Jeremy Rochard shows, in the VILE VOYAGE, the degradation that both captive and crew undergo when cruelty and lust are allowed to run rampant on a ship's deck.
For Captain Eichmann, the best law is no law. Not only does he take advantage of his lawless rule, but forces his crew to follow his example. To enforce his word aboard ship, the captain is seconded by a huge and ignorant Polynesian whose personal pleasure brings excruciating pain to a captive maid, and almost ruins her unspoken promise to the sixteen men of the crew.
While the book may seem to be especially cruel, it points up the need for stronger international cooperation for law enforcement on the high seas.
It is to be hoped that international cooperation in our time will end the voyages of pirate-like ships, stamp out lawlessness on the high seas and make the seas safe for the innocent and unwary citizens of all nations who frequent oceans and harbors.
Chapter One
Ballast Point hummed with excitement.
The Midsummer Ocean Race was in its waning hours. The big boats were in; the first had arrived in dawn grayness, its spinnakers ballooning before it as if to pull it out of the water. Now, the smaller entries were in sight, the first of them less than a half hour out.
The clubhouse buzzed, Crows from the earlier boats milled among guests and stay-at-homes, their gait exaggerated to emphasize the length of time they'd been away from land. But their place in the sun seemed suddenly clouded. For a larger vessel had appeared in the midst of the still-racing sloops. It surged through the fleet with crude disdain, its dingy sails and broad cruising lines alien to their sleek racing trim. It was a schooner, and its appearance was foreboding. Among the watchers at the club there was a spark of recognition. Word spread in frightened whispers.
"The Tradewind!" someone said.
"The Tradewind!" The name was picked up and flung in undertones from the dock through the bar and dining room into the inner office.
"The Tradewind...!"
"The Tradewind...?"
"Maybe she'll dock somewhere else..."
"Better call the harbormaster!"
To Sandra Deen, the sudden undercurrent bore with it a tingle of excitement. To be sure, Uncle Ellison was club Commodore-rich, always-right Commodore Ellison Deen-and the Midsummer Ocean Race had an atmosphere of festivity and tension that penetrated even the inner office.
But somehow it was a diluted atmosphere by the time it reached Sandra. When your uncle believed-as Uncle Ellison did-that you carried in you the seeds of your parents' characters, you found yourself shut off. Uncle Ellison considered her father weak and her mother debased. After their death he had taken Sandra into his home determined to purge her of their sins. Now, instead of being "the Deen girl" and a part of the club's fun, she was the club secretary. She was a quiet wage-earner whose only real link with the Club was that of an employee.
The coming of the Tradewind was something else. The vessel and her crew had a reputation that spread its evil ripples through the world's ports, bringing shivers at the mention of the name. And when it approached a port, the wealthiest yacht club in the area braced itself for trouble.
Sandra left the office, race records forgotten, and joined the members and guests in their study of the oncoming schooner.
There was nothing about the vessel to suggest speed. As it neared, its tangle of cruising gear blurred the heavy lines and made the ship appear to wallow. But she plunged past the small, sleek racers under a spreading cloud of canvas.
"If it's a cloud," thought Sandra, "it's a dirty grey storm cloud; it'll sail right up over the dock and collapse over the clubhouse. It'll smother all of us and crush the life out of all these society sailors."
But ill-reputed Paul Eichmann brought her about at the last instant. Ugly curses drifted shoreward with the snapping, creaking, fluttering sounds of many sails loosed and falling. Canvas down, the Tradewind slowed as if her rigging had suddenly snagged an invisible obstacle in the air, and she came to rest inches from the dock. Crewmen leaped to the dock to make mooring lines fast, and Paul Eichmann swaggered up the dock at the head of his villainous crew.
Sandra edged back inside the door with a shiver of unease, When Eichmann's bulk filled the door, she watched him from the other side of the room, the sanctuary of the inner office near at hand. The skipper paused just inside and swept the room with his cold gaze. Behind him, visible over his shoulder, loomed his Polynesian mate, the giant Koanoa, who occupied the darkest corners of the dark stories about the Tradewind. The rest of the crew blotted out any view of the world outside the clubhouse.
Eichmann was built like a barrel and his arms were too long for his torso, His fingertips brushed his thighs just above his knees, His forearms sprouted stiff, black hair that half-covered murals of obscene tattoos. His head hung forward on a neck that was so thick it seemed part of his shoulders. The shoulders, great bulging lumps, looked like malignant tumors capping his heavily ridged chest. His face was almost black under a wild stubble, and his eyes glinted with an evil, grey light as his stare devoured Sandra. His thin-lipped mouth twisted to join an old scar that plunged over his massive jaw and continued down the side of his throat.
"Quick!" he shouted, and in the penetrating note there was the echo of wild storms at sea. There was the roll of weeks of ocean waves in the movement of his bowed legs as he came on into the room, "Quick! Let see some fucking action! Food and whiskey at that table over there! We've been out awhile!"
There was a resentful hush. No one moved. Eichmann shot hard glances about the room, then surged forward to jerk a broad-hipped, heavy-breasted matron toward him. He seized her wrist and twisted it brutally behind her back, twitching it upward between her shoulders so that her piercing scream caused heads to turn at the far end of the club dock.
"NOW, MOVE, YOU FUCKING LANDLUBBERS!" he roared. "Food and whiskey, 'fore I throw this cunt to my crew!' With his free hand, he ripped away the front of her clothes. She writhed in his grasp, her great breasts sagging without their support, rolls of fat drooping on her belly. He shoved her from him, sending her sprawling on the floor, and swaggered to the head of the table he had pointed out.
"Come on, mates!" he grunted. "They'll have it here for us in half a minute, Set!"
Food arrived-great heaps of it-and, bottles of liquor. The crew fell to, coarse jests mingling with the uncouth noises of their eating. When the skipper leaned back and smeared the remnants of his meal through his stubble, belching and blowing, the giant Koanoa paused to flick his glance over the muttering socialites. He stood, his chair crashing to the floor, and stepped away from the table.
Sandra had a sudden premonition as he fixed her with his stare. Too late, she backed into the office and slammed the door. Before she could shoot the bolt, the door crashed inward, knocking her to the floor. Great hands closed over her shoulders and she was lifted to her feet. She stared up into the Polynesian's face.
"Let me alone!" she flashed at him.
He laughed. "Move!" he said, shoving her back into the main room. His eyes were cold. There was no sympathy in the hard lines around his mouth. "Keep the captain company. We sing now."
They sang. Sandra sat huddled in the chair Koanoa dumped her in, She fought off the captain's pawing hands and searched the faces of the motionless club members for some sign of help. The crew's boisterous, obscene songs drowned, out any other sound, and the table leaped, as they beat time to the ditties with their fists.
Then suddenly Uncle Ellison was there. Big and strong and angry, he led the more confident members of the club in a menacing advance. The shotgun in his hands was supported, by the glint of guns in the hands of the men who flanked him.
"Eichmann!" he roared. The singers silenced and turned to stare at the armed band. "Eichmann, get your filthy crew out of here. If you're back on the Tradewind in ten minutes, you're free to go. If not, the law will be here to pick up what's left.
"Big man!" Eichmann screamed. "Big, holy man. WILLIE THE RAT'S A BETTER MAN THAN YOU WITHOUT THAT GUN!" He motioned toward a frightened-looking little man on his left.
Commodore Deen waved the muzzle of the shotgun. "But I'm not without the gun," he observed. "Now, move away from my niece and clear out of here! And take your sniveling little rat with you!" Ha moved a half step nearer, the gun pointed at Eichmann's belly. "QUICK! I feel a cramp in my finger!"
The skipper turned to survey Sandra. "Didn't really get started," he said to her. "So you're the Commodore's niece. Shoulda given you our royal welcome!" There was a heavy ring of irony in his manner as he bowed. Straightening, he swept his hand in a wide arc. "Take a good look, lads. Unfinished business. Let's go." He turned his back on Commodore Deen and left the clubhouse. He waited outside until his crewmen were on the dock, saluted the grim little knot of men, and left.
From the center of the departing ruffians, the one they called Willie the Rat called out, "Y'ain't seen the last o' the Tradewind, y'ain't! Ye'll wish ye'd been better mannered!" They boarded the schooner and moved away from the club dock.
In spite of their crudeness and the humiliating handling she'd gotten from Eichmann, Sandra felt guilty for the twinge of excitement that lingered. It must be her mother's wickedness coming out in her. Uncle Ellison had said it would. It was like the one really terrible dream that she couldn't overcome. Even now, thought of the dream brought a shiver of pleasure instead of the revulsion it should.
* * * * *
That dream never varied. In it she stood naked on a grass-covered slope. The sun shone gently, and her feet sank into the soft richness of the grass. There was a scent in the air that reminded her of jasmine. She pulled her shoulders back and thrust her breasts outward for the sun's kiss. Stiff and puckered and pink against the golden brown of her breasts, her nipples tingled with eagerness. She stood rigid, head thrown back, hands turned palms out, and feet planted far apart.
The breeze blew from the south to cover her with a thousand warm caresses. It held her hair out, but it bestowed its most special caresses in the triangle of her loins. There, it probed and stroked and whispered promises of fulfillment.
And she willed herself to yield-to take the southwind to herself and fill herself with its promise. For the southwind was nature's maleness. It was tuned to the beat of her life rhythm and shaped to her answering femaleness. The man she married would have the subtle urgency of the southwind. And of the men she had known, none had that wild, sighing skill.
Her thighs and her belly tensed and she bent her knees, keeping her feet flat so that her genitals thrust forward to receive his pressure and her upper torso arched backward. Heat spread in ever-widening ripples from that center of mating, and her muscles leaped. A low, animal moan forced its way between her clenched teeth until she opened her mouth wide and shouted with fierce joy.
Her ripe insistence entered the mouth between her thighs to fill the aching void in her belly, and a flush of heat swept over her. She balled her hands into tight fists and pressed her knuckles against her lower belly to feel the fullness, Words came that she knew belonged to such a rite.
"Yes, Southwind!" she cried. "Oh, yes! Love me! Sweep me in your arms. Make me yours."
And in the moment of greatest passion, when her body writhed in spasms to his urgent heat, the hillside dissolved, and the warmth of the sun was the warmth of crumpled bedding, and there was sticky wetness at her crotch. Her breath came in hot, sobbing gulps. Sweat rolled from her body and her fists pressed into her belly. In the darkness, her moans faded away as imagined echoes. Shame engulfed her and, she buried her face in her pillow and sobbed.
"Sandy," Uncle Ellison said as he had each time she awoke from that dream. "Sandy! What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she said into the pillow. "I'm alright. Nightmare."
She hated that over-concerned intrusion. She was filled with the seeds of nature's wildness, and she clung to her half-sleep to preserve the sensations. But Uncle Ellison had to wrench her back to reality. She asked herself again if there was a note of eagerness in his low query.
"Sure you're okay? Thought I heard you yell."
"Nightmare," she insisted. She shook. The feeling that she'd done wrong began to grow. It always did. Half asleep, she struggled to keep the sensations of her dream-lover; awake, she heaped contempt on herself for such obscene fantasies.
At twenty-three, she was no romantic schoolgirl. She knew better than to believe in magic and princes. Finding such bliss in a dream that she compared her men to it was sickness. And spiting kind, charitable, Uncle Ellison by imagining that he came to her room out of anything but honest concern was base ingratitude. There had to be some vile strain in her, and it ate at her and made her fantasy come more and more often.
* * * * *
Sandra shook herself out of her daydream to find herself alone in the silent office. The lonely sound of chairs and tables being stacked for the night floated, through the door. She had a vague recollection of people coming in and out posting the final race results, but the afternoon was a blur and she remembered nothing of the evening. Something about the possibility of the Tradewind's visit- the sudden appearance of pirates from another century in the midst of this soft culture-had driven her into an inner world that shut out reality.
