car salesmen taking the offer 'back to the manager', but said nothing.

“The brass,” Ange muttered, shaking his head while surveying their papers again, “might consider you a little too long in tooth.” He clicked his tongue quietly. “Still, with your eagerness and apparent determination” – Matt, with the aid of the past months and months of practice, had fortunately, not let any of his dread or indecision show – “and your related experience, your prospects aren’t, maybe, so bad.” As the men concluded the interview, gathering their papers, Jenn withdrew a videocassette from her purse and handed it to Ange. Inked on the label were the words 'collage résumés – Jenn & Matt A.' Ange looked at it and raised his eyebrows momentarily, then handed it to Hamil.

“Nice touch,” Hamil remarked, offering Jenn a smiling nod. Jenn was nervous – worried that she might have been too bold. The video had been an impulse. She held her breath, hoping she had improved rather than spoiled their chances. Exchanging a look with his partner, Hamil added, “Very good. We’ll look forward to viewing this.” Jenn exhaled at last as he read the label once more then handed it back to Ange who pushed the tape into his portfolio, along with the application papers.

Standing abruptly, Ange said, "Thank you, Jenn, Matt." He and his companion reached across the table to shake hands with the Andersons. "It's been a pleasure. We'll be in touch." They turned and left. There was something sly in their smiles as the two men walked from the restaurant. Jenn collapsed back into her chair. She realized she was ringing like a bell. Matt sat down more slowly.

"Well?"

Jenn felt twitchy inside. "I don't know." They had just been interviewed for positions that were entirely involved with sex, yet they hadn't even been touched, except to shake hands. Suddenly, she craved abuse. She wanted to be fondled and groped, fingered and fucked, pinched and hit. Her crotch began to leak, its fine forest gathering dew and mist. Reaching under the table, she molded her hand to Matt's flaccid cock. It immediately sprang to life, pressing out proudly against the thin material of his pants. "Well?" Jenn returned, her eyes flashing with unchecked lasciviousness. Matt's eyes had widened at the sudden intensity of his erection. "D'ya wanna give it the ol' college try?" Jenn whispered.

"Why not?" Matt hissed. "Couldn't hurt."

They called for the check, and Jenn finally unhanded her husband, after giving him a last affectionate squeeze as the waiter approached. She felt him, Patrick Penis, bob in return. Matt inhaled, carefully. He had come frighteningly close to coming in his pants. They might make magic yet. The waiter inclined his head and said respectfully, "The other gentlemen took care of it, Sir, thank you."

Rearranging himself as best he could, Matt stood and took Jenn's hand. As they left the busy restaurant, Jenn flashed a suggestive grin at their waiter and, leaning her head on Matt's shoulder, sang just audibly, "Sky-rockets in flight, Afternoon delight...." He returned her smile, somewhat longingly.

Suddenly brazen and wild, she felt a certain deja vu. Images and visions collided in her head. Jenn recalled burgeoning experiences, not so long before, when she had accompanied various guests from Celebration back to an apartment or hotel room for the night. Leaving alone, standing outside the building amidst the rush of midday, she had thought, more than once, how very sheltered she had been all of her life. Perhaps she was being sheltered still – from the tawdry, down-and-out side of the trade, still, her eyes were now open; she had seen many sides of life – and death. Notwithstanding, she realized, she was, in many ways, not much more than a common whore – except maybe not so common. Rushing from the restaurant, hand in hand, with wide, slightly wild grins, Jenn felt whorish and conspicuously lewd. It didn't matter. She was Matt's whore, this time.

Matt could feel it too. He recollected a similar scene only recently when he had caught sight of an old acquaintance leaving a hotel in the middle of the afternoon with a woman other than his wife. Their eyes had met briefly. The fellow had shrugged guiltily with his eyes, in response to Matt's conspiratorial smile, and had hurriedly turned away. Matt smiled once more. Here he was in the same position, except that his mistress was his wife.

They could hardly make it back to the condo. Jenn's fondling cause Matt some difficulty driving, but kept him eminently aroused until they tumbled into their apartment and straight to the bedroom. There was neither submission nor dominance, just a wild, unbridled fuck. Jenn squeezed him into her with her ankles. Her fingernails, clawing viciously across his back, raised Matt to hyper-readiness. As Jenn's skyrocket ignited, she muffled her screams against Matt's chest, biting and sucking his nipples raw. Like a sea to air missile, Matt's ejaculation intercepted the fireworks already underway, and joined them to produce a mutual climax so bright and colourful that they both wondered why they would ever need anything else. They drifted back to earth, the ashes still glowing, still sparkling here and there, now and again.

