Postcards Ch. 05

If there is one thing in life that is certain, heaven has a sense of humor. I was the Mistress of Pace and I was forced to wait while Sean built a sand castle on my back. Along the way, he uncovered my ass and dusted everything with a whisk broom. He spread and ran water over my crevices, but only to wash away the sand. Much too soon he was back to adding towers and carving crenelations. He was very good at it. You should see the pictures. There is a staircase next to my butt and a moat in front of my mouth. It was years before I could look at them and not shudder.

After the pictures, Sean got serious. I think our time was getting short. He gave my ass a good pinking, then started teasing my pussy with the whisk broom. Lost for the moment was his thumb on my anus. Just as his thumb pushed through, he swatted my pussy with a light stick. I came buckets. By the time I recovered, Sean had loosened and lubricated my glory hole.

Anal sex is not my favorite thing. Even when I was eight months pregnant, I preferred face to face or cowgirl. Still, you remember your first experience. Sean managed to surprise me when he sank his shaft in a single stroke. He would alternate a couple of strokes with a swat with the whisk. I was holding back my orgasm long before he reached his. There is something so satisfying with simultaneous climax. For once I did not need to worry about falling over.

All good things end. Soon it was time to return. Sean unearthed me, so I was able to look around. There were a number of grass flowers, out of my restricted sight, with many more pieces scattered nearby. Those were the whisk brooms I had felt. The flower shaft was the light stick. The bundle on my back was a third flat rock, wrapped in the ground cover. I stepped back through my wrists and held the bonds out to Sean. He laughed as he untied them, perhaps because of their condition. Even stained, I would always keep them.

Once free, we went hand in hand into the surf. Sean made slow love to me, standing in the warm water. We were still in the process when a spotlight played over the beach. The surprise was enough to bring Sean to climax and I soon followed. The light came to rest on the remains of the bondage sand castle. Sean let out a piercing whistle to give our position away. All that remained was a naked walk to our suits and heading home. While Don drove the boat, we tested the lubricant oil. I was able to give Sean a third orgasm by sucking the head while stroking the balls and anus. Barbara was right; the taste was not bad.

Given all that had happened, I was shocked to note that it was only half past ten. The living room had a large flatscreen TV andallthe channels. We tried the skin flicks, but they were laughable. Instead, we ended with Barbara Stanwyck and Jimmy Stewart inThe Lady Eve. If ever there was a girl that would enjoy a paddling, that was one.

I fell asleep with my head on Sean's chest.

Sean:

Friday was our last full day on the island. As promised, I was up and out at 0500. Dan met me at the locker near the pier. I could see the water was much more choppy then the previous evening. According to Don, an unnamed low pressure system was causing rough weather to the east. The main center would pass well north of us, but the rollers were up and it would be a good day to cast for game fish.

Despite the predawn hour and overcast condition, it was not fully dark. We could see enough to place our feet and for me to find the fishing line. For the next half hour, that is what we did. At several places, I would bait a hook with a chunk of half frozen fish, then Don would throw it out over the waves. It was a jolt when Don said, "That's all of them. Now we start checking."

This was not a sport. The way Don did it. there was a lot of work. On the third pole, there was a strike. Instead of the bait, there was a baby shark. Don pulled the hook—using a steel mesh glove—then threw the three foot shark back into the water. The next strike was a trash fish. I winced as Don set the hook deeper and cast the entire fish. The third strike was better. Don knew what he was doing, because this fish was on the trash fish pole.

We have all seen pictures of anglers with a pole bent double. We didn't try that. Don judged the size of the fish to be "decent", which meant direct measures. He walked away from the water, then reeled line in as he returned. Before long, I could see the fish splashing in shallow water. Don let it splash. After a while, he picked up a long pole with a wight at one end and a hook at the other. He waded out, hit the fish with the weighted end, stuck the hook in its mouth and pulled it to shore.

It was ugly, with a lot of teeth. Don laughed at my expression, then weighed the fish with a hand scale. It was about eighteen pounds. Don shrugged and threw it in the cold bin. That was the excitement until just before the end. We had landed several fish, including a couple of sea bass, but nothing more than ten pounds. Don showed me how to use the smaller fish as bait. I had a hit on one of those casts.

Don rushed over when the line began to run. He showed me how to brace against the run and use the drag. I did nothing else for a while. Don's initial concern—that we had hooked a big tuna, which would break the gear—was soon replaced by excitement. He told me I had a wahoo, which was the island name for a fast predator fish. It would be excellent eating, if I could land it. I held on and tried to look competent. Don went around collecting the rest of the gear.

Without me noticing, it was full daylight. Don headed off to his day job, while I played with the fish. First to come down was Jan Sward. He asked what I had hooked. When I told him a wahoo, he nodded and wished me luck. That was as close to civil as he seemed able. Taking a look at the white capped water and gray sky, he shook his head and went back to his group. My guess was that he knew storm sign when he saw it. It was a pity. My last contact with the guy was the first I could respect.