Jake, the head of the clean-up crew, stuck his head in the doorway. "Excuse me, Miss Deen. A fellow delivered this stuff. Said your uncle ordered it for you." He carried in a covered tray. "Guess it must be awfully busy for you after one of these races." He shook his head in wonder. "Late to be sticking around here by yourself."
"Thanks, Jake. Actually I've nothing more to do. I'll eat this, as long as Uncle Ellison sent it over. Then I'll go on home."
Jake grinned and shook his head once more. When he had left, she removed the cover and made short work of the steaming food.
Uncle Ellison was a dear, she thought. She ought to be ashamed of herself for questioning his motives. Quaint, though, to order wine with a hamburger and french fries.
She wished Uncle Ellison weren't so quaint. Wine and hamburger didn't really agree. She felt queasy; she had to have air, or she was going to be sick, She snatched up her purse and ran from the club. Once outside she decided to take a fast walk along the waterfront before calling a cab. The exercise would clear her head.
Somewhere along the board walk, she found herself reliving the coming of the Tradewind. She was in the midst of the crew. Koanoa towered over her, and in the background Willie the Rat shouted words she knew she'd remember as soon as the ringing in her ears went away. She felt dizzy, fell to her knees and rocked backwards unconscious.
* * * * *
Sandra opened her eyes and grimaced with pain. Her head throbbed and her stomach churned. She had to make it to the bathroom fast. The bed tossed, urging her to wake up. She was sick and the bedding had her all tangled up. She gagged at the musty odors that lay heavily about her and tugged to free herself. Then she froze in horrified, slow-dawning awareness. Her arms were extended beyond her head by loops of rope on her wrists. Her legs were widespread, held fast by tight loops around her ankles. There were no covers over her at all! She lay naked, stretched taut, crumpled bedding rough and uncomfortable under her back.
But where was she? She tried to make sense of her surroundings through the red-streaked haze of pain. Close above her was a wooden lid and on her left the side angled away from her. But it was no box she was in! To the right was a low-ceilinged room with lanterns that swung to and fro and a long table with benches and a stove and counter.
It was a ship's cabin!
"No!" She cried out. "No! Not me!"
Bits of memory brushed the edges of her thought like moths brushing a screen at night, but pain and the strange surroundings drowned them out. Under her, the coarse blankets scratched, and she squirmed to ease the discomfort. The bedding was not dry, and, she knew that not all of the moisture was just boat-dampness; the rank odor of urine was too strong,
She studied the room. There were all the signs of crew quarters-grimy clothing on pegs, cards and cigarette butts on the floor-the signs of a dirty, careless crew.
"Where am I?" she moaned. "Please, what happened?"
There was no reply, but the questions brought returning memory. There was Willie the Rat. She had, seen him somewhere after leaving the office. She strained to remember.
He'd called her something-said; "Get the cunt outta here, fore someone spots her!" while she was sinking into darkness. And the giant Islander had been there.
She became conscious of the cabin's motion. It wasn't just a hangover, after all. It was the movement of a boat under way! She realized that the bunk leaned always one direction, so that she would have ended up on the floor if it had not been rolled from side to side and pitched fore and aft. The head of the bunk rose as they climbed the long face of a wave, hung horizontal as they poised on the crest, and fell as they dove down the steep back of the wave into the trough.
We're at sea! she thought. Terror swept over her. We're on the open ocean!
In harbor there was always the chance of rescue. But at sea...! There was no mistaking the motion. And it must be growing rougher for her to have noticed it so suddenly. She listened for engine noises. There were none. She heard the bow's hissing pound as it met the waves and the thump of something rolling back and forth below decks and the protesting creaks of seams working in a wooden hull and the slapping and banging of booms swinging and sails filling, then falling away. It was a sailing ship beating into the wind!
At a sharp, stinging blow on her left thigh she raised her head to see a great black bug against her pale flesh. Tremors seized her and a scream welled up in her throat. She jerked her leg violently to dislodge the creature, but it ignored the motion.
She turned her head; it had to be a bad dream that would disappear when she stopped looking. Then she saw other shapes like it-great black beasts crawling over the table and clothes and ceiling. Some fell from the surfaces then crawled on and flew heavily to other parts of the cabin.
"Oh, no!" she groaned. "Oh God no! Not roaches!"
But she knew they were. Black, hard-winged and ugly, they stayed in continuous motion in the dim light.
A different kind of motion caught her eye. She waited, staring hard into the shadow beneath the table. There it went! A long, lean dark grey form scurried out of the dark. She had an instant's clear view of it before it disappeared. A rat She shuddered and peered wildly about.
She tried to pretend not to know what ship it was, but could not convince herself. There was Willie's concern over her being 'spotted.' She was aboard the Tradewind!
The cockroach on her thigh moved to the inner side and toward her crotch, and she strained to look. Her breasts, thrust upward by the tension across her chest, formed a creamy, veined, frame for her field of vision, Her abdomen fell away sharply beyond them, dipping out of sight, only to reappear as it swelled to the mound where her thighs met. That soft hump was covered with a thick, curled growth of honey-blonde hair, sticky and straggling now. And through the hair she watched the loathsome black creature.
She knew with sickening certainty that she had been drugged. Nothing else would make her mouth so cottony dry or her tongue so thick and numb. Frightened loneliness, helplessness and shame at being naked settled on her in a suffocating pall.
Chapter Two
Sandra's despair deepened as the cockroach reached the private, babysoft folds of flesh around her private cavity. Cunt, they called it in the coarse woman-talk at the club. The crawling, loathsome roach had reached her cunt! And there he paused, while the degradation of her situation welled up from her stomach into her throat, bitter and hot, until she could no longer force it back. She rolled her head desperately to the side, trying to miss her arm as the vomit spewed out. But she lacked the necessary freedom, The vile-smelling stuff spread over her shoulder and upper arm, running down over them to the bedding and oozing under her in a slimy mess. Her body sagged, defeated. She was suddenly unable to control her other functions. The too-long-denied urine boiled out, soaking her legs and the filthy, scratchy blankets. It drove the impertinent roach to belated flight.
Exhausted, she closed her eyes and felt her muscles go limp. She rolled with the ship's roll, gradually covering herself with the new filth she had added to the already-saturating bedclothes, In all the times she had sailed as a quiet, appreciative guest of yachtsmen from the club, she had never suffered seasickness. This time there was no doubt that she was making up for it. With each new roll she retched, her whole body arching with the effort.
When she opened her eyes the swing of the lanterns made her dizzier than the ceaseless movement of the bunk. But the terrible throbbing in her head had dwindled to a dull ache. If it weren't for the horrible stench she'd be over her seasickness in no time-the stench and the awful panic, that is.
The roach returned. It might be a different one, she realized, but he flew as if he knew the way and landed in the spot he'd abandoned. Her hips leaped and she cried out sharply. Then another of the creatures loosened his grip on the ceiling and winged his way toward her. He struck her in full flight, making no apparent effort to slow for the landing. Others approached as if in response to a message she could not hear.
She could not control the frenzied twitching of her muscles as one after another of the roaches struck. Her throat tightened and the urge to scream grew stronger. Her tossing did no good; if anything, it made the beasts more active, for they scurried over her as if searching for food.
"Yuh-uhh-uhh..." she moaned, tears filling her eyes. "Oh, God! Get them off! GET THEM OFF!"
The stench of the bunk and the hideous scratching of hundreds of clawed feet dragging across her naked flesh clamped her in a vise of terror.
"Uhh-h-h!" she cried out of the depths of her misery. "Oh, God! Let this be another nightmare!"
As she pleaded, she knew the futility of her prayer. This was no dream. Roaches covered her... they made a living, loose blanket. They clustered on her wet, twitching flesh and they crawled over each other struggling for a foothold. It was no dream, she admitted bitterly.
But among the ship's noises and her own futile protests, she heard a sound that seemed out of place. She stilled her moans to listen. The new sound took form and became a scuffling at the companionway. In a moment, she saw bare feet, tattered dungarees, and a wizened frame drop into the cabin. It was Willie the Rat!
She had thought nothing could be worse than the scrawny, grey figure she had seen a moment before. Now, looking at Willie's face, she knew that she had been mistaken. Willie cast his glance upward furtively as if fearful of being discovered, then glanced about the cabin with an exaggerated appearance of nonchalance. Seeing no one, he turned his attention to her.
His small, close-set eyes, the color of dirty ice, gleamed at her. His thin, sharp nose and the ragged stubble on his sunken cheeks quivered as if he were sniffing the air like the rat that she imagined him to be. His mouth broke into a leering grin, its brown, jagged teeth mere stubs scattered along shriveled black gums. His chin receded in a narrow point just above his Adam's-apple, and it was hard to tell whether he really had a chin or two Adam's-apples. Grimy skin hung in leathery folds on his scrawny neck. His shoulders looked fleshless, sloping abjectly forward above his emaciated frame. Only one button held the front of his shirt together. Above it, his gaunt ribs stood out and below it his belly appeared ready to fold in around his backbone. His dungarees were several sizes too large for him; in place of a belt he wore a length of rope which pulled the trouser tops in around his waist like a gunny sack. In spite of the rope, the pants hung perilously at the tops of his sharp hip bones. They hung so far below his navel that a few sparse gray hairs peeped over the top against his otherwise hairless skin.
In the midst of her revulsion, Sandra felt a moment of shock at the pasty color of his torso. Somehow she had assumed that all sailors were well tanned. She could see no evidence of muscle in his arms. They dangled from his shoulders as if they were paper-covered sticks. Only his hands moved. Long, ridged, and fleshless, they opened and closed spasmodically.
"Not so sassy now," squeaked Willie.
"Where am I?"
"On the Tradewind." Willie shuffled toward her. "We'll be better hosts than your uncle."
She shrank from his gaze, wishing desperately that she could hide her nakedness. She felt be-fouled by his look as if the cockroaches and other filth that covered her were clean by comparison. She recalled again his malevolent stare as her uncle and the aroused club members had rescued her from the Tradewind's crew and herded them back to their boat. The words he had uttered at that time came back to her sharply.
"Stay away from me, please," she pleaded. She knew as she spoke that there was no hope of awakening pity in his depraved conscience.
"Not so goddam uppity now are you?" he sneered. "Like them cockroaches better than old Willie? Looks like they've taken a shine to that little cunt of yours"
She squirmed, biting her tongue to prevent a sharp retort. His comment had renewed her awareness of the constant motion that sent shivers from her groin through her body. She ought to welcome any hint of help in ridding herself of these loathsome creatures, but she preferred their emotionless threat to Willie's malignant attention.
"Lookee the way that one is perched on your tit,' Willie chortled. He reached out and poked the roach away. He gave the erected nipple a vicious tweak.
In spite of herself, Sandra shrieked sharply. She felt as if a hot poker had been thrust against her breast. Tendrils of pain shot through her, and she wrenched away from Willie violently. The ropes bit at her wrists and she was aware of a stabbing pain in her elbows and shoulders.
Willie's face contorted in a snarl of contempt. "That's just a tiny taste of what's coming," he said, "Before you leave this boat you'll know what it is to cross the Tradewind's crew."
Sandra shuddered. The full horror of her situation burst upon her with a force that made her cry out. Her plight was desperate, even if the crew were only interested in her sexually. If they were all of the twisted frame of mind that Willie showed, she probably faced a death worse than her most hideous nightmares. "They did nothing to you," she reasoned. "No one raised a hand."
"They was scared of us!" he sneered. "They didn't dare touch us. But them guns they had wasn't toys. You think they wouldn't of shot?"
"They were only trying to..." She stopped abruptly. It was suicide to argue. She had to win Willie's sympathy, not antagonize him. She sensed that the attempt was hopeless, but at least she might be able to stall until some saner crew member should appear.
Willie leaned over and swept his hand roughly across her abdomen, scattering cockroaches into startled flight. He pinched her other nipple, and she forgot the dull throb of the first.
"OH!" she screamed. "Please don't!" She writhed in pain. The man must be a heartless sadist, "Please don't hurt me again," she begged.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, "you ain't been hurt yet. Wait'll I really get started."