So much in love, and such a torrid love, why were they seeking thrills in so exotic a venue as the impending 'cruise'? The question floated between them, unspoken, flickering from eye to eye. Yet, they both knew. High level, non-hierarchical sex like that had become, for both of them, an anomaly. It was wonderful, but rare – and getting rarer. Their needs were seldom satisfied so simply, any more. They would relish it when it happened but they shouldn't bank on it – they wouldn't. Rocking together on the bed, still fully engaged, Matt smiled rather sadly at Jenn and kissed her gently. She spoke his mind softly, "If only, eh?"


Tangled Passions Pt. 03 Ch. 32-34



"Yeah." Staying connected they drifted into a mutually satisfied afternoon nap.

Matt told Jenn that he was expected at his club that night. They had woken and showered together. After kissing at the door, Matt turned and walked to the elevator, leaving Jenn to watch him for a moment before closing the door, just like any wife whose husband was working nights. Off to his club he went – and it was still 'his' club; Jenn had never been there. It struck her as a little odd; after all they had been through, all the truths they knew about each other, she still had only the vaguest idea of where it was. She'd never asked to go with him and he'd never invited her. Of course, he too only knew about her organization in generalities. "Oh well," she shrugged, latching the door with a soft thud. Jenn stared around the suite. She had the strange feeling that they had lost something – though she had no idea what. The room seemed too empty – devoid or bereft of what? She stood a while longer, lost in her thoughts; then, finally shaking free, she moved to the couch to sit. There was nothing more. Slowly she lifted the phone, still a little distant, and called Lisa to arrange the evening. Over the next few days, she and Matt each chewed on anticipation relentlessly. The gnawing uncertainty was distracting – worrying. What if only one of them was accepted? Jenn wondered, “Would I go alone? Would Matt?” It sounded too perfect. They both had to be accepted.

A message on their machine, five days later, requested their presence at an office in Gastown "to work out the details of their arrangement." There were no further instructions, other than an appointment time and a phone number. Matt dressed in a good suit with nothing but a G-string underneath. Jenn wore a skirt suit over split crotch panties and a half-cup pushup bra. They made an attractive businesslike couple, as they left his ZX in the old Woodwards parkade and strode down Cordova to find the address.

The office was in one of the older trendy Gastown buildings, above a touristy import shop. The sign on the door said 'I. Shostavich, Lawyer'. They knocked softly and entered, as the door was unlatched. Inside was rather stylish in an eclectic sort of way – sort of understated camp. The man who greeted them from behind the desk was neither Ange nor Hamil from their earlier meeting. "Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. I'm Mr. Shostavich." Rising from his chair he shook hands with each and indicated the leather chairs before his desk, "Please sit," before returning to his own seat. He was a wiry man with trim salt and pepper hair and a very precise moustache. Once Matt and Jenn had taken their seats, he folded his hands and observed them, his eyes moving from one to the other as though he were watching a tennis match. Matt met his intense gaze with an intensity of his own, while Jenn made herself sit still, and listened to the silence grow.

"Husband and wife," he finally said. “Welcome.” And then, as if checking it off in his mental notebook, "I don't think we've had that combination past our desk before." Matt turned to look at Jenn, unsure of how to respond. Jenn seemed mesmerized, staring steadily into her host's deep green eyes. "This is not really a part of the interview – you have, already, been accepted – but I'm very curious. Tell me about yourselves – husband and wife."

Matt hesitated a moment. “Go ahead,” the man said, in a light, friendly manner. “A synopsis. We’ve got lots of time.” Matt flashed a puzzled glance at Jenn.

“Well,” Matt, cleared his throat and began, unsure of what Mr. Shostavich actually wanted. “We’ve been married for over twelve years….” As he gave a brief chronology of their lives, Jenn quietly added details here and there. They gave only the briefest mention of the girls' deaths. They tried to explain their relationship but stumbled and stuttered. It was not easy to describe. Yet, they both professed a continuing, undying love, undaunted by the unconventional twists of their sexual proclivities. Although she didn't doubt it for an instant, Jenn wondered why; why did their love still exist? Why did she love him so very, very much? Their lives, while not exactly diverging, were running parallel – in the same direction but not touching, like railway tracks, staying abreast of one another but completely separate – except for the few nights they occasionally shared.

In the silence that followed Jenn timidly asked, "May I ask a question?” The lawyer nodded solemnly. She could feel Matt's eyes on her as well. She felt like a little girl asking for a special favour. "I wonder," she began, "if it would be possible for us to have, while we're onboard, occasional contact with one another." She glanced at Matt, who nodded ever so slightly, before continuing, "Just once in a while be allowed – be given the odd opportunity to hug and kiss – or to hold hands, just once in a while." She looked expectantly at Mr. Shostavich, who seemed to be considering.

"A definite possibility, I should think," he mused, stroking his moustache, "Shouldn't be a problem." If he thought it an odd request, he certainly didn't show it. Although both Matt and Jenn realized that his response was fundamentally non-committal, they accepted it at face value. In their own minds they were already too far along to back out, well past centre-span.

