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Tangled Passions Pt. 03 Ch. 38-39

By: Jazz E.



XXXVIII.

How long they had been at sea was no longer even a matter of conjecture. Life indeed went on, but time seemed to pass by Jenn and Matt and their compatriots, without affecting them. Timelessness notwithstanding, the ship rested a while, at anchor, when, one morning, it finally reached Bombay. Many, perhaps most, of the guests had gone ashore when, after breakfasting, Jenn was fetched by a handler. He said nothing to her, other than to specify her required attire. That far into their journey, there was rarely call for the handlers to speak unless it was to give special instructions, whether from guests or trainers – or in taking liberties of their own. Wearing only her leather tack and high heeled sandals, she was, intriguingly, draped in a light cloak before being led toward the ship's stern. As they approached a rather more decorative door than the others around, they were met by a trainer under whom Jenn had worked many times. The handler was dismissed, then the trainer turned to Jenn and began to speak.

"The people who run this ship," he began, sounding as if he were launching into a rich and old story, "officers and sailors – the operations crew, as it were – besides getting paid exceedingly well, get, from time to time, perks." There was, Jenn thought, a trace of – was it envy or just irony? – in his voice. Filling his hand with her bottom cheek, he gave her a squeeze as he turned back to the door and gave a sharp rap with his other hand. "You are today's perk." It was almost an afterthought. The door opened with a flourish, but the man on the other side was already turning away as Jenn was led into the poshly appointed lounge. The quiet hum of relaxed ambience in which a few officers sat at small tables drinking and chatting didn't change as she paused inside the threshold with her handler. No one paid her the slightest attention.

The trainer removed her cloak then led her to a piece of furniture that looked as much like a vaulting horse as anything else. She was told to lay her abdomen across it. It was slightly more than waist height so that when the handler spread her feet apart to fasten her ankles to the legs of the affair, she ended up on tiptoes. Her arms were pulled taut and her hands fastened to the front legs of the strange piece. The result was that she was stretched across the padded top of a table/horse affair, supported from her hips to her lower sternum, with her breasts hanging down against the front surface. The trainer straightened up, after checking that her limbs were well secured, and quickly cinched a wide strap tightly across her lower back. He lifted Jenn's chin, and, looking her straight in the eyes with a look so completely unreadable that Jenn found it disconcerting, he said, "Well, my dear, this will be the end of your training. Once you're through this, you're done."

"Whatever do you mean?" Jenn asked, surprising herself with her boldness, a sense of foreboding trickling down her exposed spine. Had their year passed already? Were they going to be sent home? An incomprehension splashed across her face, leaking from her eyes.

But the trainer just chuckled and winked. Letting go of her chin, he added, "Oh, you'll find out." He moved casually behind her, and, grabbing her pudendum with a suddenness that drew a small gasp, he said quietly, "I'll be going now." His finger ran lightly up and down her slit. "Be good." Jenn detected some sort of implied warning. "Be very good." She felt a mild let-down sensation as he briefly inserted his finger knuckle-deep into her vagina. "I'm sure you will." Suddenly, she was alone – trussed and exposed. The people around her ignoring her and the quiet affluence of the parlour made her feel more naked than ever. Once again she waited. Her fate was not her own.

What would happen would happen. She tried not to appear anxious. She tried not to be anxious, deliberately refraining from looking around, she closed her eyes and let her head drop. Her mind wandered away to nowhere, but was brought back by the sound of more people entering the room – moving about. Amidst the milling, hands idly touched and stroked her. Slowly she raised her head once more, and opened her eyes to the buzz of conversation, rising and falling about her like windblown branches. The room was filling up with officers, drinks in hands, gathering into small knots that swirled past Jenn's field of vision with hardly a glance. The light smacks on her buttocks, and fingers trailing along her flank were almost incidental. She felt somehow invisible; until, finally, someone cupped her chin and, lifting her head, looked into her face, saying absently, "Not bad, not bad at all." His thumb moved up to press into the corner of Jenn's mouth. She responded immediately by sucking it and running her tongue around and down its length. She moaned softly, the personal attention igniting her lusty craving. She wasn't frightened, or even apprehensive, only impatient.

"Richard," a jesting voice called, "hasn't anyone ever told you: never look a gift horse in the mouth?"

Rubbing his thumb over her bottom teeth, he turned and said, "Just checking." He pulled his hand away, adding, "Good responses," and smacked her cheek.