A cold, hard lump of fear settled in her stomach. He was a fiend, and she knew with dread certainty that she could expect no mercy from his distorted mind. She closed her eyes and tried to will herself into unconsciousness.
"Open your fucking eyes," he snarled.
She sensed a quiver of rage in his voice. Something in him screamed with the need for attention. In this situation, where he was so clearly the master, he could not stand to be ignored. She felt his fingers close again upon her nipple and waited for the excruciating pain to start.
Instead, he grated out; "Open your fucking eyes, you stupid bitch. I'll tear your tit right out by the roots if you lie there with your eyes closed as if nothing was happening."
She opened her eyes. Willie stared down into her face, his own contorted with hate, His tongue stabbed at his withered gums and saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth to land on her abdomen. She squirmed and the taste of vomit grew strong in her mouth, Willie's hand did something at the front of his trousers and his penis suddenly appeared. It hung from the filthy opening only half-stiff, but its appearance nauseated her. The head was almost black. Just behind and edging onto it was a huge, open sore which oozed pus and blood.
Sandra swallowed desperately, terrified that she would enrage Willie by vomiting again. But for the moment, his attention was focused on her crotch. He reached out with a claw-like hand to sweep the roaches away. Then, he bent closer and used both hands to part the lips of her vagina. She caught her breath and jerked her head at the rough handling.
"UNGH!" she grunted as his fingers closed over her clitoris. Perhaps his sadistic tendencies had faded into the background in favor of more normal sexual intentions.
Suddenly his fingers closed like a vise, then tugged and twisted. Sandra's hips leaped wildly from side to side in an effort to escape that unbearable pain.
"YIIEEEEAAAAGGHHH!!!"
She flung herself with terrible violence against the ropes. Dimly, masked by the fiery, tearing agony at her crotch, she felt skin tear loose at her ankles and wrists
"AAAIIIYYYAAGGHHH!!!"
The cramped world of the cabin faded from sight behind a scarlet mist. The undulating scream which she could not stop beat back upon her. Never in her life had she felt such awful pain. She wondered if she would faint before those vicious fingers had torn the crushed organ from her body. The pain was no longer localized. She felt its harsh needles in the bottoms of her feet and the backs of her knees and in her armpits. She felt herself falling, and the red faded to gray.
* * * * *
Somewhere in a sticky gray world there was a voice -a deep, rasping, male voice-and words so foul that she doubted they really existed. But it resonated with such passionate anger that she could not ignore it.
"On your feet you slimy son-of-a-bitch!" the voice said between strings of oaths. "Cut us out, will you?"
She heard the sharp retort of flesh striking flesh and the duller thump of a body hitting the floor.
"On your feet, I said!" The voice sounded thick with it's fury. "On your feet, you fucking rat! You'll never steal from this crew again! Nor from any other for that matter."
Sandra forced her eyes open. To her right the bulk of Captain Eichmann blotted out the table. He bent over a slight form that was Willie the Rat. One blackened, weather-beaten hand was closed over Willie's shoulder. Eichmann straightened, lifting Willie to his feet as if he were a rag doll.
I must have fainted, thought Sandra. The captain saved me from that beast. She felt a momentary glow of warm gratitude. "Oh thank you!" she said. "He was hurting me terribly!"
Eichmann turned toward her, a cold sneer on his face. "Go fuck yourself," he said brutally. "I didn't come down here to rescue you. This cock-sucker was trying to put something over on the crew. Last time he'll ever do that." He turned his back on her and herded Willie toward the companionway. "Up, you son-of-a-bitch!" He jabbed Willie viciously in the ribs at the man's hesitation. Willie scrambled up the ladder to escape another blow.
The captain paused, his foot on the lowest step. "I'll send someone down for you," he said. "Might as well break you in proper. You'll be with us for awhile." He turned again and sprang up the ladder, disappearing from sight.
Sandra lay motionless, her eyes fixed on the top of the ladder. Her body ached, the throbbing pain in her crotch reaching every nerve ending and maintaining a steady level of nausea in her throat.
"Oh, God," she moaned. "I can never stand this!"
She heard heavy, sure footsteps as the giant Koanoa descended the companionway. He quickly crossed the narrow space to the bunk, his face a blank mask. She was startled at the strong contrast that his flat features, broad nose, thick lips, and high forehead made with the two men who had just left the cabin. He had to stoop to avoid striking his head against the cabin roof. Dropping to one knee, he untied her ankles from the bed. He lashed them together, then untied her arms, flipped her roughly onto her stomach, and lashed her wrists behind her back. He picked her up casually and laid her across his shoulder. Still stooping, he returned to the companionway and carried her out on deck. Her legs hung down over his chest and were encircled by his arm and her breasts were pressed hard against his broad back. Even after the vile odor of the bunk this giant made her giddy with his stale, unwashed stench. She doubted that he ever bathed or that he swam in spite of his constant nearness to the sea water. She struggled to keep her face clear of the dirty back, but it was useless. The combination of his rolling gait and the tossing deck repeatedly flung her face into the sweat that covered that hard flesh. He crossed the space between the forward and aft cabins and deposited her on the deck leaning against the bulkhead.
"Good view from here," he grunted. "Skipper has a special treat in store for Willie."
She stared about her at the ship and crew. The Tradewind lay heeled to port, the wind coming in off the starboard quarter. Its sails billowed upward into the dark amid a bewildering maze of lines. To Sandra's right, up the sloping deck, the crew clung to the rigging, each with a leg wrapped around the lifelines. There were men of every color and nationality. Their dress was crude and dirty, and it looked as if it might fail off at any moment. On the roof of the main cabin before her she saw Captain Eichmann and Willie. Pleading and sobbing, Willie leaned back against the main mast, his hands lashed to it above his head.
Chapter Three
The skipper held up his hand. In the silence that followed, he spoke quietly and seriously. It sounded to Sandra like Uncle Ellison lecturing her for some infraction of his many rules.
"Willie, ya done wrong."
"I didn't mean nothing, captain! Honest to God I didn't!" The panic in Willie's voice was almost physical.
"We share, Willie." Eichmann's manner was one of patient reasoning. "It just ain't right to steal from the crew."
"But I didn't steal nothin'! I just..."
"Ya belonged on deck. Instead, ya sneaked below to grab your fun by yourself."
"But that's...!"
"We didn't have the fun of seein' or hearin', Willie. Ya stole that from us."
"No, skipper! No!"
Eichmann drew a short-bladed knife from his waistband. Lantern light glinted from it in evil flashes. He snarled, "Ya sniveling little sonovabitch. You're a big mouth and a liar and a coward!"
"NO, SKIPPER! NO!"
The skipper reached out and flicked the knife point against Willie's belly. It hardly seemed to touch the terrified little man, but an instant spot of crimson appeared and ran downward in a thin trickle.
"No! NO! NO!" screamed Willie.
"Your blood is pure shit," remarked Eichmann, flicking the point against him again. Again, blood welled out to trickle over the filthy skin.
Sandra swallowed hard and fought for breath. She hated the rat-like little man. Nothing could be too bad for him. But his terror and Eichmann's cold cruelty turned her stomach.
"Ya gotta learn what's stealing, Willie." The point of the knife traced a slow, uneven line up the middle of Willie's abdomen.
"Aagh-h-h! Skipper! Fer krissake!"
Eichmann stepped back and studied his victim. The dark, wet line extended from the top of Willie's navel to the edge of his rib cage, was neither long nor deep, so far as Sandra could tell.
Willie moaned wordlessly, wild eyes fixed on the skipper's face.
Eichmann moved forward and dragged the blade horizontally across Willie's abdomen, just below his ribs. The new line bled more freely. He screamed horribly, his voice rising until it broke, then dropping back into that continuous moan.
"We missed a lot of the girl's screamin' Willie. She screams better'n you. You gotta give us a lot more to make up for what we missed." The knife made another slow sweep from left to right at navel level. Blood streamed down into the sparse pubic hair and over Willie's legs. The little man jerked backward and to the side, his arms crackling from the tremendous strain. He twisted his head back, screaming wildly into the rigging.
"Ya make it tough, Willie. I'm liable to go too deep," admonished Eichmann. He drew the knife point upward to join the lower line to the upper and stepped back to stare at the crude square. Then he leaned forward, ignoring Willie's writhing and screaming.
"Hold 'em still!" he snapped over his shoulder.
Koanoa and one of the deckhands stepped forward to place their hands on Willie's hips and chest. They pressed inward and their arms bulged as they resisted his sharp lunges.
Sandra's view was still clear, but the skipper's head blocked out part of the light as he touched the upper central corner of the bleeding rectangle. She could not be sure what Eichmann was doing, but Willie's muscles leaped insanely and his screams jarred her eardrums. As if out of his control, urine spurted in short bursts, and a darker stain spread down the insides of his thighs. His eyes bulged. Sandra bit her lips and looked away.
A new tone in Willie's screams-a piercing, high-pitched wail-drew her gaze back to him against her will. Eichmann had straightened, and Willie thrashed as if the two men who held him were children. A flap of skin hung outward from the corner of the square, like a pocket torn loose from its stitches. Even as she looked, the skipper's knife moved slowly along the fold and the flap grew.
Willie's scream now had a thin, reedy quality that floated about the ship without seeming to settle on it. Through it, Sandra heard the skipper's words clearly. Their low, calm flow contrasted horribly with the hopeless wail.
"Really for your own good, Willie. Wouldn't want the rest of the crew holdin' out on you. They'll remember this if they're ever tempted. Gotta make an impression."
The knife moved back and forth in sure, unhurried strokes. The flap grew larger and hung lower and a shiny, bluish, wet layer of tissue streaked with oozing red came into view.
Sandra's stomach churned. She choked on each breath, and her throat ached from a sympathetic tension that kept time with Willie's agony. The bulkhead at her back swayed in motion that had nothing to do with the ship's rolling. The scene went in and out of focus and she was aware of growing numbness in her body.
At the mast, the writhing figure twisted abruptly in a convulsive contortion, hung rigidly for a long moment, then sagged in limp stillness.
Eichmann stepped back, a square patch of dripping skin hanging from his hand. He turned around slowly, holding it high.
"Take a good look," he advised. "Any of ya think the way Willie did, ya know what it'll getcha." He looked back at the still form. "Soft! Get him below."
As the skipper stepped away and Koanoa reached for the bonds at Willie's wrists, Sandra had an instant's clear view of the awful patch of flayed tissue on the little man's belly. Hot, bitter bile filled her throat. Darkness swirled over the scene, and she felt herself slipping sideward into deep, black silence.
* * * * *
Sandra opened her eyes to darkness. She heard the rhythmic splash of water thrown outward from a plunging bow and felt the powerful surge of a hard-driven boat beneath her. She thrilled to the motion and drew a deep breath of fresh sea air. Above her a maze of lines disappeared into the blackness. Turning her head, she could see a faint glow coming from under the hood of a compass binnacle to light the wheel and the legs of the helmsman.
The man's naked feet were planted wide, and his knees fixed to absorb the deck's roll. His gnarled hands seemed disembodied as they gripped the spokes.
Somewhere forward there was the lonely sound of a harmonica, its voice rising and falling in an incredibly sad refrain. A loose block crashed monotonously against something. The ship's planking worked in a thousand creaks.
In the back of her mind, she imagined that she heard a thin, reed-like wail. Willie! she thought. Oh, God! What had the captain done to Willie? Awareness flooded her consciousness. Her ankles were still tied, and her hands were still fastened behind her. She lay on a pile of canvas against the forward cabin. She could see no one but the crewman at the wheel, but now she heard the low tones of conversation floating on the night air and knew that others were about.
She was still naked. She should feel chilled, but there was no movement of air over her body and warmth seemed to radiate from the bulkhead at her back. The boat's motion felt different; they no longer beat into the wind, but ran down before it on a broad reach. It was useless to try to judge direction by the stars with most of them blotted out by the sails.
