Whale of a Tale

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

"Switch places," she said.

"No, I can't."

"Why not?"

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

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

"What?"

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

"He saved your life."

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

"By missing, you mean sunk?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What, doctor?"

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

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

"A what? A man, a woman?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

"It's Marty. Your husband."

"Oh my God!"

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