"Well, here goes," a voice behind her said calmly, belying its intention, but the suddenness with which she was split, the terrible force of the cock that rammed so deep into Jenn elicited a loud, surprised gasp and obscured the details of the quickly precipitating action. Before her eyes could regain their focus, hands clasped at her ears and an ardent prick was stuffed between her lips. The evening's fun had begun.

Suddenly she was no more than a mere sex toy. Cocks inserted into and pulled out of her continuously – into her mouth, her cunt, and her ass. "First tracks!" someone yelped, as, after pushing urgently against her anus, the hard, hot nut quickly overcame her resisting sphincter and pierced her with violent thrusts. Jenn felt the warm effusion jetting into her bowels before a rapid withdrawal left her feeling momentarily neglected. After that, her backside was never empty for long. No one spoke to her, but the feverish ordeal seemed forever accelerating. Always, someone was ramming his rod into her mouth, while a cock, or maybe something smooth and cool, like a bottle was being pushed forcefully into her vagina; a large cock, or possibly a dildo would saw away in her ass; her nipples were twisted; her breasts pinched; someone smacked her backside sharply, eliciting a few grunts and groans from her, but mainly she was silent.

With such an intense overload of sensation, Jenn unconsciously filtered her perceptions. She was actually aware of only random slices of the multitudinous experiences that rained over her constantly. Pounded and poked, pinched and pawed, individual assaults melded into one nebulous stimulus, and filled her to bursting. They were taking her beyond every limit she had previously known. She vibrated with a supernatural resonance. Helplessly secured, she had come and spit and booze all over her, oozing down every crack and out of every orifice. And still the tireless onslaught continued. Jenn felt a deep radiance growing, glowing in her soul. These men, she realized, were not people of leisure and privilege. She could taste their sweat, and smell its pungent odor on their genitals. It was somehow different. They were working men, who smelled of honest work, and took rough, honest pleasure in their rewards. And somewhere in her being, more meta-consciously than subconsciously, Jenn felt honoured to be that reward.

As her sexual battery continued unabated, Jenn knew that, even under such seemingly horrific conditions, she would dissociate herself from the sordid, ignoble physical situation, and allow her own arousal to proceed. Slowly at first, then accelerating like an avalanche, the tickling, ever-new, ever-welcome sensations raced to the surface, from her heated radiance. Despite the scurrilous circumstances of her stimulation, she was, once again, inundated with wave after wave of pure pleasure. Many of the gathered debauchees stepped back, and watched in wonder the violence of her climax and its subsequent peaks. Ignited by her unrestrained display, they were spurred to use her with renewed vigor, again and again. While she allowed herself to luxuriate in the vast spectrum of sensation, somewhere in her objectivity she felt that maybe she should object. Surely such treatment went well beyond the boundaries of her tacit consent, the implied limits of her contract. Yet, not only was she not in a position to make any protest, she knew that she wouldn't have regardless of what was being done to her. She could not understand her own complete acceptance of such abject degradation, but she felt totally bereft of moral indignation. Qué sera, sera.

The test, or trial, or whatever it was – the ordeal went on and on. Even in Jenn's anesthetized sense of time, it was an awfully long time before most of them were sated. In the closing acts of the game, almost as a finale, a young officer, while churning up her saliva with his tool, spoke candidly to Jenn. Only with a tremendous effort could she wrest understanding from his words, and even then, they left her puzzled. "I guess you should consider yourself lucky," his casual tone rather incongruous with his semi-turgid cock that still bumped insistently against the back of Jenn's throat. "I understand that the – uh – playthings chosen for the sailors' mess have a much rougher time." With that, he came. His climax was tired, his ejaculation almost dry. He pulled out. Jenn was too exhausted to acknowledge the final desertion. She lay insensible to her abandonment.

Coincidentally, it was Matt who had been given the dubious honor of plaything for the sailors. At that very same moment, he was strapped similarly over a similar piece of furniture, still being buggered mercilessly; still being force-fed cocks, now less than rigid. He had been pinched and punched, slapped and beaten. The low, dirty sailors had continually taunted him in various languages, sticking things up his ass and pulling them out with a pop. Making fun of the noises, of his situation, of him. They took mortifying Polaroid pictures, which they waved before his face. The men who actually sailed the vessel were earthy – dirty and crude in all senses of the words. Matt could smell and taste the old sweat clinging to them as they repeatedly abused him. He was covered with come and spit, as well, perhaps, as other disgusting things – piss and shit and barf. Still, he realized he was in no position to complain. Furthermore, he felt somehow that his tormentors were just waiting for him to object. He wouldn't give them satisfaction.