She saw again the vision of Willie's unconscious form at the mast, the great patch of skin peeled from his belly, the exposed tissue bluish and streaked with blood. Perhaps he had not been unconscious at all. The brutal shock and the pain might well have stopped his heart.
Feet approached, and Paul Eichmann dropped to the canvas beside her. He leaned back against the bulkhead and his hand found her breast. He massaged it absently as he spoke.
"For a young, healthy girl, you faint easy," he grunted. "Been out most of the time since ya been aboard."
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
Eichmann chuckled. "Long way," he replied. "Figure the people at the club might miss ya enough to buy ya back from us when we reach the next port. 'Course, that'll be quite a while."
"Ransom? They don't care that much about me!"
"Shit! Commodore's niece? They'll pay."
"I'm nothing but the club secretary!"
"I heard him, same as you did. 'Let my niece go,' he says. Don't give me that shit! Besides, it's better for you if you're worth something to me alive."
"What do you mean!"
"Crew likes a woman aboard once in awhile. Pick one up just about every time we hit port. Usually get some pig no one'll miss. When she wears out- or when we get tired of her whinin'-we heave her over the side. Figure you'll be more fun, way you're stacked."
"You mean I..." She shuddered.
"Make a good fuck if you're not ice cold," he said. "Find out about that if we can keep you from faintin' long enough."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. A tightness settled in the muscles of her thighs.
"Reb," the captain called out. "Strike a light."
In a moment, the darkness was gone as one of the crewmen lighted a lantern and hoisted it well above the cabin top. In its rays, she saw the forms of relaxing sailors slouching about the deck, their eyes fixed on her. Startled and suddenly self-conscious, she turned her face to the bulkhead. Eichmann's rough hand rolled her onto her back and held her there. She squirmed against the firm pressure, helpless. Eichmann watched her struggles with evident amusement, then released her and rose to his feet. She rolled against the bulkhead again, but his fingers closed about her upper arms and lifted her to her feet. He untied her wrists and pushed her back against the cabin.
He lashed her left wrist to the low rail that ran along the edge of the cabin roof, then pulled her right arm out straight and tied it similarly. She faced the crew with her arms tightly extended while Eichmann untied her ankles, spread her legs as far as they would go, and secured them. Spread-eagled against the cabin bulkhead, she knew the full horror of exposure and helplessness. She felt her muscles cringe as she thought of the captain's knife.
Eichmann studied her. "Good haul, here," he remarked to the crew. "Be a hell of a lot more fun than most of the bitches we get." He cocked his head. "Built for it. Ought to last awhile."
He slid his hand over her skin. To her shocked dismay, electric currents raced through her at the touch. There was something terribly different about this unemotional caress before the entire crew. Squeezing her breast in the dark had seemed an indignity without consequences. Stroking her abdomen in the light while she was so obscenely spread apart carried a whole world of depraved meaning. She drew in her belly.
"That's right," said Eichmann. "Suck it in. You'll be pushing it out to me soon enough." He stroked her again, his fingers starting at her left breast, trailing down across her ribs and her taut belly and through her pubic hair to come to rest in the pulpy folds of her vagina.
"Warm cunt," he observed. "Warm and soft. Don't feel like it's been banged much." He repeated the maneuver, and she jerked sideward.
This time, he did not withdraw his hand. Instead, his fingers explored, forcing aside the tissues to find smoother, moister lips.
Sandra fought her panic by trying to identify the complex mixture of emotions that struggled within her. She recognized revulsion; there was a vast filthiness about this ship and her crew that centered in the captain. She knew which part was fear, too; the constant grinding of her stomach muscles and the tautness of her throat were constant reminders of her terror. But there was an excitement that threatened to brim over in a wild yell. It surprised and puzzled her. It was very much like the strange thrill of excitement she had felt in the clubhouse after the Tradewind had left-strange and unexplainable. She blamed it on what Uncle Ellison had called her wild streak and hated herself for it.
She knew that she ought to feel only shame and indignation and fear as she hung in her bonds, spread-eagled and naked before the lustful eyes of this degenerate crew. She should feel nauseated and cold. She ought to loathe the brute that loomed in front of her and wish for a bolt of lightning to consume him. Instead, the layer of muscles just under her skin trembled in the grip of heady anticipation. With hope abandoned and without any means of resisting, she shook to a wildness that must be the other side of the elation she knew in her dreams about the south wind.
She had to admit to herself that she bad some streak of her mother's boldness, for she felt the crew's stares as if they were a dozen hands caressing her skin. Her very exposure to their all-devouring study of her anatomy drew her nerves to a quivering tautness and made hot moisture spring to the mouth of her vagina.
The coarse friction of Eichmann's calloused hand edged into that new moisture and penetrated the still tight lips. Sandra summoned her strength to obey the weakening reason that struggled to assert itself. She jerked backward, her buttocks driving hard against the bulkhead. The crew's jeering chorus of laughter shot fingers of perverse inflammation up her spine. She felt herself stiffening where her tissues were built for erection, and her breath quickened.
"Unh-unh!" she grunted suddenly. Eichmann had struck some unprepared nerve center, triggering a flare-up that racked her body.
"Life in this one," he said with a gleeful chuckle. "She's gonna last awhile!"
"Move over a little, cap'n!" cried one of the sailors. "Can't see nothin'."
"Move over, yourself," Eichmann retorted. "Nobody said you had to plant yourself there."
"Tweak 'er once, cap'n," called another. "Get 'er jumpin' a little!"
"Plenty of time for that," was Eichmann's reply. "Got plenty of action this way for right now." His fingers continued their unhurried probing.
"UhuhunhH!" she grunted again. She flung her hips to one side, then the other. But her legs were so widespread that the motion was restricted to a few inches.
Eichmann laughed. "Wiggle it good, girlie!" he said. "We like them ass-wigglin' kinds. They're good when we get to humpin' 'em in the rope locker."
"When you... when what?" she panted.
"When we get around to fuckin' 'em in the rope locker," he replied bluntly.
"The rope locker!"
"Never did any fuckin' in a rope locker? Missed somethin' way out!"
"UNHUNUNHH!"
Conversation had done nothing toward distracting the captain from his exploration of her tender groin. It had merely breached her wall of defensive resolution.
Involuntary spasms twisted her torso. "UNNHH-HH!"
"Rub the little knob, cap'n!" someone urged helpfully. "You know-the one just in front of the hole!"
"Simple Ike," the captain said, under his breath. "He's the feeble-minded one. Means well."
She had the wildly irrational sense of being a visitor aboard an innocent, foreign-port yacht with its captain informing her gently of the peculiarities of one of his children. She must be getting giddy, she thought. "Means well?" she asked, as if it were somehow important that he have the opportunity to explain.
He nodded without stopping his hand's motion. "Learned about the jolt button somewhere. Figures it ain't sex without we push it once in awhile."
"Nn-nn-nn-nnhhh!"
"Always give him his turn sooner or later. Likes it best in the morning. Turn him loose right after we change watches and leave him play 'til it's time for noon chow."
"MMmmhHHH! UNNHH!"
"Never gets no further than the jolt button. That'll give you a ride! Imagine a whole morning with someone working that little lump?"
"Rrrg-g-g-ghhh!" she gurgled. No part of her was still, now. What reason had persisted through the captain's early fumbling had long since fled. She was nothing but a mass of tuned receptors as his fingers moved ceaselessly back and forth over the pulsing, wet flesh.
"Like that idea? Give you something to look forward to? Be surprised how many of 'em blow their lids before the morning's over. Takes a strong woman to take that."
She heard him and understood what he was saying without immediately grasping its full significance. But realization forced itself through the haze that was settling over her.
God! she thought. A whole morning! A feebleminded, grown man who knew nothing about sex except that there was a little knob just in front of the hole! A knob that you rubbed! She recoiled at the idea of hour after hour of attack on her clitoris. The very thought brought new intensity to the stimulus of the captain's hand.
"UUNNNNHH!"
"Yep. You'll like that," mused the captain. "Wear you out, but you'll like it. Tell that by the way you're takin' to this."
Her breath came in heavy gulps. What had been fierce discomfort in her stretched limbs had turned into a source of equally fierce sensation. Her hips were in continuous motion, grinding in tight circles at the urging of those demanding fingers. Her eyes felt heavy-lidded. She stared downward from under the drooping lashes. Her breasts leaped awkwardly in and out of the way as she watched Eichmann's hand. The honey-colored thatch that sprang from her hillock brushed his dark wrist in sharp contrast. She felt so swollen that the charged pink flesh must stand out far enough for her to see it, but even when she rotated her buttocks down and under and thrust her groin forward and up, she could not.
"Nnn-nn-nn-nn-nnnhhh!" The deepening grunt had turned into a long moan of response. God! Make him stop...! NO! Don't let it stop...! Keep it building...! It's as wild as the south wind...! SANDRA DEEN! How could you let yourself... Oh, captain faster...! Uncle Ellison, if you ever loved that brother who disgraced your family and who died so horribly, save me from myself...!
"Hey, cap'n! How about a little tittie work? Looks like she turns on good at one end. How does she do upstairs?"
"Guess it wouldn't hurt to see," admitted Eichmann. He dragged his hand reluctantly out of the greedy folds that munched at it, pausing for a long moment to massage her throbbing clitoris for the first time.
"AAGGGHHH-AA-GGHHH-AAGGHHH!" she yelled in startled reaction. The steady stream of impulses that had flowed from his fingers into her nerve centers turned without warning into a searing flame.
The intolerable pressure stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Eichmann leaned toward her, his gaze fixed on her full breasts. She saw for herself how erect her nipples were; they thrust outward in hard, pinched rigidity, waiting for a mouth.
God, how his breath stinks! she told herself. But she could not feel revolted by it. In these circumstances, it had to stink! Everything stinks! she thought.
She had a moment between sensations to wonder if she was retreating into a dream world in self-defense-if there might be hope for sanity in the belief that this Tradewind experience was nothing more than a terribly real dream. If she could accept that-if she could know that she would awaken sweating and trembling and moaning-if she could count on hearing Uncle Ellison's panting query- she might take all that this foul crew could force on her. She might even survive it without the horrible scars she felt it was burning into her mind.
Her half-conscious fantasy exploded as the stubble on Eichmann's face thrust its bristling ring against the flesh of her breast. She felt teeth close on the mound behind her nipple and a sudden, harsh vacuum that threatened to pull the rigid lump from its foundation. She gasped and writhed.
"OH-OH-OH!" she cried. "Stop! PLEASE STOP!!"
But the vacuum pumped rhythmically and her nipple slid violently back and forth against the ridged roof of Eichmann's mouth. Fiery waves tumbled through her nervous system. The first pain vanished and a great heat enveloped her. Again her body slipped into continuous, uncontrolled thrashing.
It's never like this! There's no way it can be like this! Harder! HARDER...! No, no! It'll tear off! STOP! Oh God, make him stop...!! HARDER! FASTER!
She panted hard. Something terribly wild pulled at her guts. Her muscles drew together into a single, tangled knot. She could not catch her breath. Irresistible tremors shook her body. She yelled.
"NNYNNHH! NNYNNYNNYNNAAGHH!"
Eichmann stepped back from her.
The rigging steadied slowly. The crew settled into place out of the wild dance she had imagined them in. The blurred outline of the wheel and helmsman sharpened and the suction that stretched her breast out across the cockpit stopped. She closed her eyes and allowed her breath to escape in a long sigh.
Chapter Four
"Gawd damn!" exclaimed one of the crewmen in an awed tone. "She's hotter'n Ling's coffee!"
"An' faster'n gunpowder!" echoed another.
Eichmann backed slowly away from her, his lips twisted in an unpleasant grin. "Y'are hot, ain't ya! Kinda like Captain Paul's handlin'?"