Sheila and Barbara came next. Barbara was excited. I now understood its value as a sports fish, but it was also prized by chefs. Fresh and properly iced, the flesh could bring twenty dollars a pound and the fish was often over fifty pounds. In short, I had some real money on Don's line. Sheila gave me a hug, then towed Barbara away.

The traditional problem with speed is lack of endurance. So it proved with my fish. Long before Don was loaded to carry the clients to a bigger island, I started reeling in the line—lots of it. Barbara did the final stun, so I could pick it up. The fish was longer than I was tall and shaped like a crossbow bolt. According to the scale it was just over sixty pounds. Barbara took a dozen pictures as I staggered to the cold bin. I had to bend it double to get it in.

After that, Barbara put us to work. As with CC, Sheila seemed to be partly psychic. Given what Sheila said or did, I could usually unravel the indications Barbara was giving, but only if I paid close attention. It struck me that Sheila went through life paying close attention to everything. Contradictory as that seems, it described how she could do what she did. No wonder I loved her.

As an executive, nothing annoys more than problems resulting from inattention. I reached over and squeezed Sheila's shoulder. She sort of sighed and leaned into my hand. I told her it looked like a rainy day coming. She said nothing, but her reply was on the wind. I told her that building sand castles agreed with her. She replied with a throaty chuckle that made my cock twitch, then hesitated for a moment.

It was my turn to chuckle. "You can let Barbara watch."

Sheila:

I woke with a start—Sean was not there. How quickly we adjust to new situations. Sleeping with Sean was one of my favorite things, though building sand castles had to rank high on the list.

From a technical difficulty standpoint, his conception was only fair. For originality and execution, top grades. The wet sand filled tightly around my legs. Sean did the wrist binding well, then added the stone on my back, to force my elbows apart and put tension on the binding. The weight of the sand prevented any other movement. I tested it all and found I had no chance of escape. It mattered that Sean took the time and effort to completely immobilize me.

In the morning light, I looked at the poor scarves. Sand and salt water had ruined them for their intended use, though the pattern of the staining might be interesting. It struck me as a metaphor for how I felt. I was sand burned in several places and my ass still felt the invasion. Otherwise I felt relaxed to the point of limp. Five seconds of movement corrected that notion.

I took the scarves to the bathroom sink and rinsed them in cool water, which turned pink. As expected, there were now streaks and spots in the color. Fortunately, there were no holes. Silk is tough. I laid them on a towel to dry, then went outside to wash myself. As I passed in front of the cabin, I could hear Sean and Don talking about fishing, which changed my mind about the shower. Instead, I visited my stretching bar. It was like coming home.

Some aching time later, the sky began to lighten. I finished my stretch and went back to the shower. The cool water felt wonderful. Returning to the cabin, I found Barbara waiting. She kept glancing at the sky, which confirmed my thoughts about the weather. A storm was coming. Barbara gave our cabin a quick check, returning with a portable radio tuned to weather. The news was bad and good. It was a big storm, but the worst of it would pass between us and the Big Island.

I followed Barbara outside. She unlocked a door and started doing things to the generator inside. After a few seconds an engine started. Barbara threw a switch and told me we were on independent power for the day. After that, she started collecting the cushions from the outdoor chairs. The chairs themselves were tied with cable. She then showed me the switch for the powered shutters and the crank for the manual backup. It was all very routine, until I saw the idiot and his crowd.

Jan Sward was not acting like an idiot, which gave me pause. His posture lacked the aggressive, almost combative edge it held the previous two days. Instead, he looked at sky and water with resolution. He was Scandinavian, so storms would be an old enemy. I thought better of him as he herded his crew onto Dan's boat. They set off, leaving only myself, Barbara, Sean and the fish.

Sean always had mixed feelings concerning the fish. Well over five feet long and weighing sixty pounds, it was beautiful in its predatory way. The fish would have made a fine trophy, but Sean gave no resistance to Barbara's desire to cut it up. Even that waited, since Barbara needed to lock down the island. Sean simply forced the fish into the cold box and helped Barbara with her chores. In the years since, Sean is more likely to mention the dinner of grilled filets than catching the fish. Yet, he always keeps an image near his desk. If someone asks, he will show the image and tell the story.

Preparing the cabin for a storm was not difficult. The house was designed with rough weather in mind. Lightweight items were collected and stored. Larger items were chained to an anchor. Barbara had already done most of ours. Sean went with her to lock down the other cabins. I stayed to fix breakfast—and other things. Sean had promised me a thorough lashing, with Barbara watching. I raided the picnic drawer, then searched for other possibilities.

Now that I knew to look, Barbara's hand could be seen everywhere. The ceiling had exposed wood beams. Several hooks were set into them, some having hanging baskets. The highest point had a pulley attached, with a scented candle hanging. It was trivial to remover the candle and use the cord to pull through a much heavier woven rope. The hardware was stout enough to support two people. The rope could support half a dozen.