Anyway, he knew that his life now was just one of on-going penance – a penitence of which he was fully deserving and fully accepting. Consequently, he not only tolerated the whole ordeal, he welcomed it. Such tactile, concrete tribulation was appreciable; it was real. Despite his age, he was really no more or less than a catamite. Yes, he mused, it had been a radical evolution of passion that had brought him from his spontaneous treatise, all those worlds ago, to where he was now. Still, the further Matt settled into his world of depravity, the more he found relief from the amorphous guilt that had stricken him for so long. He felt his life was, if somewhat paradoxically, improving, getting better and better the further he descended into the abyss of perversity. He was almost 'fine'.

At the end of the very long day, both Jenn and Matt, unaware of the similitude of their circumstances, were taken back to their cells, enervated and aching, dripping from sweat and the remnants of their travails. After sleep, they were cleansed and pampered, and that whole next day both were left to recuperate, alone in their cells. Jenn's new inner radiance had not been extinguished. She felt its warmth yet. She felt used, but not abused.

Bruises covered Matt's entire body. He had been ravaged. The keeper assigned to care for him flinched silently as he dabbed the more colourful wounds. He worried as Matt dozed and muttered through uneasy dreams; he tried to soothe Matt’s battered body. Nonetheless, despite being sadly swollen and sore, Matt’s misery was entirely superficial. When he woke, he was paradoxically happy. There was somewhere, too deep to make out clearly, a sense of fulfillment that he didn't really understand but was willing to accept. Under the watchful, fretful ministrations of his keeper, much of the swelling receded during his day of rest. Still colourful, he felt much, much better than he looked.

On the next day but one, both Matt and Jenn were brought to an upper lounge. Some trainers were apparently busy in the room, and only glanced up to dismiss the handlers, leaving Matt and Jenn standing just inside the door. Seeing Matt still black and blue all over, Jenn shivered. Her concern gleamed in her eyes, but she didn't know what to say. As they were stood next to one another, exchanging body heat in the interstice, Jenn glanced about to determine that they were unobserved, then she drew her fingers gently across Matt's bruised cheeks. A sympathetic 'oooh', whispered from her lips.

"It's all right," Matt said, in a low voice as they waited, "Really." He had needed the rough play to restore himself, for only the living bruise. His severe abuse had totally revivified him; more than extant, he felt, for the interval, at least, really alive. "Sort of keeps me in tune," he whispered, "reminds me that I'm still here, still breathing – feeling pain." Jenn felt his closeness as a soft chuckle drifted between them. It had been a long, long time since she had heard that. She smiled; she could still feel happy for him. He continued, barely audibly, "As Shaw said – or was it Wilde? – 'Life is not all beer and skittles.'" The attention of the trainers was turning back to them. Matt added quickly, as a final thought – in explanation, "This is my life. This is really me."

"Come here, you two," the trainer commanded, indicating spots in front and behind a leather couch. With an economy of words and gestures, Matt was positioned over the couch's back, supporting himself with outstretched arms against the seat. Jenn, from in front of the couch, was instructed to bend over and hold Matt's hands against the leather seat. That Matt was to be whipped was quite obvious, however, this time things were a little different. There were several others present, besides the Andersons and their trainers – other trainers and, apparently, management, as well as a few other vassals. It was one of the vassals, not a trainer, who, idly slapping a tawse in his hand, was eventually instructed to begin. The first crack of the strap snapped Matt's impassive torso off the sofa back, bringing a sudden gasp to his lips. Tears welled as Jenn leaned forward to pull his wrists back to the leather surface. The thrashing was especially brutal, although after the initial surprise, Matt was able to regain what composure was still available to him. He even allowed Jenn, whose eyes stared unwaveringly at his face, a humble smile between strokes.

As the flogging continued mercilessly, Jenn saw some other unidentifiable emotion tug at the corners of Matt's mouth. That same moment she felt someone place hands on her hips a press the solid tip of a rampant erection against her sex. An abrupt, violent thrust that sank the shaft fully into her drove the wind from her lungs with a whoosh. Without so much as a pause, the invader began to pound at her doggy-style; churning her rapidly released fluids. Everything was happening at once. Someone had crawled under her. She felt hands and fingers and lips caressing her nipples and clit; she couldn't tell how many, only that her orgasm was imminent. Still she kept her gaze riveted to Matt. His eyes had gone wide and distant, his complexion red. She knew that he was approaching climax as well. What she couldn't see was that a young female vassal, had crawled beneath him as well, and frigged him continuously.