Sandra sagged against the bulkhead and breathed deeply. She had no clear idea what had happened. It was obvious that she had exploded into an orgasm under the captain's crude manipulation, but she could not explain how or why. I'm even worse than Uncle Ellison thought, she told herself. I must be as bad as he says Mother was! Then, I didn't think you could cum from someone playing with your breast!
She tried to ignore the crew in order to understand what she had just done. She remembered the captain's long session at her vagina and a tingle raced over her. Even the thought was enough to set her off!
Bitch! she thought. Good-for-nothing, filthy sex-fiend! Uncle Ellison would hate her if he ever found out. He'd say she...
Uncle Ellison! Just what would he say? She remembered the many nights he'd come into her room after one of her nightmares. He must have slept like a cat. The slightest sound must have been enough to arouse him from his own dreams. She wondered what they might have been. When he asked if she was all right, he was so concerned that his voice shook. It always shook in those dark encounters. And it always sounded breathless, as if he'd been running. OR AS IF HE WAS TERRIBLY EXCITED! The thought struck her with almost physical impact. It drove the memory of her orgasm from her mind with its shocking implications. EXCITED!
There was a look of his that she remembered, now. It was a look like the one on Eichmann's face as he studied the way her thighs strained apart! Those accidents! How many of them there had been. It seemed that the house just wasn't big enough-that her schedule and Uncle Ellison's just were fated to get tangled-that he was absolutely deaf to the little noises she made in her ordinary activities. For the past half dozen years, it seemed she could hardly undress without his blundering upon her. He had seemed so terribly embarrassed and apologetic, of course. From an occasional case when she was in her late teens, the accidents had become more and more frequent until no day was quite finished unless he'd caught her partly undressed at least once.
He'd grown increasingly awkward, too-or had she? They were continually stumbling into or falling over each other. She'd come to think of him as one of the clumsiest men she knew. On his yacht, he was as graceful as an animal, but when they collided, his hands always seemed to find the most intimate spots as he tried to save her from falling. And he never seemed to know when it was safe to let go.
The worst part about it was that something in her responded to those accidental contacts. They excited her almost as much as if they had been intentional. At her age, she probably should have had enough sexual experience to shrug them off. But she hadn't. They startled her and inflamed that wild streak in her. How often she had stolen a guilty glance in Aunt Hilda's direction as Uncle Ellison pulled himself free! Invariably, she froze at his touch. Muscles that must have been fashioned out of rebellion tensed to press her firmly against those clumsy hands. She quivered and caught her breath. And yet Aunt Hilda appeared never to be aware of what went on between Ellison and his niece.
But that look on his face! She knew now that his clumsiness was no such thing. He was in better control of his movements at those times than he was during the most complicated maneuvers aboard his yacht. How could she have possibly been so stupid! She breathed silent thanks for the fact that she had been. If she'd recognized his interest in her . . . ! She shuddered at the thought.
Commodore Ellison was not young. He'd served in the navy during World War II. Afterward, he'd made the Reserve a second family. There was an almost pathetic quality to the pride he had in his association with the navy. And his pride forced him into the most rigorous training. He was lean and hard and powerful. She guessed that no ordinary woman could have come near satisfying him. Whether Aunt Hilda did, she was not sure. She did know that Hilda, reserved and dignified society type that she was, had her own hunger. She'd seen her aunt cling to Uncle Ellison in a writhing embrace that had made Sandra run from the room to hide her own agitation. Such a nature might have given Uncle Ellison all that he wanted, but there could be no doubt that he had felt something for his niece. Perhaps that was why he was so caustic about her likeness to her own mother.
She had seldom heard him refer directly to her parents' death. There had been occasional monologues about her father's disgraceful conduct and about the tramp he'd married. She'd heard too often about her mother's compulsion to find her excitement with other men-sometimes, it seemed, with a lot of them at the same time-and of the effect it had produced in her father. But suicide and murder-Or suicide pacts-were not the sort of thing one discussed openly.
* * * * *
Sandra returned to awareness of her surroundings convinced that if she had been a little more sophisticated she and Uncle Ellison would have had something to share besides her unfortunate parents. She squirmed, trying to relieve some of the strain of her position. The bite of the ropes at her wrists and ankles brought forth a fragment of memory that had lain hidden for months. Sent to collect several items of clothing that Uncle Ellison had forgotten to take to the club one day, she had gotten her instructions mixed and opened the wrong drawer of his bureau. In one corner she had found several lengths of fine nylon rope, each neatly coiled. Even an avid boatman would hardly be expected to store six-foot lengths of rope in his dresser; there ought to be something interesting in this discovery. But its very strangeness kept her from asking, and the find had slipped from her thoughts as weeks passed without anything to remind her.
Now as she tugged at the ropes that held her powerless in the view of the Tradewind's crew, she pictured lithe, poised Aunt Hilda similarly spread against the foot of her four-poster bed and Uncle Ellison working at his leisure to turn her into a panting, writhing savage.
"How come she's so quiet?" jibed a crewman who had kept up a running commentary during Eichmann's manipulations.
"Yeah, how come?" wondered another. "Don't look awful upset."
"Just thinkin' how much she's been missin'," Eichmann said with a short laugh. "Probably wishin' I'd get on with it."
"Why doncha?" asked the wordy man.
"John, ya got somethin' to say about everything, ain'tcha!" The captain's voice held a note of impatience.
John looked like he'd suddenly swallowed something that had stuck in his throat. "Sorry, cap'n. Don't often get one like that. Guess she made me forget about the schedule." He was not a small man. Sandra compared his sinewy, long arms with Eichmann's bulging ones and wondered why the man should show such obvious caution. On closer inspection, though, she thought there was an air of the dreamer about him rather than one of hard action. What hair he had left was wavy and graying. His nose was finely chiseled, it had a sharp jog that indicated an untreated break. He stared at her with deep-set eyes; they appeared to brood, and she sensed that he was reviewing the events that must pass before his turn came to have her. Only his thin, straight lips spoiled his look of gentleness.
"Get the pussy out of here," growled Eichmann to Koanoa. "Put her in my cabin."
The giant Polynesian came to her and began to untie the ropes. Without bothering to lash her arms and legs as he had when bringing her on deck, he tossed her onto his shoulder and took her down the aft companionway. He entered a room that opened into the narrow passage from the right, crossed it, and dumped her on the bunk. The ceiling was high enough for a normal man to have plenty of headroom, but Koanoa had to stoop to clear it. He bent over her and studied her closely.
"Made a good haul," he grunted. He reached down to run his hand over her, squeezing her, prodding her here and there, and nodding his approval. The handling had little sex in it. It felt to Sandra more like the examination that a rancher might give a piece of livestock. He felt each of her muscles, measured the fullness of her breasts by his cupped hand, tested her firmness by taking pinches of flesh between his fingers at various spots, and then pushed her legs roughly apart to feel the contours of her sensitive vaginal folds.
She gasped sharply as one of his fingers forced itself into her with deliberate, unconcerned sureness. He thrust it to its full length and bent it back and forth to feel the size and shape of the moist pink cavity.
"Good cunt," he commented.
"Thank..." She capped off the automatic response with a rush of anger at herself. The situation was intolerable when she thanked a vulgar creature like Koanoa for approving her internal structure. It was unbelievable that she could forget herself so thoroughly. The feeling of unreality that had come to her rescue earlier edged up again.
"What kind of ship is this?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. "What kind of crew? How do you get away with this kind of kidnapping?" As she put the thought into words, she felt hysteria pushing against the surface of her mind.
"It's Eichmann's ship," replied the Polynesian. "All Eichmann's. His crew, too." He chuckled and pulled out a chair to hold his massive frame. He appeared to be in no hurry.
"Eichmann's ship and Eichmann's men," he repeated. "Nowhere to go and forever to get there."
"But what does he do to keep it going?"
"There's supplies in every port in the world," Koanoa said. "All you have to do is take 'em."
"What's Eichmann's business?" she persisted.
Koanoa knit his brows. "Running the ship!" He seemed puzzled by the question.
"But why?"
"Because he... it..." He paused to grope for words and for some understanding of what she meant. "It's his world, the ship," he said. "What else would he do?"
"What about the men?"
"What about 'em?"
"Why do they stay?'
"On the ship?"
Sandra nodded.
"It's where they live!" said Koanoa.
"Why?"
The giant looked exasperated. "They like it! A man likes to sail, what should he do? He finds a ship he likes and he sails!"
"On the Tradewind?"
"'Course! Plenty o' food, no rush most of the time, good fight once in awhile." He grinned. "Best of everything in port. Even have a woman when we feel like it."
"But there has to be a reason for things!"
"Stayin' alive's a reason!"
"Alive for what?"
"You mean Eichmann?"
"Eichmann."
Koanoa studied her with a different kind of curiosity. She sensed his inability to cope with questions that had nothing to do with simply staying alive.
"He grew up in North Africa. Old man was German. Old lady somethin' else-don't know what. Ten years old when the fighting started there in the big war. Watched the Germans fuck his old lady to death-whole army of 'em at one time. His own people, he thought! Other side killed his old man. Figured if he was German he must be enemy!"
Sandra winced as the simple story unfolded. It sounded so brutal-so pointless and unnecessary, like the life Eichmann was leading now-that it had almost a leaden feel.
"Old man had property. They took it away. Wouldn't give a kid nothin'. Had money hid, too. Eichmann knew where... waited awhile... grew up some more... learned to take care of himself and get what he wanted." Koanoa paused and closed his eyes. He looked as if he were seeing Eichmann's boyhood. He continued, "Got out the money when he was old enough to need it. Started business. Got cheated by government... lost business... got ship... don't care no more."
"He doesn't care?"
"Don't care what happen-hate government-hate rich people-make 'em pay." He looked up and grinned. When he spoke again, the clipped language was gone. "Good life. We have all we want, and there's excitement. They hide when the Tradewind makes port. Like you should have." He laughed a quiet, evil laugh.
"What's going to happen to me?" asked Sandra. She was afraid to know, but she felt that her fear was greater not knowing.
"Fuckin'," he replied bluntly. "Fuckin'... and things."
Her throat tightened and her next question was barely more than a whisper. "How lo... How long?"
"How long can you last?"
"What happens first?"
"Already did."
"But after that?"
"Eichmann... here."
"When?" It was truly a whisper.
"Little while." He looked thoughtfully at her. "Better go to the head, maybe."
He was right. She'd better. She pushed herself up on one elbow. "Where?"
Koanoa stood and reached for her. She swung her feet to the floor and pushed herself erect, hoping that he would not handle her again just yet.
"This way," he said. He led her from the room.
At the end of the passage she saw a tiny room with a toilet. There was neither door nor curtain, and Koanoa leaned casually against the wall as he gestured. "There it is," he said. "Be quick."
She stared up at him in horror. Somehow the thought of letting him watch what she had to do seemed infinitely worse than any of the indignities she had already suffered. She hesitated. I can't do it, she thought. I can't, but I'll have to. I'll burst if I don't! She stepped past him and studied the stained, filth-encrusted object. How can I touch it? How can I put my weight on it?
She turned around and squatted over the low bowl cautiously. Her legs shook and the ship's motion nearly threw her into it, but she managed to brace herself by pressing against the walls with her hands. Koanoa's frank interest made it seem to her that it would be impossible. Vainly, she tried to relax the stubborn muscles. She strained against them and panted. At last, when she was almost ready to give up, they loosened. She held her breath at the incredible relief. "Aaahhh!" she sighed softly. She looked about for paper and finally located it, crumpled and grimy, in a dark niche.
By the time she was ready to rise she was weak with shame and embarrassment and the effort that it had taken to keep her balance. The dark man took her arm and helped her up.
"Back to the cabin," he said. "You won't get out of it again tonight." There was a matter-of-fact certainty in his voice that made her wince. He laughed as he saw her face cringing. "Be too busy to give a shit," he said. "Come daybreak, you'll be too tired." he shook his head. "Cap'n gives 'em a good workout." He shoved her through the door and followed her in. "Gotta get you ready, now."