There was little more detail to be discussed. Personalized contracts were given to them each to read and, with a flourish of fountain pen, witnessed by the attendant lawyer, signed contracts legally obligating them to work on a ship as 'entertainment crew' for a year. Matt seriously wondered exactly how legitimate or enforceable such a contract was; not that it made any difference to them. They were voluntarily giving themselves up to a year of degradation and humiliation. It seemed a strange thing to do in that light. "Ours is not to question why."

They thanked the lawyer and accepted his best wishes, then left the office. Standing amidst the milling crowds of Gastown, Matt announced, "I need a drink." They walked the few blocks to the Pan Pacific and ordered drinks in the mezzanine bar. Jenn was puzzled that, once again, they had been met concerning their sexual subjugation and the meeting had passed without so much as a suggestive comment. But the deed was done. They had signed the dotted line. This time she felt drained rather aroused, as if her nervous tension had bonded to her sexuality then slowly leaked away. Jenn tried not to think of the enormity of their decision – the agreement. She would face one day at a time, hold her anticipation in check for as long as possible. Matt silently attempted, in innumerable ways, to rationalize what they had just done. “One really can,” he smiled inwardly, “rationalize anything.” They hardly spoke over their drinks and eventually left the lounge to walk quietly, arm in arm, back to the car.

Matt and Jenn told the few people who might be interested that they were going away for a year or so, but supplied no details. Matt told Roland that he had used him as a reference. Roland nodded, perhaps a little more reserved than usual. However, Jenn stayed very quiet on the subject, not admitting anything of substance to Lisa. She wasn't really sure why, but she thought everything might just run a little smoother if Lisa was kept in ignorance until the last minute. She felt just a little deceitful, and more than a little sad, but she didn't relent.

Jenn's parents had both died before the girls' accident. Her only brother – older than her by three years – had 'gone bad' as they say in the vernacular. He had disappeared many years earlier. Jenn had received two or three brief postcards from exotic places in Southeast Asia during the first couple years of his absence, then nothing until she got official word that he had allegedly died of a drug overdose somewhere in Burma. Jenn blamed him, posthumously, for the deaths of her parents, who were killed when her father went through a red light the day that they had heard the news of her brother's demise.

Matt, on the other hand, was an only child. His mother had died of a cancer shortly before the children had been killed. Matt's father had not finished grieving for his wife at the time of the girls' accident, and he seemed to tacitly blame Matt for his own ongoing unhappiness. Instead of offering Matt and Jenn – his only son and daughter – the solace and support they needed, he became bitter and unfriendly. It was, at the time, far more than their emotional stamina could bear. They stopped visiting him and he never called.

After a few months had soothed the jagged edges of their grief, Matt had decided to make peace. He was astounded to find that his dad had moved and left no forwarding address. At first it seemed unbelievable. Later, with tremendous difficulty, they managed to secure an address at which to reach him. His dad had apparently gone to the States – the address was in Arizona, but Matt's letters were returned marked; refused’ – not ‘addressee unknown’ or ‘no longer at this address’, just ‘refused’. When he sent a card with no return address, and it, too, came back, with no reply, yet having been opened, he just gave up. He had been well and truly disowned. Now, he had no family other than Jenn.

Matt and Jenn sold their furnishings and most of their belongings. They put their condo in the hands of a property manager and had him deposit the revenues automatically. Keepsakes, those most precious reminders of their former lives as parents, photos of the girls and whatnots, were stowed, along with their home safe, which contained the important everyday things like birth certificates and insurance policies, in a secure storage facility. For obscure reasons about which neither Matt nor Jenn were too clear, most of their liquid assets were transferred to a coded account in a Swiss branch of the Bank of Montreal. And for reasons that were even less clear, they decided to keep the same code as Jenn had originally used on the account she had set up with the money from the insurance claim, '4-LISA-N-LUCY'. Arrangements were made for the rental of the storage facility to be paid automatically out of their property revenue account. Even if the interest rate fell to zero and the condo sat empty, there was enough money to pay the storage fees for years.

They were all set. No one would even miss them.

They rented a posh room in the Hotel Vancouver, but spent their last night very quietly. There was too much to think about – consider, predict, anticipate, fear. Offering one another support in their introspection simply by their presence and their non-sexual intercourse, Matt and Jenn finally descended into a surprisingly calm sleep, holding on together.


XXXIII.