Matt's perceptual field had narrowed and focused. All he knew or felt was the rhythmic, repetitive smack of the tawse, the caressing of his chest and the fondling of his genitals, gathering together into a steaming monster sensation that came on and on like a long freight train. Jenn's awareness, although just as intense, was more global. Through the swirl of arousal, she could see and appreciate Matt's rush towards climax; she could feel the impending anonymous ejaculation in her own throbbing sex; she could feel the towering waves of orgasm washing relentlessly forward. Was it a sudden warmth, or perhaps an imperceptible quiver through his arms down to his hands, or was it some less tangible sixth sense? Whatever the connection, as the strap continued to rain on his backside, Matt's roaring climax coincided with Jenn's, which triggered a gushing spend inside her. The liquor of Matt's profuse spending was collected in a glass, fingers milking his wilting erection. Without missing a beat, he felt the wet warmth of a mouth engulf him, and a smooth lingual stimulation begin in counterpoint to the pounding beat against his buttocks.

After only a few more deep, stomach-pulled-tight-to-rump strokes, and a sharp smack against her flank, the cock pulled abruptly out of Jenn. The pulsing void remained only long enough for her to become aware of it before another steely shaft filled her with a sudden, rough stab. The fingers and lips below continued, insistently irritating, aggravating, stimulating her. The replacement stud pounded into her with such vigor she could barely hang on to Matt's hands, still held against the leather of the seat. Below her a tongue mercilessly circled and prodded her clit in syncopation with the pounding cock. Like dancers, they all seemed to gyrate vigorously, harmonically until stiffening as one, the collection of bodies – how many were there, five? six? – exploded into one huge all encompassing climax that shook them. Gasping and moaning loudly Jenn felt the powerful blasts of tribute fill her vagina as she squirmed on the tireless tongue at her quim.

The rest of Matt's semen dribbled from the mouth of his felator into the collection glass, as the last blow cracked against his ass. For a moment, the only noise was heavy breathing that filled the atmosphere with a sultry humidity. The woman with Matt's collected spunk turned to his flogger, and quickly – she didn't need much time – jerked him into the same glass. Without a word, she took the glass over to the several handlers who were waiting unobtrusively, and one by one masturbated each of them into the glass. The level of sexual energy in the room was almost unbearably high so that it took little time for her to wring orgasmic, guttural gasps from each in turn.

Jenn hadn't moved, although the hands and tongue beneath her had dropped away. As she hung from the softening cock, leaning with shaky arms against the couch, another cock traded places behind her, and, in a quick almost mechanical frenzy of strokes, added its load of come to her reservoir. Again and again, someone new entered her. She lost count. Without pulling out, Jenn's final ravisher leaned forward to cup her breast, and lifted her by them, to standing. Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Jenn felt once again, insistent fingers against her cunt, accompanied by a cold, smooth something. She didn't have the energy to look at the woman who held a wine glass to Jenn's slit and milked her of the draining semen.

The glasses were place reverentially on a table next to the trainers' chairs. Waiting handlers were summoned then dismissed with the other vassals. "Give them a moment to catch their breaths," said a sympathetic voice. Jenn was lowered onto the couch, where she rode out the emotional vortex until it finally began to settle into calm. She opened her eyes to see Matt standing at her side. His awareness had returned quickly, riding on the burning waves emanating from his glowing backside. He watched the men – trainers and management – tucking themselves back in, closing fly-fronts and straightening trousers; silently observing him and Jenn. He felt her eyes open and looked down to greet them. Her sheepish grin, glittering above her still heaving, shuddering breasts, was enchanting. He returned it in kind.


Tangled Passions Pt. 03 Ch. 38-39



"Okay everybody. Let's get going." Sounding like a game show host, the trainer in charge beckoned them to the table. There were three trainers there altogether and four 'suits' – nine people including the Andersons gathered around the table. "We're here to acknowledge the matriculation, as it were, of Matt and Jenn."

Jenn's mind wandered back to her night in the officers' lounge. "What was Matt's 'final exam' like? What about any others? Surely there must be – have been others. What had they had to do?"

"They have," the fellow went on, "successfully finished their training and done so admirably, as you all know. Their time with us, and their accomplishments leading up to this graduation have been rather extraordinary – their being married to one another has been just one more peculiarity." A few of the others nodded their agreement and all smiled at the couple standing there naked before them. All this talk was making Matt feel uncomfortably self-conscious. The intense smoldering of his rear he could take, but talk like this was embarrassing. He tried to stand still and wished they would get it over with. "So this ceremony is to congratulate them as mature grads. Graduating, I might add, with honours. Both Matt and Jenn have been so agreeable, so amazingly compliant for their whole time here. I'm not sure if we've ever had students who never, absolutely never conspicuously objected or balked at anything they were required to take part in – or submit to."