He pushed her to the small square table in the center of the room, allowing her to stop only when her thighs pressed hard against its edge. He put his hand against her back and forced her forward, bending her over until she lay across the sticky surface on her belly and chest. Catching her by the waist, he slid her around until her crotch rested on one corner of the table.
No use fighting it, she thought. No use getting hurt. She lay quiet while he lashed her wrists together and made them fast by a line to the far leg of the table. He tied a loop around each knee and drew the lines along the edges of the table to opposite table legs, pulling her knees apart and securing them. She squirmed briefly to make herself as comfortable as possible.
She felt that she was on the last threads of her self-control. The hysteria that had been looming ever closer was now closing in on her. It would be a matter of minutes before it broke over her and sucked her under in its boiling turmoil. The horror of her plight came to her with new force.
"Oh, God!" she groaned. She was startled at the sound of her own voice. She hadn't meant to say it aloud. But the words began to tumble out. "Oh, God! Why did this have to happen to me? Please go away and leave me alone!"
Koanoa squeezed her rounded protruding buttocks. He slid his hand over the softer folds below them. "Good cunt," he repeated. "When this daytime comes, then I have you." He stepped around the table to where he was in her field of view and opened his trousers.
Sandra drew a deep, sobbing breath. "Hh-h-h-huhh!" How could a human being have such a monstrous organ? Oh, God! she thought. It can't be real! The most terrifying fact was that it was limp. Black and wrinkled, it was thicker than her wrist and the head bulged ominously within the folds of foreskin. It's thicker than both of my wrists together! she thought wildly. Oh, no! And he's going to use it on me! When daylight comes and the captain is through with me, this giant is going to stuff that awful thing in me! She tried to think of the right name for it. Penis meant nothing; it was a pale, clinical word for an organ that bore no resemblance to this enormous thing. Prick was even less suitable; a prick ought to be sharp and long and not thick. Club seemed a little more apt. Shaft might do afterward. But there had to be a word that could carry the terrible truth. She could think only of the stump of a mast, and thinking of it she knew what really would be like this. The butt of a spar would have the size and stiffness that Koanoa's penis would have when aroused.
Terror welled up in her and she tried to tear her gaze away from the awesome tool. In the morning! In the morning! her mind kept chanting to her. Oh, no! Such a weapon belonged only in an arena. They ought to stake her out in the coliseum for the featured attraction when he got ready to thrust that into her.
"You'll ride on this," he promised.
"Ride?" She wondered if it would feel as hard as the bar of a bicycle. Then suddenly she understood.
But he explained as if she had not. "Poke in you stand up... stiff! you dangle!"
"No, no, no!" she protested. "NO-NO-NO!!" Her panic rose as if the moment had already arrived. No matter what Eichmann does, she thought, it won't be as bad as what Koanoa's going to do to me! She shuddered and closed her eyes.
"I leave," said the giant, lapsing into the abbreviated speech of his home. "Come back to watch cap'n. He like strange things... make me wish for better brain. Mm-mm-mm!"
She squeezed her eyelids tightly together and tried not to listen.
* * * * *
For a time there was silence, except for the background of ship noises. She felt herself slowly relax, and was drowsily aware that she would soon be asleep. The sound of voices reached her as if in a dream. They could not have anything to do with her.
Chapter Five
Voices. Men's voices. One was deep and gravelly and the other was the musical voice of the Islands. They came closer. Was it Uncle Ellison coming to wake her? Who was with him? She'd better get the covers over her if he had someone with him; if he hadn't had, he'd have someone stumbled in accidentally, "forgetting" to knock and it would be too late. But she couldn't move. She'd never get the covers up! She struggled briefly and felt a sudden, hard knot form in her stomach.
No dream! Her arms were held tightly beyond her head where she could not use them. Her breasts hurt from being crushed beneath her on this hard surface. Her legs ached in their wide-spread position, and she remembered that she was naked and "prepared."
Eichmann and Koanoa! It was time! The captain had come to exercise his "strange things" that made the Polynesian wish for a better brain. She lay still. She was tired and half asleep and beyond caring. Nothing that the German did to her could change that; nothing could arouse her this time. She would not even listen. Their voices would be wordless sounds to her and she would sleep through their worst efforts.
The footsteps slowed, then stopped behind her. "Looks like she's ready." It was Eichmann.
"Ready," Koanoa confirmed. "She was so ready she didn't even fight when I started to lay her out for you. Acted like she was eager to get started."
Sandra seethed. Eager to get started, indeed! Men! All alike! She'd heard more than once that men believed what they wanted to about women. The way men saw it, women were so hot that they'd like to fall over on their backs for every man who showed up. The only reason they didn't was the power that convention held over them. Give them half a chance and they'd come apart for you like one of those mechanical toys that flies to pieces when you push the right lever. If men only knew!
Of course, she didn't count. She wasn't the average woman. She was made in her mother's image- beautiful and sweet and innocent, but harboring a smoldering fire inside. She hadn't really had any way of knowing that until Uncle Ellison told her. He had been right. Oddly enough she loved beauty and the things about life that were good. She didn't enjoy smut. The foul undertones in the talk of the younger women at the club sickened her. If it hadn't been for her mother's blood and its cargo of lust and deceit she'd have been the kind of girl that Uncle Ellison would have been proud to have for a daughter-he said so!
She'd wondered when that ugly core would surface. She'd waited fearfully for the first signs. Except for that one recurring dream, she'd still been waiting for Uncle Ellison's predictions to come true when the Tradewind had sailed into port.
But now she'd seen the proof. All her training and scruples had failed her when the test came. They had scattered before the onslaught of her passion at the captain's first coarse pawing. It wasn't the first time she'd been exposed to sex. But no one had found that hidden core of evil that Uncle Ellison described.
It took Eichmann and his ropes and his vile crew to find that. Spread out before them she had needed only a touch to turn into the wildest kind of bitch. Her own kind, she told herself bitterly, in her own kind of setting. As bad as she must be it was no wonder the tame matings with youngsters at the club had done nothing! She had needed the raw stimulus of filthy surroundings, words and gestures-and the commanding meaning of stout bonds-to bring out her true character.
She groaned softly.
Koanoa laughed. "You're keeping her waiting too long, cap'n. She's been waiting a long time for you. I told her I just had to watch you work."
Eichmann grunted. "She's like a nice package. Kinda like to make it last."
"Might be more like coconut juice," said Koanoa. "Let it sit out in the open too long, it spoils."
"Okay, okay! You're just impatient. Can't wait to see her bucking and hear her begging. Might as well get started."
She'd heard their voices as words, not as wordless mumbling. She lay without stirring, but she was not relaxed and uncaring. Instead, her muscles were taut and her skin prickled and she tried to imagine where the first touch would come. Her self-control was gone. She was no more the master of her reactions than she was of her body, and she knew it.
When the first contact came she realized that she hadn't known what explosion meant. With brutal, vicious suddenness, something struck the tense mouth of her vagina and drove ferociously inward. Her body convulsed. She rose from the table, her weight thrust upward between her crotch and her elbows, and screamed a deep-throated, shattering scream. She felt as if she had been pierced by a dagger that had now turned into a mammoth club. Her legs pumped uncontrollably. Her shoulders swayed and her breasts leaped and screams poured out of her in a frantic beat. The pain gradually subsided. She collapsed, sweat streaming from her to mingle with the sticky filth on the tabletop.
She fought to stop the tearing sounds that forced their way through her throat. When at last they stilled, she sobbed, "What was that! Oh, God, what did you do to me?"
She heard an evil chuckle and felt a hand stroke her buttocks. "Hell of a lot of action out of a little goose," Eichmann observed.
"Big thumb," she heard the mate reply. "Fucked her pretty hard with it, too."
Hard! He must have driven it halfway up the inside of her guts! The blow had come without warning. The root of his thumb had crashed against her with such force that it must have jammed all of her outer cunt flesh up into her.
"Get better results by hittin' 'em without too much warnin'," said the captain. "No need to let 'em have time get their guard up.' He crushed her soft buttocks in his powerful fingers, leaving the thumb of the other hand still buried deep. "Waste a lot o' time waitin' for 'em to make up their minds they're just goin' to have to give out. Hit 'em hard like that an' they know they're ready to get started."
In spite of herself, Sandra found herself working her hips to shove against his stroking, prodding hands. Her thoughts seemed incoherent and debased.
She writhed harder. The muscles in her fleshy buttocks squirmed in his cruel grasp. They sought his touch rather than seeking to escape it. The broad, pulpy space between the tops of her thighs rotated about the knobby thumb that impaled her. Ribbons of flame streaked through her at the continued contact. Her head throbbed and her mouth seemed too dry to let her tongue move.
"Mm-mm-mm-mmh!" she moaned. "MM-MM!"
"You're right as hell!" said Koanoa in a tone of admiration. "Where did you learn that!"
"Beirut. Found out the whores turned on when I belted 'em one. Finally learned it wasn't that I scared 'em into doing part of the work; it was just that they needed their pain switches turned on."
"She's goin' good."
"Got a pretty steady movement, ain't she," the captain agreed. "A little slow, though." He withdrew his hand from her buttocks, leaving the other where it was, the fingers curled carelessly over her clitoris, the thumb still deeply submerged.
CRACK!!!
"AAHIYYAAGGHHH!!!" The scream seemed to rip out the lining of her throat as she thrashed under the sting of the tremendous blow on her right buttock. Eichmann had struck so hard that he would have knocked her from her feet if she'd been standing.
She forced herself to relax and yielded to the silent urging of the great thumb.
"Oh... oh...!" she gasped. "What... what are you going... going to do to me?"
She had no desire for an answer; she simply had to talk. It made no difference what she said. Still, if she asked questions she would avoid breaking out with the obscenities that floated through her mind. He didn't really have to do anything else. If he had just waited with his hand where it was, she'd have had an orgasm. Even now, she felt it building within her.
"God, she moves a lot!" said the Polynesian. "Never had one on board that put out like she does!"
"Better class than the others," Eichmann suggested. "Makes a difference if you give 'em a chance."
Sandra whined and squealed.
"She squeals sweet!" said the captain. "This one is smarter than the usual whores we pick up, she can even talk about what we're talkin' about!"
"Not like the others," agreed the mate. "She might last quite a while."
"You mean before we get tired of her?"
"Uh-huh."
"She better last! The Tradewind'll get a new suit o' sails and an overhaul outta what they pay for her."
"Think they'll like what they get back for their money?"
Eichmann gave a short laugh. "That's their problem."
Their conversation drifted through Sandra's consciousness in a disconnected way. The words were all there and she registered what they meant, but she paid little attention. Something much more urgent demanded her concentration.
The pressure of the thumb at the mouth of her vagina was a constant shouting. She ground herself against it in mounting cadence. Dimly, she knew that it no longer mattered whether the captain moved at all; the fact that he and Koanoa watched her naked, helpless struggles and the fullness at her crotch combined to drive her onward toward her peak. Her body had found a strong rhythm. She pumped steadily against the bonds at her knees and twisted her hips from side to side in the same accelerating beat. The result was a rapid rotation of the hungering mouth on its hard, alien core.
With each downward stroke, she caught the captain's curled fingers between the tabletop and her clitoris, driving knives of flaming sensation into her. She clenched her teeth and fists and arched her back so that her head was up and she could stare straight ahead.
Through it all, she fought herself. You're a foul beast, she told herself. Stop this wildness...! But I can't stop... oh, be Sandra, not a pig...! No, push, push, push...! No, fight it off...! No, push, push, push on it...! No, don't let yourself build any higher...! No, have to build... have to...!
"Uh-uH-uH-uH-UUUHHHHHH!" These animal sounds had to belong to someone else! But she felt them work their way up out of her chest and through her throat and past her gritted teeth. They were not hers-they were Sandra! She was these grunting noises that she pushed out!