The Celestial Concubine, arrived, unheralded in the early morning, anchoring in Vancouver's outer harbour. It was a beautifully sleek, futuristic cruise ship with a water line length of about four hundred fifty feet, although its raked bow projected spear-like, far beyond that. Even at anchor, the swept back superstructure gave an illusion of speed and a suggestive mien. With its white sides and gold tone accents glistening in the morning light, it was subtly salacious in its allure. Ostensibly on an exclusive Billionaires' World Tour, it was in town for only a brief one-day stop. Details of the cruise – an exclusive floating bawdy house, purveying a stable of innocents, subverted and perverted – were most certainly contrary to prevailing morality. If the city’s populace had known what Jenn and Matt – and who knew how many others onboard – had contractually agreed to they would be at first horrified then outraged. Hence, whether the operation was actually illegal or not, the organizers considered it politic to simply and surreptitiously spirit the newcomers aboard.

That evening, Matt and Jenn accompanied Roland to dinner at the Jericho site of the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club. Roland, it seemed, was somehow associated with the cruise although he remained very vague about it, deflecting most questions. His heartiness during the meal became conspicuously forced, and Matt wondered what he knew that he wasn't willing to share. Jenn figured that he was simply trying to hide his disappointment at losing a friend and slave for the coming year. While trying to remain jocund, he commented, wiping away imaginary tears, that he was losing his only true prodigy.

After a late meal that stretched well into dusk, after the lights on the Celestial Concubine had flickered on and danced across the water like golden fairy-dust from the sandman’s pouch, the three of them, Matt and Roland flanking Jenn like bodyguards, quietly strolled down the ramp onto the floats, to the soothing sounds of the sea – slapping, lapping. They boarded a twenty-five or thirty foot motor launch called A Kind of Freedom, where Jenn and Matt collapsed onto the settee, consumed by their own thoughts and apprehensions. Roland prepared a couple stout drinks – a very tall single malt, neat, for Matt and an ice-cold vodka straight up for Jenn. There was no one else on board. They watched the clock and the colour of the sky, sipping and talking trivia – watching the clock. The ...Concubine was departing at midnight; they would board during the half-hour before.

At eleven twenty, long after dark had obliterated the water – all but the twinkling reflections of lights on the anchored vessels – they motored inconspicuously from RVYC straight out to the ship. At the companionway, when Roland said "Farewell,” Jenn was tempted, momentarily, to analyze the sad and unsure, almost forlorn, apologetic look he wore. It was as if he were not absolutely sure that a terrible mistake wasn't being made; but it would not do to even consider that at such a late hour. Nonetheless, he said farewell – not goodbye, just farewell. Matt, suddenly hyped, like a kid leaving home for the first time, remarked that they were just like Elliot in Exit to Eden, and Roland nodded resignedly, "Yes... something like that."

An officer stood just inside the door, just inside the hull, eight feet above the waterline, watching silently. With a hug and a kiss, a handshake and embrace, Roland stepped back onto the ...Freedom alone, and pushed himself free of the companionway, before climbing to the bridge. They could see him as he started the engines and motored away slowly. He seemed to deliberately avoid looking back at them. Jenn caught herself waving at the retreating transom. She felt a little ridiculous as she quickly wiped an unexpected tear from her eye. Only his working Adam's apple, betrayed Matt's feelings as they watched the blackness swallow Roland. The uniformed man at the entrance said nothing until they had turned, picked up their small bags and crossed the threshold. They heard the companionway being retracted as the door closed. They had, in effect, just vanished from their old world.

"Welcome." The sailor was suddenly animated. "Just leave your luggage here, and follow me if you will." Obediently, Jenn and Matt trailed behind the fellow who moved with a military precision as he chatted about the ship and its amenities – as if he were simply filling the silence – as indeed he was.

They were ushered into a large office, where an array of about a dozen chairs was arranged facing an expansive oak desk. Their guide showed them to seats in the middle of the front row, advising them to be attentive, as they would find this little orientation very pertinent. He quietly moved away to stand at the side of the room. A man in a suit entered from a door in the back corner of the room, and, after pausing to converse briefly with the officer, strode around the desk and seated himself in a large, leather swivel chair. Jenn noticed their guide leave quietly as the man got settled. After he had spread out his papers and put on his glasses, he seemed to survey the room, although Matt and Jenn were the only other occupants – sitting apprehensively still. His gaze rested on them for a long moment before he cleared his throat and began.

"Hello and welcome to the Celestial Concubine. My name is Peter and I am one of the administrators of this organization." He looked like a fairly ordinary fellow, Matt thought, not sure of what else he would have expected. Matt was intrigued by the man's nonchalance more than by what he was saying. The details of their employment were, he thought, basically trivia as they were already here and that was that. Peter pointed out that, as they had all signed contracts, they were basically indentured slaves. "You will be leaving society as you know it; the rules you lived under there," his sweeping gesture indicated everything outside the ship, "are no longer applicable.” The enormity of their move began to take shape, take on a form and size in Jenn's mind. It was to be a small matter of sexual serfdom, pure and simple, and they had agreed to be the serfs. The tingling fires of excitement that had been glowing, smouldering all day, for the past several days, began to spark and crackle. Their warmth began to lick in slow tongues up Jenn's spine. “For the duration of the voyage,” the administrator explained, “you will be vassals, that is, as opposed to crew or staff, administration or guests.” He continued very matter-of-factly, “You will, of course, be totally and completely obedient – fully compliant. You have leave to question nothing."