"Is he implying that such compliance is unusual?" Jenn wondered silently. "It's odd, but once we were here, thoughts of actually objecting never even surfaced. I wonder why that is?"

The ceremony continued as two ornate pillows were silently presented to the man in charge. On each lay a spiral ring of a bright golden alloy. They were intricately sculpted serpents with jeweled eyes and fangs, tongue and tail bracketing four coiled loops. “As a permanent token, designating your fine progress and development at this facility,” he intoned, raising one of the rings as he took Jenn’s left hand, “I offer you…” Once again, the concept was so rhetorical. “…this symbol of your marriage into the arts of submission.” He slipped the ring, without too much difficulty, onto the finger where Jenn had worn a wedding so many ages ago, or so it seemed. She could feel the spring tension of the device grip her finger with a strange tenacity. “An enduring emblem – a mark of bondage. Like so many things, much easier to get on than off.” He went through the same process with Matt. For Matt, the ring finger had been bare even longer.

Almost in an aside to Matt and Jenn, he remarked, “We feel these are just as identifiable but not as outrageously conspicuous or gauche as the tokens of other similar institutions – you know, things like tattoos, or outlandish body piercings, threaded with rings and chains.” He gave an almost affectionate nod and followed their gazes as they lowered their eyes to admire the subtle yet awesome rings. It was more the significance than the physical presence that caused shivers to run through both the graduates. “Nonetheless,” he added with a sly wink, as he moved to conclude the service, “once on they are next to impossible to remove.”

At a nod, one of the other trainers produced a tray of champagne flutes from a sideboard, filled them quickly and passed them about. Matt was given the glass of semen milked from Jenn; Jenn, the glass to which Matt had contributed. The viscous fluid still showed swirling traces of its original milky whiteness but was quickly degrading into a thick, clear glycerin-like liquid. Raising his glass up, the trainer proposed a simple toast. "To our newest, most intriguing grads. Cheers!" With a clink of glasses, Matt and Jenn joined the toast, downing their respective 'liquors' in single draughts.

Jenn wondered how they could both be so nonchalant – so unquestioning. “I guess, as perverse as it might have once seemed – in that other long-ago existence – we are now well and truly past all opportunity for moral restraint.” It was just another new experience, another novel idea. Jenn gave an internal, imperceptible shrug. Still, it was just a little sad. Virtually nothing phased her anymore.

Meanwhile, Matt only wondered what exactly they had just been trained for. What were they graduating to? It was, he suspected, something more than met the eye; something far beyond the ...Concubine. He had the sinking feeling that they had just passed the point of no return. Return from where, to where, he had no idea. Yet, he somehow knew that they had just sealed their fates – absolutely. A fatalistic calm settled over him, lying against his glowing rump, soothing, quieting. He felt himself unconsciously catch Jenn's hand and give it a gentle squeeze.

No one objected. So they stood hand in hand and listened.

"For how long have you been with us?" the trainer asked. There was a sort of sympathy in his look, a soft kindness in his voice.

Matt hesitated before answering, "I don't really know. Since Vancouver... uh?" He looked at Jenn for help. A perplexed look crossed her face as she thought about how long they had been on board. She finally shrugged helplessly at Matt.

Looking back to the trainer she asked meekly, “If I may, Master, what's the date today?" Once voiced, the question seemed so out of place, so absurdly irrelevant that she couldn't quite suppress the escaping giggle – the very fine edge of hysteria didn't go unnoticed. It occurred to her that, given their current status and situation, a concept as mundane as date was ludicrous.

The trainer smiled. It was a knowing, understanding smile. A smile that suggested that maybe he could appreciate the confusion, indeed, the small fright that swept through both Matt and Jenn like a cold squall, as they realized just how meaningless the idea of date had become. He answered Jenn’s question cryptically. "Yes, we too have noticed that one's sense of time often gets lost, out here at sea." Then, as if in dismissal, he looked at them both and added, "I trust that the remainder of your stay with us will be at least as fulfilling as your time has apparently been thus far."

He turned to summon the handlers. "Take Matt and Jenn back to their cells, please." The Andersons looked hollowly at one another, exchanging a final squeeze before dropping their hands and turning to docilely follow their respective handlers out.


XXXIX.