"No, no no!" she cried, her voice rising rapidly. "Don't let me... don't make me... don't be so... UNH...! Oh, give me... UNHH...! OH, PLEASE...! SO HARD...! UNHH...! UNH...! UNHH!!"
The pressure against her vaginal opening increased and the thumb moved on the inside.
"UNH!" she yelled. "UNHH...! UNHH...! UNH...! PUSH, PUSH, PUSH!"
Suddenly the thumb jerked away. She heard the wet plop and felt the hungry dragging out of her inner tissues. Words bubbled over each other. "BACK IN!" She cried and her body seemed to spasm. "EMPTY! DON'T STOP! IN-IN-IN! OH PLEASE!"
But the emptiness continued and her trembling passion faded before a frustrated rage. "SONOVABITCH!" she screamed. "SONOVABITCH! MORE."
As the heat ebbed and her head cleared, she sucked in her breath. What am I saying? Oh, God! What have I become? Oh, Uncle Ellison, you knew so well what was inside of me! You saw deep into me and knew how terrible I was. Don't buy me back! Let them kill me. I'm not even worth saving.
She settled back against the wood of the table, letting her face press its roughness. Her breath came in coughing pants and her muscles jerked. As she quieted, she could hear answering panting behind her and knew that the men had lost none of the excitement of her lustful display.
To her surprise, she felt the ropes on her knees go slack. Someone grasped her hips and slid her off the corner and around the edge of the table, so that she lay along one edge, her feet together and resting on the floor. She raised her head to look over the edge, and she saw Eichmann pass a short rope around her ankles, tying them tightly to the table leg. Now she lay with her left side along the edge of the table, her bottom thrust back and her left elbow hanging over the side.
Eichmann untied her left wrist, looped another rope around it, and pulled the arm under the table. He secured the rope to another leg of the table and came around to stand by her head. Her face was only partly supported by the tabletop, and it was difficult to keep any part of her head on the table. Standing inches from her face, the captain pulled off his ragged clothes. His body was covered with wiry, black hair. His skin looked dry and flaked, and dirty, grey chunks had come loose and hung in the twisted mat of hair. There were long gouges where he had apparently scratched at himself to relieve the itch of unwashed filth.
His penis hung before her eyes, long and thick in its semi-erection. Below it was an equally long, drawn-looking bag, bulging at the bottom with its load of testicles, one half-resting on the other. The sight nauseated Sandra. She closed her eyes.
"Now it's my turn," said the captain with relish. "Kiss it, cunt!"
He thrust the foul appendage into her face. The stench of his filthy crotch suddenly washed over her. It was a powerful, pungent, odor, reeking of stale urine and careless secretions and sour sweat. Sandra gagged.
"Kiss it, you fuckin' cunt!" demanded Eichmann. "Kiss it like you love it! Before you leave the Tradewind you'll kiss every one of these aboard! You're just getting a starting on the best!" He thrust it against her mouth.
Closing her eyes again, she pursed her lips and lightly kissed the repulsive head. It jerked to the light touch.
"KISS IT, YA FUCKIN' BROAD! KISS IT LIKE YA MEAN IT!"
Eichmann's rage sounded real and gut-born. She screamed inwardly as she pressed her full lips hard against the slimy, rounded surface...
CRA-AACK!
"Y-Y-A-A-Aghh!" she screamed. The flesh on her buttocks writhed in agony.
CRACK!
"YIAAIIGHH!"
CRACK!
CRACK!
"AAAIGHH! YAAAGGHH...! STOP...! Oh, PLEASE...! I'LL DO IT...! OH, GOD! PLEASE STOP! I'LL DO IT...!!" Her muscles cramped and she thrashed against the table.
"Now, kiss the fuckin' thing. Kiss it good! LICK IT, YA COCK-HUNGRY CUNT!" He thrust it hard against her parted lips.
His stench hung in waves over her face and nausea twisted the back of her throat, but the shrieking pain in her buttocks pushed everything else aside. She held her lips to the purple bulb and kissed it, then played the tip of her tongue over its surface.
"UNHH!" grunted the captain, tensing his hips abruptly. "Christ, woman! Ya can do somethin' right!" His corded thighs flexed and the heavy bands of his belly twitched, but he held himself tightly in check to maintain the position of his jerking penis.
As the tip of her tongue played about the edges of the opening in the swelling bulb, Sandra realized there was something she should pay attention to. She moved her face slightly. The captain shifted position so that his penis followed her lips. She increased the pressure of her tongue and turned her head a little. He followed again. She knew suddenly what it was that was shouting at her. It was she who held the power at this moment! She choked back her nausea and parted her lips to draw the tip of the head between them. She slid her tongue over its surface, drawing off the foul slime that covered it and replacing it with a layer of her own saliva. She teased the edges of the opening and felt a new fluid ooze out into her mouth. It sickened her, but her sense of mastery rose to blot out the horror.
She watched Eichmann's hands clench and unclench. His penis now stood fully erect, and he had to crouch slightly to keep the head at the level of her mouth. She drew it deeper and ran her tongue over its back ridge. She felt his pulse throb in the swollen bulb and heard his breath turn to a heavy panting. His body twisted as hers had, and low, wordless mumbling tumbled from his mouth.
You bastard! she thought. You big, filthy bastard! I'll suck every drop of strength out of you! You're the one who's getting it this time! Let's see how long it takes you! When I finish with you, you'll have to crawl on the floor!
She drew the entire unwashed head into her mouth. She ignored the acrid taste as she worked her tongue over its slick swellings. Sucking steadily she rolled it between her teeth. She avoided biting, but kept up a changing pressure with her teeth and tongue.
"UUNNHHH!!" It was an explosive grunt. "Koa! SHE'S A FUCKIN' WITCH! SHE KNOWS TRICKS I DIDN'T KNOW! YOU GOTTA MAKE HER DO THIS FOR YOU, TOMORROW!"
"Cock too big," replied Koanoa. There was a wistful note that sounded out of place coming from the swarthy giant. "Mouth too little, cock too big."
She wanted to reject the claim as bragging. But she knew that he spoke the truth. Eichmann's penis was near the maximum size that she would be able to get her mouth over, and Koanoa's was at least twice as large. Even now, it was like having a small orange in her mouth and trying to lick it. It even felt a little like a slick-skinned orange!! She tried to pretend that it was. Her tongue continued to play over it. The throbbing grew more intense and the captain grabbed her hair, winding it around his fingers until it felt like it would rip out by the roots.
"UNHH...! GAWD...! UNHH...! FUCKIN' BROAD'S GOT MAGIC IN HER MOUTH!"
I've gone mad, she thought. And she sucked harder and worked her tongue until the backs of her jaws ached.
She wondered how many other horrible things she was going to have to do on this ship. There would be no degenerate act she would not have to perform, she was sure. She'd be centuries old in depravity. Nothing in the normal world could provide the thrill of discovery again. Her life would be one of pale dryness and she would awaken at night from dreams of crusty penises in her face and horny hands between her legs.
She shuddered and sucked harder. The captain's scrotum jerked rapidly. His balls are yo-yos! she thought. They're bouncing!
His belly knotted before her eyes. He moaned steadily. His fists worked in her hair and she knew that he would forget himself and jerk her head against himself in passion. She increased the force of her bite and the tempo of her tongue. It was getting harder to breath.
"Mm-mm-mm-mm-MMMHPHH!" she mumbled around the pulsing shaft. "Mmblnnmmng!"
Overriding the throb of Eichmann's pulse in his penis, she felt a quicker jerking. Something in him had been triggered into action and was twitching his entire body in spasmodic rhythm. His fists trembled against her scalp. Thrust, thrust, thrust! The bulb pumped rapidly against the roof of her mouth, forcing her tongue back into her throat. Suddenly, the hands in her hair tightened and held her head in their iron vise and the engorged shaft thrust in and out between her yawning jaws. Again and again, it rammed against the back of her throat. She struggled convulsively for breath. She felt the buzzing spasms in the shaft as hot fluid coursed into her mouth, distending her cheeks and squirting out around the prick.
"AARGRGRGGHHH!" growled the captain. His legs shook with great tremors.
Sandra's back arched and her body flailed in a desperate quest for air. Abruptly, the brutal fists released their grip and the spent cock began to shrink. She jerked her head back and gasped, choking on thick semen. She felt heavy gobs of the flat tasting stuff fall from her lips, hanging by slowly lengthening threads until the threads, too, broke and drew back against her face.
She shuddered and closed her eyes. She forced them open at once. She couldn't deny herself the hard-earned satisfaction of watching the captain collapse!
Eichmann staggered backward, his legs rubbery, and fell onto his bunk. "Christ!" he exclaimed. He stared at her with awe in his expression. "You're another kind of woman! You oughta...!"
He stopped.
Sandra completed the thought. She ought to kill herself. She was bad! She was her mother reincarnated in all her lustful wickedness. She was so bad she could meet Eichmann on his own terms and beat him! She closed her eyes wearily.
Chapter Six
Eichmann eyed Sandra speculatively. "Never saw one like you before," he mused. "Scared and sick to your stomach and hatin' my guts, but you can suck me off better than it's ever been done. You're a different kinda cunt!"
He sprawled against the bulkhead at the back of the bunk and panted. His dirty feet stretched out toward the table and his hands lay limp on the coarse blanket. A momentary frown tugged at his face. "Fucked me out of my special. Had other plans for you. Gotta do somethin' about that."
Sandra cringed. She could do without another orgasm. She felt wrung out and queasy. If they'd only let her sleep! But Eichmann pushed himself onto his feet.
"Gotta letcha cum," he mumbled. "Gotta remind ya not to bust up my plans, too."
He wandered aimlessly about the cabin, as if searching for something he'd misplaced. Sandra watched him through a haze of exhaustion. She was aware suddenly that she was terribly uncomfortable. The ship's motion seemed to have become more pronounced. Her position on the table, with her head toward the ship's side and her bottom toward the cabin door, rocked her head and shoulders up and down as the ship rolled from side to side. Her body tried to slide toward her head each time they rolled to that side and toward her hips on the reverse roll. As the ship pitched fore and aft, she rolled slightly toward one side or the other. The result was that her breasts and abdomen and hips were subjected to an unceasing massage against the hard surface of the table-top and were getting sore.
The creaking of the seams had grown louder, also, and slapping sounds from above were increasing. Either the ship was heeling over further now or she'd lain in this slightly head-down position so long that she was becoming over-sensitive about it.
"Hey cap'n!" she heard from on deck.
Eichmann appeared not to hear it. He continued to wander aimlessly from his bunk to his desk to the chest that was lashed to the bulkhead. It seemed there was something that he needed but could not remember what it was. He simply looked, trusting that when he saw it, he'd remember that it was what he was hunting.
"Hey cap'n! Need ya on deck!"
Still Eichmann ignored the call. But Koanoa heard it.
"Cap'n, I'll find out what they need."
"Mmph!" grunted Eichmann.
Sandra felt the Polynesian's big hand rest for a moment on her back. It slid down the length of her spine and over her buttocks to come to rest over the warmer flesh between her thighs. Fingers probed, inward, causing her to draw in her breath sharply. Then they were gone.
Eichmann mumbled to himself and looked irritated. She wondered what it was that was so important to him. It was obvious that it had something to do with her, for he had set his mind on forcing her into another orgasm. In her tired, confused state, she didn't know whether to hope that he would find whatever it was quickly or not at all.
The ship gave a shuddering lurch and shouts drifted below to them. Eichmann's head came up abruptly and he appeared to become alert to the sounds and motions about him.
There was another lurch and a tremendous crash.
"Christ!" exclaimed the captain. "Took one aboard, that time!" He leaped toward the door. "Stay put!" he admonished.
As if she could do anything else, she thought in irritation. She was now acutely uncomfortable. Her legs ached. She struggled to draw her feet off the floor so that she could bend her knees. It seemed to her that the recent episode with the captain had been the only time since she'd awakened to find herself aboard the Tradewind that her legs had not been pulled straight.