He was a good speaker, Matt observed. Very smartly dressed, he had a lot of poise and good delivery; although, there were no surprises in what he said. He described exactly what they had signed up for. "There's no need for modesty." His executive manner became slightly more confidential. "We all know what we find attractive and what we don't; we can all face our desires head-on; to desire or be desired, we can all cope with that as adults, I trust." He went on further, generally re-explaining the expectations and responsibilities inherent in fulfilling their contracts. Here and there in his presentation he added some detail. Matt wondered if it was done more for titillation than for elucidation. "Despite our loud and vehement protests, humans are creatures easily manipulated – easily conditioned." His voice dropped as he added, rather conspiratorially, and looking, for the moment, directly at Jenn, "For that reason, after any and all corporal discipline you will be caressed – to climax if manageable. That way sessions always end on a high, and the prospect of a whipping almost always means the anticipation of a climax." He looked around the room. Matt fought a sudden urge to turn around to see who else was there. Had anyone come in behind them?

"It's none of my business," he reprimanded, pulling himself up rigid as the speaker concluded the orientation, such as it was.

"If you have any doubts, you can disembark now, for once we are underway, you will have no choice but to remain for the duration of your contracts." Once again he stopped, but Jenn knew from something in his eyes that he didn't expect any last minute resignation.

“We have been far too well screened for that,” Jenn observed to herself.

"Are there any questions? No? Then the keepers will escort each of you to your quarters."

There was movement behind them but neither Matt nor Jenn turned around; they knew that their submission had already begun. At that moment, the ship began to move. Jenn could feel it – barely perceptible. Matt felt it too. He placed his hand gently on her thigh. He couldn't decide whether the shiver he felt there echoed fear or arousal; but the shudder than ran through him was the realization that they were committed. And committed to whatever, there was no turning back.

The Andersons, Matt and Jenn, were approached by two staff members – a man and woman respectively – who beckoned them follow. The silence, broken only by their shuffling feet, was both oppressive and soothing. Matt wondered what they had done. Jenn just wondered what would happen next. Matt fretted; Jenn anticipated.




Tangled Passions Pt. 03 Ch. 32-34



There wasn't, in the confusion, even time for them to say good-bye. The staff members escorted them separately from the office. It was only after she started down the corridor that Jenn realized Matt wasn't with her. Whirling around she saw him, reluctant to pull his wistful gaze from her as his escort guided him in the other direction. They shared an unsure smile for a single instant, then, gathered by their respective guides, they turned silently to follow their separate paths.

They were shown, simultaneously, to their quarters – small, stark inside cabins, much like university dorms except that they were windowless. Jenn surveyed her new home, unaware that Matt saw an almost identical berth. A bed took up most of the space. It was a simple, single cot mattress and pillow housed in a sturdy wooden frame and covered with a light blanket style spread that hung to the floor. A desk and dresser combination sat along one wall, before an upholstered chair, and backed by a large wall mirror. There was a small sink with a single faucet next to the head – a closet sized toilet, and a tiny wardrobe, in which sat her unopened bag. A small bookshelf hung above the bed. Jenn stepped boldly past her escort, into the room, taking in its layout. 

"Undress please. Someone will be with you shortly," the woman said before closing the door. There was no handle on the inside, only a keyhole. She knew that she shouldn't have been surprised at all – perhaps she wasn't, really. She walked to the bookshelf, kicking off her heels as she read the array of spines – the titles included The Story of O and the Sleeping Beauty trilogy, as well as many others Jenn recognized – all, of course, erotica. Get undressed, she had been told. She mechanically shed her clothes, suddenly exhausted by the strain of adventure as well as by the long day and late hours. She let herself lie down, just for a moment, and fell instantly into a deep satisfying sleep. She didn't wake at all when, throughout the night, the door opened quietly and pairs of eyes studied her appraisingly.


XXXIV.

The next days were a jumble of instruction and routine establishment. There seemed to only be six of them – six greenhorns – two men including Matt, and four women, although two of them seemed to be hardly more than girls. Jenn only saw Matt from across the room during the lectures – lectures informing them and reminding them of rules – new and old. Their eyes seldom met. He seemed engrossed by the lessons. Jenn felt a little sad that they couldn't communicate, at least somewhat. It wasn't really very complicated. Don't speak unless spoken to; keep your eyes averted when with guests; question nothing; comply.