Shortly after their graduation – was it many weeks or many months into their trip, or longer – weeks and months, days and hours, these were no longer functional concepts. How does one measure passage when time itself no longer exists? In any case, a short while later, as the ship left Bombay and the coast of India behind, Jenn and Matt lay each in their own cell. They had, earlier, been returned from a sumptuous meal. Keepers had carefully bathed, and manicured them. Unaware of each other's similar treatment, they were purged with enemas, made up, coifed and perfumed, then left to lie on their cots. It was a surprise to neither when, presently, handlers entered their cells and wordlessly secured their wrist cuffs. Something was up. Although they couldn't have known it, they were gagged almost simultaneously, the smooth leather balls filling the space between their teeth, the snug leather strap embracing them just below the ears. Large, lubricated butt-plugs were inserted, filling their rectums and stretching their anuses, strapped to prevent premature expulsion. In Jenn's case, a large dildo filled her vagina, attached to the same strap as the rear appliance. Matt's testicles were encased in a black leather ball-bag, to which was attached a cock-ring that encircled the base of his tool, partially obscured by his pubic hair.

So attired and wearing nothing else, they were led silently to a door at the end of the great hall – the ship's main lounge. A sort of temporary stage had been constructed, and waiting in the dimness of the wings, Jenn glimpsed Matt’s arrival. For the briefest moment, he thought he had come to take her home. The shock of such an odd thought surfacing produced, in her, a sort of amorphous wave of melancholy.

For Matt, the term home had long ago ceased to hold any meaning. Matt thought almost ruefully, as he often had, of a verse from a classical poem that he learned for no apparent reason when he was in university. It seemed somewhat apropos as his universe closed in around him. It was by Algernon Swinburne, he recalled.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving,
Whatever gods may be,
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Matt's subtly sweeping gaze located Jenn right away. He was not surprised that she, too, was there. He would have been surprised if she had not been. More or less facing one another, they looked appraisingly, noting the close similarities in their attire. Eyes settling on eyes, a rather futile warmth passed between them. They still shared a love against all odds – they both felt it; but what did it mean? What was the point?

The year for which they had signed on had become very nebulous, losing all definition as the cruise progressed. Jenn's mind traveled back along their path, as she held Matt in her steady gaze. What was a year? A thousand orgasms, did that make up a year? It meant just as much – no, it meant more to them than 365 days. It still meant nothing. A contract for a year was incompatible with timelessness. When would the contract finish? When had it begun?

"Esteemed patrons and agents: this next couple, while middle-aged and married – yes, married – and to each other – have been very active in our program. They proved to be vigorously submissive and exceptionally compliant. Both are healthy and well-trained – although neither has been whipped excessively. Being husband and wife, they may be of interest as a pair; of course they are available separately as well.” Jenn and Matt were shuffled onto the platform during the introduction. It took a few moments to actually understand, not just what was being said but the ramifications of it all. "Although they are somewhat mature in years, they are obviously holding their youth well," he observed, fanning his hand over them, head to toe. "They are very vital in their activities. He is still quite virile, so might, if circumstances made it necessary, require castration. She has been surgically sterilized." He turned, presenting them with a sweep of his hand, and smiled, looking almost lewdly straight into Jenn's eyes – a salesman, proud of his wares, or sadist coming in for the kill? Jenn wasn't sure. There was something hollow about his smile, something dangerous in his eyes. He frightened her in a way she hadn't been frightened for a long time. Yet, there it was; again, that strangely enticing, delicious fear. Smoothly he turned back to the audience. "You've seen them before...." He paused, as if waiting for something, then continued. "So, without, as they say, any further ado, let's begin the bidding."

Jenn numbly obeyed the handler who twisted and turned her, lifting her chin, her breasts, spreading her labia so that the audience, the twenty or fifty men and women who sat in the dim area surrounding the dais, could fully appreciate her charms. She had never been religious, but life in a Christian society still led her to address her surprise to a deity. "Oh my God," she gasped to herself, silent behind her gag. What were once distant horizons had suddenly become impending realities "They're actually going to sell us. They're not going to let us go." A slow scream was rising within her soul. "This can't be happening – not in the twenty-first century." Nonetheless, her rational mind reminded her that they had offered themselves; they had come this far voluntarily – manacled and gagged and led to market. "What have we done?" Her eyes grew wide with the horrific realization.