Other things included a curtain rod with ringlike finials. It was a ready to use spreader bar. The curtain rings were pinch type, which were perfectly sized for nipple and labia weights. The tiebacks were three feet of inch thick scarlet twist rope. One of the blind controls was made of Lexan and would be a perfect caning rod. The kitchen had a paddle shaped cutting board. Sean had already found the silicon spatulas. There was no whipping horse, but the bar stools had a pair of metal footrest rings, one just below knee height and the other three inches off the floor.

Next, I prepared a waiting place. A folded tablecloth covered the rug. On it I placed the flogger, then arranged restraints and implements to either side. Behind these I put bottles of lubricants, lotions, Sean's massage oil, aloe and first aid astringent. The tableau finished, I set the available imaging devices around the room. One still camera was set to shoot every fifteen seconds. The other sent video direct to the laptop. My old laptop would use its integral camera to gather a different angle and my smartphone would cover the tablecloth. Once I had disrobed, emptied and cleaned myself, I assumed Second Position and waited.

Christine loves Second Position. It fully exposes her, which feeds her exhibitionist streak, yet it is suitable for long term use. She can stay in it longer than most people can sit in a chair. I expected Sean at any moment, but I might wait a hour or more. Using Christine as my guide, I searched for a quiet place in my mind. I found something.

Barbara was the first through the door. Whatever she had been saying died. Sean nudged her out of the doorway, then continued into the room, his eyes intent on me. A thrill went through me. His gaze left me to inspect my work. My breath stopped, not to begin until his tiny nod conveyed approval. Sean looked at the preparations around the room, then turned to Barbara.

"Youhavebeen busy. How much does Don know?"

Barbara preferred silence, but Sean's will is a thing of iron. "Some", she admitted, "but not much. Madame tied me up for him yesterday. Cobra weave with monkey paws in the loose ends. Danté was impressed."

Sean nodded. "You may stay, but understand that this session is being recorded. Do you consent? Speak aloud for the record."

Barbara hesitated at the formalities, then said, "I do." When she realized her phrasing, she blushed deeply.

Sean ignored the obvious wordplay. "Sheila, prepare her."

Barbara started disrobing before I could rise to my feet. There were many possibilities, but I elected only a gag and wrists tied behind her. Once she was settled on her heels I squared her shoulders and pulled her head up, saying "Taller." That done, I presented myself to Sean—eyes down, heels together, wrists together in front. It was a bit pushy, but Sean seemed to be in a permissive mood. Naturally, Sean went a different path.

The curtain rod was a ready made spreader bar, but there were no cuffs. Sean had me stand on one foot while he wrapped leather around my ankle, then tied it in place with all three colors of paracord. Once both ankles were cover and tied to the rod, Sean told me to grasp the bar. His warm up swats started firmly and quickly went to stinging. After about a dozen on each side, he switched to the cutting board paddle. It was only the warmup, but neither Christine or Mario would consider it trivial.

The flogging flowed smoothly from the warmup. Sean used the heavy curtain tie to bind my wrists together, then to the pulley rope. With little apparent effort, he hoisted me off the floor, then stuck cushions under my feet, to prevent twisting. Nice touch. He began with light, thuddy strikes on the small of my back. After half a dozen as foreplay, he started spreading the strands and snapping his wrist. Ten stinging blows covered my back, then four more on my ass. Finally he set the flogger aside and picked up the Lexan rod.

Caning is not something I do lightly. Usually, it must be on Friday, so the client has the weekend to recover. I already anticipated trouble sitting on the plane. If Sean used the rod, it would be a difficult flight. Recalling the time Christine declined the heavy lash, I looked at the rod and nodded. Fire exploded low on my ass, followed by a slapping sound. Another blow, followed by another slap.

For a heartbeat it made no sense. Then I burst into tears and shook my head. Though I could not see it, I know the sound of cane on flesh. If it was not my flesh it had to be Sean's, most likely his palm. I could not let him bruise himself for me. The problem was that I started crying and could not stop.

Sean let me down, released my arms and legs, still I cried. He released Barbara, then pushed us together. Still I cried, but Barbara cried with me. Sean guided the two of us out the front door and around the house. Shower water put an end to the tears, but not to Sean's purpose. He pulled us, dripping wet, to the ocean. I had never been skinny dipping and that was not how I envisioned my first time, but I made no protest.

When the water was armpit deep, Sean ducked me and held me under for about twenty seconds. I could hear Barbara objecting. When he let me up, Sean said, "I'll go get towels. Explain to Barbara what is going on. Next time I hope I don't need to be so literal." I love that Sean is pushy, but sometimes it can be a major pain.

Still, orders are orders. I stood in the storm tossed ocean and explained to Barbara, again, why I had guilt to purge. I started with the poster at the hotel and went through the muggings and the police. It was not all the same. For some reason, the hardest part was to admit that I did not know the name of the man I almost killed. Barbara never said a word, but her eyes grew very wide. By the time I finished, Sean was standing on the shore with towels and togs. I also love that he is practical.

When we reached shore, Sean handed us each towels. The togs were sitting, ready, just above the wave line. He said, "Barbara, I hope you don't take this wrong, but it's time for you to go. I want to take my wife inside, tie her to the bed and fuck her senseless." That's my Teddybear.