They were all eventually fitted with tack – bracelets, anklets, collars and belts; but were otherwise kept naked. Introduced to keepers, they learned the routines – albeit very flexible routines – of bathing and toileting and eating. They were paraded and displayed in the main dining lounge, before the guests, who laughed and pointed and apparently made notes; yet, other than the occasional pat or light smack on the bottom, they were left untouched. For Matt the waiting just made the inevitable more inevitable; but for Jenn, the heat of anticipation was too much. By the third night she had to stroke herself to climax before sleep would come.

All of the newcomers, along with some veterans, were given shifts bussing in the dining room during and after the main meals. Despite their nakedness, Jenn was disappointed at such a menial task. Matt bided his time. Nearer to the end of the first week, the six neophytes were told to serve the after dinner beverage. As much as it had been eagerly awaited, the first groping hand, suddenly sliding into her crotch took Jenn by surprise. She let out a stifled yelp as the unexpected fingers pinched and spread her labia, and she had to juggle in order not to spill her tray. The perpetrator gave a jovial laugh at her consternation while pushing his finger deeper into her. The evening rapidly became a miasma of probing and groping, cocks and quims. Was it only less than two hours later that a keeper led her back to the shower, toileted her and put her to bed, her heartbeat having barely settled, her skin still flushed?

Quickly, as the first week ended, Matt and Jenn both found themselves busy for much of each day, given dining room shifts at some of the meals, catering to individuals in the lounges, or being requested for the entertainment of one or more guests in a private cabin. If breakfast shift had been drawn, or a request for wake-up sex, then the keepers would get them up early, otherwise they usually stayed in bed – or at least in their rooms, until late morning. Into their second week on board, Jenn began to wonder if that was all. Her treatment was generally tame – civilized. Where was the humiliation? The degradation? Although certainly not unsatisfied, Jenn felt just a bit disappointed. She could have stayed back at Celebration for this. Mind you, there was the aspect of being held for a year – no way out, and that fact, in itself, provided a sensual backdrop to the rest of it.

Sometimes, alone in her quarters, Jenn would wake from a late morning dream with a start, suffering through an adrenaline rush; feeling decidedly disoriented. One recurring dream involved being subjected to the machinations of mechanical apparatus; being fastened down over a bolster or a padded horse, while a large thrashing machine mercilessly thrashed her backside. The machine was a big, slow moving wheel from the rim of which hung leather thongs in bunches. The wheel was positioned so that, as it turned, the whips flogged her derriere inexorably, with a lash every two seconds or so. This went on, in the dream, for hours on end.

She also dreamt of huge mechanical fucking machines; great big steaming, snorting, hissing monstrosities with impossibly huge shiny metal cocks that rammed into her – in and out, in and out. There was never anyone else around in these dreams – these nightmares; never anyone to hear her pleas. And she always woke with a start, heart pounding, breath coming in gasps, vagina wet and tingling.

The organization of personnel on the ship was a complexly layered weave. Management – the executives and administrators and the few powerful people to whom the enterprise belonged – was at the top. They were, however, virtually indistinguishable from the guests who were to be addressed – and only when appropriate – as milord or milady. There was service staff – stewards, cooks and orderlies who doubled as handlers and keepers; they were to be addressed as sir or ma'am. The cruise directors were trainers as well and were to be addressed as master or mistress. The ship's operating crew – that is, officers and sailors – was like a fringe, surrounding the others but having little contact. Somewhere in the milieu were the employees like Matt and Jenn – the vassals.

The Celestial Concubine could travel up to 500 nautical miles in 24 hours. Like a regular cruise ship, it usually came into a port in the morning and left at night, although it sometimes stayed in cities of special interest for more than one day. It had stopped in San Francisco and Los Angeles before reaching Vancouver. From there it would cross the Pacific to stop, among other places, at Tokyo, Seoul, Shanghai, Taipei, Hong Kong and Macao. After that the itinerary included Manila; a cruise amongst the islands of the Philippine archipelago and across the top of the Moluccas to New Guinea, with stops at Jayapura, and Port Moresby in Papau; possibly Darwin in the Northern Territories of Oz; various ports throughout Polynesia including Jakarta; north to ports like Banjarmasin in Borneo, and Brunei; across to Saigon and Bangkok before dropping down to Singapore. Its space-age hull would grace many Indonesian and Southeast Asian ports and coastal villages, climbing back up again to Rangoon, before gliding across the Bay of Bengal and into the Indian Ocean. It would continue its meandering, visiting places such as Calcutta, Madras and Colombo. Bombay would probably be the last stop before it headed for Aden or Abu Dhabi and the alien reality that was Arabia.