But was this eventuality really so unimaginable? Really so unanticipated? A small voice, back in the logical depths of her reason, wondered, in a sort of aside to herself, why she was so surprised at the turn of events, after all, it really was the next logical step. The interesting question was, was this what they'd graduated to – their just rewards – or had this been the endpoint all along. Had they been conned from the outset, or had they earned this opportunity through their superior compliance? In signing aboard the Celestial Concubine, in giving up their freedom, they had sort of 'signed over the lease' on themselves – on their persons; they had abdicated from responsibility over their own bodies, responsibility for their own well-being, their own existence. In granting charge to someone else, they had given themselves over completely – although how completely was, perhaps, never quite clear. Had their owners – their lease-holders planned to sell them all along or had they just come to appreciate them and their talents as saleable?

In any case, it was finally clear where they were headed; their destination visible at last. They could now see what they, perhaps, should have seen so much earlier. It was now painfully obvious that they had only purchased passage one way. Like lambs to slaughter; yet, maybe it was more a rebirth: “The meek shall inherit...”

Descending – moving – into serious submission and discipline one exchanges freedom for power; for, indeed, in any voluntary submission and discipline it is the submissive partner who wields the power, deciding just how far a scene may progress, just how far to let the dominant partner take them. At the final transit, however, the final slip into sexual serfdom, one loses all freedom and power, irrevocably. One loses oneself to the desires of everyone else. And, in the end, slavery means being required to do things irrespective of one's own wishes. It is, in itself, a kind of freedom; it is total freedom from decisions and responsibilities.

But the knowledge that their liberty, the world as they knew it, was drawing to a rapid close, besides being a terrifyingly looming reality, ignited deep within Jenn a spark of excitement – and such a spark it was. As her nostrils flared and her breath came in the shortened puffs, she felt her profound fear of the unknown awakened once more. Her anus grasped rhythmically against the butt-plug filling her bottom, her rectum tingled in anticipation. The familiar sensations spread slowly forward; her vagina squeezed firmly on the shaft of the dildo, releasing it for only a moment before squeezing it again. A whole new life, a whole new existence was about to commence – adventure and passion in unknowable dimensions.

The bidding began at five hundred thousand dollars apiece. Someone spoke through the dim hush, perhaps an older Arab, perhaps not. "I'll take them both."

"Six hundred K for the wife alone," offered another voice, equal in timbre, equally at ease. The English being spoken was that of the very well educated, very rich, very powerful.

Still another voice, this time a woman's – still very powerful, still very calm, "Six fifty for her."

"Seven."

"Four hundred, then, for just the man." It was the voice of the opening bid, sounding just a little bored, or maybe tired.

The auctioneer asked, "Anything further on the husband?"

"My husband," Jenn said to herself, surprised at how tranquil she felt. The rush to climax stalled before reaching apogee, yet in its ebb, it left her feeling, not frustrated, but peaceful and calm. All was out of her hands and she knew it. She had to smile inwardly at the deep thought she didn't even bother to let surface; "He's my husband, and he's not for sale," because, indeed he was, and that was that. An existential acceptance settled over her; she felt herself metamorphose into a passive observer – a commodity.

“Four fifty,” called another voice. You could almost hear it smiling, “Let’s make this a real auction.”

The original bidder, not amused, countered, “Okay, five hundred. That’s my top.”

After a pause, the auctioneer asked one last time, "Any more on the husband? No? Once? Twice? Then – Sold, for five hundred thousand dollars US! Thank you. Now, more movement on the wife? Anybody? We're at seven hundred thousand dollars now. Do I hear...?"

At the word "sold,” Jenn had detected a hint of a smile touch the corner of Matt's eyes. And she knew – knew for certain its significance. She knew he smiled when he realized that he had, at least, gone for less than each of his daughters – and less than his wife.

Sold – independent of her! Jenn had to let the concept settle onto her unnatural calm. They had been through such an awful lot together; stayed together through so very much – more, Jenn thought, than most. But all things come to an end; all eras eventually pass. So they were to be separated at last. So...

As Matt was purchased and led out of the market, he observed to himself that he was hardly surprised, really. He realized he was heading into a destiny from which there would be no return; still, his only conscious regret was that he would probably never see Jenn again.

Jenn watched Matt follow passively as he was led off the stage. Was he standing just a little taller, the burden of responsibility finally and completely removed from his shoulders? Somewhere, amidst her shock and confusion, an objective question breezed calmly through her thoughts. Had this final surrender absolved him of the guilt that he had lugged around for all his life? Perhaps; for under total submission, one is not only stripped of all determinism and released from decision-making, one also becomes immune to blame; indeed, one is freed from any accountability, hence, in a way, slavery really is a type of freedom. Jenn felt herself on the verge of smiling – celebrating his triumph – and on the verge of tears – grieving his loss. She fervently hoped that in giving himself over totally to subjugation, Matt had, at last, found what he wanted – what he had been searching for; complete freedom.