Their personal experiences were added to by degrees. Every few days another small twist would be introduced into their repertoires – or, more often, reintroduced, having been first encountered ashore, in their most recent pasts; yet, despite the continual arousal, the sometimes overwhelming sensuality, the days and nights became soothing in their repetition. There was a tranquility in the ebb and flow of required sex. For both Jenn and Matt, day and date on board the Celestial Concubine soon ceased being at all relevant. Matt wondered, puzzled by the concept, "Would such a loss of relevance, once acquired, persist forever?" Indeed, time itself had very little meaning – certainly there were sleeping intervals; and eating breaks a few times a day; there was even occasional downtime – but day and night, am or pm ceased to have any significance. They completely lost track of duration – sometimes it was light out and sometimes it wasn't, though usually they had no idea. Traveling in the tropics and subtropics meant that season was of little or no consequence, either. Slowly both Matt and Jenn realized that their lives on the ship had become temporally disjointed – they were no longer in the regular space-time continuum. They existed in a separate world with no apparent passage of time – they were in limbo or, perhaps, as Matt thought, purgatory.

After an initial long stretch – as it plowed its way deliberately across the wide Pacific – the ship stopped now and then for extended periods. They could only assume that it was anchored in some oriental port, because life for the Andersons went on very much as before. They could not have noticed that several of the guests disembarked for day trips ashore, some of them taking vassals with them. Matt assumed, correctly, that the first stop was Tokyo, but they were not told and could not ask, so the identity of the next stops remained unknown to most of the vassals. Those taken ashore were rarely informed but could sometimes deduce the locale incidentally. It mattered not at all. Only the newest of them, like Matt and Jenn, gave it the slightest consideration; the ship simply seemed to be still for a while, then, after one or two sleeps, it got underway again. That's all.

One night – and it was, indeed, night, for the dark outside the windows was pierced with tiny lights – shortly after the stop in Hong Kong, as it happened, Jenn was in an upper lounge in waiting when she overheard a conversation that followed her and prickled her for quite a while afterwards. The ship had apparently slowed and was creeping through the inky black of the South China Sea, ostensibly toward Macao. The lights of a large yacht, or perhaps a small ship, were passing to starboard, heading east. As Jenn stood beside, and slightly behind the guest to whom she 'belonged' for the evening, he concluded a leisurely visit over dinner with another couple, whose vassal, like Jenn, stood silently aside. Jenn allowed her downcast eyes to stray from time to time to the profound blackness that descended over the final wisps of the day. She wondered if her nakedness was visible to any prying lenses aboard the anonymous passing vessel. In the interceding darkness, she could gradually discern very dim lights approaching the Celestial Concubine. As the lights neared her vantage-point, the soft glow from the large lounge windows illuminated, very slightly, a small craft, just before it slipped out of sight below their gunwale.

The guests had noticed the approaching boat as well and their talk turned casually to its presence. Without consciously doing so, for she usually tuned out the ambient conversations completely, Jenn found herself inadvertently eavesdropping.

"Coming for their pick up, I s'pose," the other man remarked.

"Who's taking delivery here?" her master asked.

"Chaing Tse, I believe."

"Oh," the women chimed in brightly, "he's so... I don't know... mysterious? wouldn't you say?"

"He pretty well has to be, operating in the PRC as he does," the man stated rather uninterested.

But his companion continued, "And smuggling them back into the country – it's a bit odd, isn't it."

"He knows where to get the quality well trained – uh," Jenn sensed that he subtly acknowledged her presence in choosing his words, "- commodity he demands."

"And how does he get them in?" her possessor asked.

"There," they stopped and, sure enough, the dimly lighted boat, accelerating smoothly away from them, was soon swallowed by the night. "They'll just motor up the Zhujiang Kou tonight..."

"Where?" the woman interrupted.

"The Zhujiang Kou, the Pearl River, its estuary at least. I think they disembark at Zhuzai or some little place like that."

"You sound like you know a lot about it."

"Not really. Tse joined us on a cruise a few years back. I asked him about it then. He said that Guangdong Province here...” Jenn caught the man's sweeping gesture out the window in the corner of her periphery, "is infamous for its smuggling and corruption. Still he avoids the capital, Guangzhou, when he takes his new possessions home – to his estate back in the hills."

"How does he manage to keep his property from the communists?" the woman asked.

Jenn's master muttered, "Probably involved with the Triad."

"Probably," the other fellow agreed, "I understand his holdings and his stable are both very impressive."

Looking surreptitiously out of the tops of her eyes, Jenn watched the point where the mysterious craft and its even more mysterious cargo had disappeared. The voices next to her faded into the background as she tried to see if she really understood just what was being delivered out there. Before she could work it out, the three at the table all stood. Wishing the others a pleasant evening, Jenn's possessor took hold of the leash hanging from her collar and began to walk, with an abrupt, "Come with me." Jenn followed him passively into the dim passageway heading who-knew-where.

Later, during occasional moments of solitude or reflection, Jenn would wonder over and over who it was who was secretly taken up the Pearl River to the mysterious estate in the hills; how old had she been; in what aspects had she been well trained; and how had she fared? There was no doubt in her mind that the well-trained commodity had indeed been a 'she' – a vassal like herself. Had she been beautiful? Asian or white, or something entirely more exotic? And how had she felt? What had she thought as the small, darkened boat pulled away from the ship? Had she been frightened? Often Jenn tried to project herself into that position. How would she feel? But who could ever know? The future was as difficult to divine as the past was to understand. Stay here, she would tell herself. The present is exciting and confusing enough.

In Jakarta, Matt was requested to accompany a guest on a sortie into the city. Wandering through the crowds, they had sought out the underbelly of the city, and true to the image of Southeast Asia, it seemed to Matt a dark and dangerous place, alive with curious sights and sounds, redolent with exotic scents. Matt was dressed in loose silk trousers and a silk shirt, both in shades of blue. He had sandals on his feet that exposed, as he walked, his leather ankle cuffs. The outline of Matt's pelvic harness, occasionally visible through the thin material of his pants, would be of identifiable interest to those in the know. The guest, a portly man of indefinite extraction, barely older than Matt himself, continually caressed Matt's bottom, punctuating his clutches with random smacks and sending vibrations up through his butt plug to keep him on the edge of stimulation. After sauntering through the milling, frightening crowds, through the wall of unintelligible cries, they finally stopped at a dirty, sinister hovel – a place where, even less than the market through which they had passed, there was not even the tiniest trace of western culture. On entering, they were assaulted by the pungent aroma of hashish smoke, curling in thick tendrils from the depths of the room, obscuring the details of a starkly alien environment.

Matt's escort settled himself back onto a cushion and, patting his hip, wordlessly indicated that Matt stay at his side – like getting a dog to heel. A small, dark boy obsequiously loaded and lit a water-pipe for Matt's lord, before backing away like a groveling sycophant. Matt knelt impassively as the man began to puff the hookah earnestly, while reaching with his free hand to squeeze and fondle Matt's genitals. After the initial frenzy required to establish the glow of burning hashish in the bowl of the pipe, he settled into a tranquil rhythm, reclining a little more and reaching to his own crotch, he opened the front of his trousers to reveal a large but flaccid penis. Without even a sidelong glance, he pulled Matt's head into his lap.

Quickly bringing his hands to his face, Matt fed the limp member into his mouth. Sometimes he surprised himself at the relish he took from such degradation. His eyes remained open, both literally and figuratively. At times, he thought he knew exactly what he was about; at other times he had no idea. As he proceeded with the lingual caress, holding the meat with both hands and slurping it like a popsicle, the fleshy mass stayed lifeless – in no small part, he realized, due to the hashish. Nonetheless, the disappointment of his lack of instant success caused him to redouble his efforts. Bobbing his head in broken, random cadences, Matt squeezed and stroked with his hands until slowly, an extra warmth and integrity began to infuse his living lollipop. Matt's jaw began to ache long before the glacially slow erection stood unsupported, yet it continued its slow growth, for what seemed like ages, undoubtedly due to increased lethargy brought on by the smoke. Without stopping, Matt was aware of the houseboy returning to refill the nigreh.

Exhaustion threatened to overtake him while the cock in his mouth reached colossal proportions, but, just in time, Matt felt telltale tremors originating in the depths of his possessor's groin, and quiver up the shaft's surface to its glans. Invigorated by the approaching climax, at long last, Matt pumped the huge rod energetically with his mouth and hands, battering the back of his throat with the engorged helmet. Like an arrow hitting him unexpectedly from behind, Matt became suddenly and intensely aware of his own raging hard-on. Hands formed around the back of his head, pulling him heavily onto the throbbing erection, and as it finally began to spurt and spit, pulsing wildly into the back of his throat, Matt experienced a surprise detonation of his own. His own inflamed cock fought wildly against its confinement, straining painfully, bucking uselessly, it spasmodically jetted gobs of semen into his pants, at the very same moment he fought to swallow the issue that threatened to gag him and back up his nose.

The pressure on his head, while still holding him firmly impaled, relaxed to stroke fingers through his hair. Laving the still impressive cock with his tongue, Matt heard the dreamily muttered thanks above his head. He could feel the painful swelling in his groin recede; he could also feel the cooling wetness of his pants smearing against his pubis. Gently pushed away at last, he stood waiting as his escort straightened and led him back out into the street. "A slight loss of control, I see," the man said with a smirk, reaching to plaster the sticky mass back against Matt's crotch. He then lifted his slickened hand to Matt's mouth, to be licked clean, before striding back in the milling crowds of foreign humanity. Matt felt crushed with mortification, the dark stain on his trousers a loud declaration of his humiliation. Still, there was satisfaction, of some sort, in abject humility. He followed, with downcast eyes, as they meandered back to the docks, but the flush of Matt's face extended further and deeper into his soul. It may not have been right, but it was good, nevertheless.