Matt turned slightly, for a moment, to look at her. Jenn even thought she saw Patrick raise his helmeted head just a bit. Their eyes met for the tiniest of moments, an instant that said volumes. His eyes were filled with sorrow, but allowed not a trace of fear. No fear, but a sadness, and perhaps an apology – apologizing that the inevitable had arrived and that he had, so he thought, dragged her along in the confrontation of all his dreams and nightmares. She hoped her eyes conveyed to him forgiveness. She was the victim of her own designs, or possibly, she thought, as the warm tinglings once again began to tingle into her sex, the recipient of her own rewards. His eyes said, "Sorry for allowing my reality to encompass you."

Her eyes replied, "It was inevitable; everything is relative." During that persistently instantaneous glimpse, they shared the saddest bittersweet look of tragic love. A handler spoke sharply to him and he turned again, eyes toward his feet, shuffling into the wings and out of her view, out of her life, without another glance.

As he left, possibly – probably forever, a random thought surfed across her memory. "In this world," she recalled, although there seemed little reason for her to be remembering quotes from Oscar Wilde at a time like that, it came, nonetheless, "there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it."

As Jenn stared at the exit, where Matt had disappeared, she thought about what was occurring; that they were, both of them, going off to meet separate, unfathomable destinies. Paradoxically, she detected a euphoric sense of well-being rising within. It really was just a grand adventure, wasn't it? Somehow, amid the churning uncertainty that was engulfing her, the increasingly unignorable sensations surging up from her pubis seemed rather applicable. Voices slowly faded back into focus. "...sold for seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars US." 




Tangled Passions Pt. 03 Ch. 38-39



"That'd be me..." Suddenly her knees were jelly. She was floundering in an emotional maelstrom; slowly, yet resolutely, euphoria rose to the surface. Two handlers supported her as her breath came in short pants; her fundament throbbed against its intruders; her nakedness began vibrating uncontrollably. She could feel the tremors starting in her core and spreading throughout her physical self. Her vaginal and anal muscles began to quiver – at first slowly, accelerating in frequency, squeezing and relaxing, faster and faster. The phalluses that filled her orifices seemed to pulse as her quivering quickened – grasping and releasing, grasping and releasing. It was driving something into her – or out of her. She could feel it coming – not a familiar climax, but some sort of monster approaching – a behemoth creeping up inexorably from between her legs. The close air of the dim room, the almost imperceptible movement that wouldn't quite let you forget that you were at sea, the voices murmuring meaninglessly, the whole melee of faces and voices and leather and chains swirled about her, closing in. And a blackness reached into her mind.

Hearing herself being sold, like a commodity – and she knew she had become no more and no less – seeing her husband taken away, maybe seeing him for the last time ever…. She had gone for more money than her daughters. How could that be? The building tension finally exploded in her psyche; the sheer intensity threatened to unseat her mind. Never had she felt such a surge of ecstasy, never had she felt such profound despair. She shook in the grips of the handlers like an epileptic in seizure. Her head lolled from side to side, her limbs went alternately rigid and limp. Her trembling thighs glistened with the fine spray of juices escaping around the phallus, broadcast by her pulsating labia. Electricity coursed through her core, up and down, again and again, over and over. Everything stopped. And the audience, perhaps amazed, or shocked, or entranced, was still for a moment. But the moment went on and on. Dreamy, pathetic whimpers, barely audible, escaped from behind her gag. Then the whimpers changed to mews, and the mews to sighs.

As her orgasm subsided, her mind felt totally clear, she had been wiped clean. Had her daughters grown to adulthood, they certainly would have fetched far more than she, of this she was sure, but no one pays full price for seedlings. As consciousness returned, and all doubts had been crushed beneath the wheels of the orgasmic juggernaut, an innocent smile peeked from behind her gag. There was no “to be continued” this time. She had reached the end of the book. Anything that happened from now on would be part of a new story, not just a new chapter. She had turned the corner and she wouldn’t look back – couldn’t look back. It was a plexus; more than just a point-of-no-return, her old life was through – gone and irrelevant, like dust on the wind; this was rebirth.

Exorcised, renewed, she was ready. Her legs could almost support her again as she was led from the platform – led away to another place, a new world, a different existence – led away to be reborn – absolutely free.

The End