Now she felt the rope that bound her ankles slip upward on the table leg. The relief to the taut muscles in the backs of her knees was almost painful. But she had little opportunity to enjoy the relaxation. The ship continued to grow more violent in its motion, and the sound of running feet and wordless shouts were mingled with a bewildering barrage of bangs and crashes and squeaks.
The ship heeled sharply in the opposite direction to the one it had maintained for so long. It began to pitch harder, and with each plunge toward the bow Sandra heard the crash of bow meeting wave and felt the shudder that shook the planks. Before they had brought her below, they had been on a course that let them run down before the wind. That type of sailing was kind to the schooner, for it meant the waves overtook them from behind and moved under them smoothly. It also allowed them to sit almost level in the water.
If the wind freshened or the waves grew high and choppy, it soon became unsafe to maintain that kind of course. Big waves had a nasty habit of cresting over the stem of a running ship, dumping tons of water aboard. Under those circumstances the experienced crew brought the boat about and headed into the waves. From the new feel to the Tradewind's motion, they had done that.
Sandra's already aching body now screamed at her as it was thrown from side to side. Suddenly she was pitched over the edge, landing heavily on her hip. She struggled to get at the knots at her wrists but they were well secured and out of reach of her fingers. She felt herself thrown under the table, then into the open. She screamed for help. She knew that the violence would soon dislocate her joints. If she were not rescued quickly, it might even kill her. And she was too tired to mean it when she reflected that she'd be better off dead.
For what must have been the hundredth time, she was pitched out from under the table. She crashed into a pair of stoutly planted legs. It was the Polynesian mate. He knelt and held onto the table with one hand while untying her with the other. He picked her up and dumped her on the captain's bunk, then strung a hammock above it.
"What's happening!" she cried out.
"Wind's up heavy," he said. "Big waves, too. They built up an hour before the wind hit us. Looks like a storm's comin.' "
He threw a blanket into the hammock and spread it. Then he plucked Sandra out of the bunk, where she had clung desperately to avoid being catapulted to the floor, and dropped her into the swaying piece of canvas. He threw her another blanket.
"Y'oughta be able to stay in that," he said. "Might as well get some sleep, if you can." Still stooped, he hurried out of the cabin.
Sandra pulled the blanket about herself and gripped the edges of the hammock tightly. Unlike the hammocks she had known, this one seemed to be built for keeping its occupant in under rough water conditions Its edges were taut, but between them, it sagged deeply. She was in what was almost a bag, and it would take a terrible contortion of the ship to throw her out.
She would be unable to sleep, of course. She was too frightened of the violent motion for that. But there was a deep sense of gratitude for the storm. Neither the captain nor the crew would have time for her.
The mate had blown out the dancing lantern before leaving, and she lay in the darkness listening to the chaotic noises and trying to anticipate the next roll of the ship. Everything seemed to flow together-noise and motion and smells. She was vaguely aware that she was drifting into sleep.
* * * * *
Sandra awoke aching in every muscle. Her shoulders burned until she was half convinced that they had separated at the joints. But she found that she could move her arms and pull herself up to look over the side of the hammock.
If anything, the ship was in more violent motion than it had been when she went to sleep. Light filtered in through the ports, but again and again was blotted out by a wall of angry water.
Finally, she gathered enough courage to climb out. As she did, a heavy roll threw her to the floor. She pulled herself to her feet and made her way into the passage and aft to the head. Back in the cabin, she realized how weak she was. The short expedition had sapped her strength, leaving barely enough for her to get back into the hammock. Wrapped in the blanket, she was asleep almost at once.
She had no idea how much time had passed when Koanoa awakened her. There was easing of the motion, and light still came through the ports. Surely he was not going to use her under these conditions!
"Brought some food," he grunted.
"I'm not hungry," she said. But she was. None of the aches in her body could equal that sharp gnawing in her midsection.
"Eat anyhow," insisted Koanoa. "Gotta be strong for when I take you."
"Today?!"
"Hell, no!" Koanoa shook his head in disgust. "Wanta have my mind on what I'm doin'; don't wanta be hangin' onto something' with one hand." He shook the hammock. "Get down outta there and eat!"
Sandra steeled herself to the necessity to climb out naked before his greedy eyes. She pushed the blanket off and swung one leg over the side. With the mate steadying the hammock, she was able to reach the floor without sprawling full length.
Koanoa had clamped a rack on the table with compartments that held plates and cups. Sandra saw that even the rack would not keep her plate off the floor for long, but the heap of cold meat and bread drew her irresistibly. She lowered herself onto the bench which Koanoa pushed forward, clung to the table with one hand, and ate. The plate was almost empty when Koanoa brought a great mug half full of steaming coffee. Sandra wedged herself into the captain's bunk and tried to drink without scalding herself. Long before she had finished the coffee, the mate had disappeared. She dropped the empty cup into a small lunk hammock and climbed back into her own. The warmth that spread through her as the food began to digest made her as sleepy as she had been before the storm started.
She awoke periodically. Each time she did, she either fought her way to the head or ate again. Sometimes it was grey half-light about her and sometimes dark. Unless someone told her, she'd never know exactly how many days they rode out the storm. Koanoa had volunteered the information that they'd taken off all the sail, except for a small storm trisail. They had put out a sea anchor and lay head to the wind, waiting.
"How's Willie taking the storm?" she asked the mate during one of her cold meals.
"The Rat?"
She nodded.
"It's probably stirring him up. We threw him overboard the second night."
"MURDERERS!" Sandra screamed.
The mate shook his head. "He died that same day Rats got to him and he couldn't fight 'em off."
Sandra saw again the skinless square of flesh on the repulsive little man's abdomen and imagined the rats fighting over it. For a long moment, she thought she was going to be sick.
"Good riddance," Koanoa said brutally. "Troublemaker."
She wondered if she would be the next to go over the rail, victim to the terrible lusts of this degenerate crew. Her food suddenly had no flavor, and she turned away from it.
* * * * *
When the violence subsided and they were once more under sail, it was not the mate who returned to claim Sandra. Instead, Eichmann insisted on completing the activity that the storm had interrupted.
He had evidently slipped below for occasional snatches of sleep while Sandra slept, for he appeared none the worse for the rigors of the past few days. Not that he could have been much worse, reflected Sandra. As filthy and crude as he was, she could not imagine him any worse.
"Ya oughta be rested some," he said as she peered at him over the side of the hammock. "I been waitin' quite awhile. Time to get on with it."
Ignoring her protests, he dragged her out of the hammock and surveyed her naked body. "Looks even better than it did," he observed. He twisted her toward the table and forced her face down upon it. Without wasted motion, he tied her hands at two corners of the table, jerked her legs roughly apart, and tied her ankles to two of the table legs.
His hands pawed at her body, seeking out the soft spots and fumbling at the recess in her crotch. Being thoroughly rested might not be the best way to start such a session, Sandra realized. The numbness that had begun to develop was gone. Now, every nerve ending was alive. As his mauling continued, she found herself jerking spasmodically beneath his hands.
He soon abandoned his random caresses to place his hands around her waist, his long, blunt fingers curling under her to dig into her soft belly. He squeezed and massaged until she felt that her guts were coming loose from their support. Her organs were pressed repeatedly down into the cradle of her pelvis, and a hungering sensation grew there.
But each squeeze also pushed air from her lungs, so that she soon fell into a breathing rhythm that matched the massage. She grunted as she exhaled, the grunts gradually running together into an undulating groan. She was chagrined at the fact that she was conscious only of warmth and new aliveness. Again, she was losing herself to her baser streak!
"Foul bitch!" she muttered between her teeth. "Foul, lustful pig!"
"You hate yourself," the captain chuckled. "Can't help likin' what's goin' on an' hate yourself for it." His hands continued to massage her. "Oughta have a beating for being such a whore."
He removed one hand from her waist and whacked her bottom. She jumped. The blow was not the vicious kind of that other night, but it stung.
"Ouch!" she exclaimed. "Don't...! Oh! Please."
Eichmann laughed and struck her again.
"OUCH!" She squirmed.
The captain took his other hand away from her waist and struck her a third time. In spite of herself, Sandra's bottom leaped.
You're getting what you deserve, she told herself. Filthy bitch! She'd lapsed once more into the gutter language of the crew. With deliberate self-torture, she pictured herself as she was at that moment. Spread-eagled over the table, face down, her legs spread widely so that her toes just touched the floor, she lay naked and inviting before the captain. The touch of his dirty hands should have made her belly crawl; instead, it had awakened lust in her.
Hit me harder, she thought. Beat me! Club the lustfulness out of me.
He struck her bottom again and again, each slap ringing out as a sharp retort in the cramped cabin and stringing her, but none heavy enough to bruise. Even this punishment was a stimulus! She groaned. Her very writhing excited her. If her sexual hunger was aroused by the actions that ought to serve as chastisement, then she was completely hopeless!
"Oh-h-h-h!" she groaned. There was no lament over her physical pain-only spiritual despair over her incredible reactions. She abandoned herself to the captain. She would not fight herself any longer.
Smack!
"Unhh!"
Smack!
"Unhh!'
Smack...!
"Unhh...!"
SMACK...!
"UNHH...!"
Slobbering cunt... hard nipples scrubbing the table... wide open mouth... wide open cunt... crawling belly... wild hips... good-for-nothing woman! Tears welled unheeded out of Sandra's eyes and she writhed to the beat of the captain's smacking hand. She struggled to meet his blows with her straining meaty buttocks and longed for a fullness in her vagina.
"Oh, stop it!" she screamed out, and thought inwardly... Stop being such a horrible bitch! Turn off the wanting! Aloud; "OH, CAPTAIN!! OH HIT ME HARDER!! UNHH...! UNHH...!! HARDER-HARDER-HARDER!!"
The smacking blows shifted from the swells of her open buttocks to the backs of her fleshy thighs and she felt a heavy pressure against her swollen crotch.
He's mounting me, she thought. Oh God! Now he's mounting me. It's time for it. No! No! Don't strain back for it! FIGHT IT, YOU HOPELESS BITCH!
But she did strain toward it and grasped at the first probe of hard flesh that pushed her gaping sex-lips aside. It slid in over thick, slimy layers of cunt-juice... in and in and in and she gulped at it and contracted to hold onto it.
It rocked in and out and she surged with it. She was fully aflame again. Her inner struggle ceased as the spreading heat drove self-disgust from her mind and animal response grew ever more intense.
She humped back against him, jerking sideward each time his broad hand smacked against her bottom or thigh. The wild fancy grew that he was riding some mindless animal, probing into it and whipping it into motion as he did. She tried to imagine what kind of animal she was. The only picture she could visualize was of herself-long shapely legs angled out toward the table legs, lush naked bottom spread above the edge of the table, torso writhing across the tabletop, swollen red cunt impaled on the captain's thrusting organ. She settled back hard against him and met each thrust with a powerful backward thrust of her own.
Suddenly the shaft withdrew.
Sandra screamed her rage. "OH NO! PLEASE... BACK IN!! GET IT IN ME!! PLEASE... YOU LOUSY BASTARD!!"
She felt the hard head against her again, but it slipped back and forth over the edges of the yawning mouth and refused to plunge inside. She felt it spread her flowing juice until she was wet over the entire area of her slitted crack, from tail bone to between the top of her legs. The pressure settled against her rectum and pushed.
"NOT IN THERE, OH... YOU DIRTY COCK!!" she shrieked.
But the pressure built up against her tightly puckered entry. She was in a haze of confused desires. She knew that she could not think rationally, but she knew also that she had no power to prevent the captain from doing whatever he wanted to do. If he meant to bury himself in her rectum, he'd do it. Her only recourse was to get it over with as soon as she could.
Up my ass, then, she thought bitterly. Up my ass. That's the kind of home you belong in, anyhow! She relaxed her rectum and thrust backward onto the pushing club.
A horrible burning sensation enveloped her at the sudden plop. She shrieked and beat her fists against the table. But she gave as he forced the shaft in, and forced herself back onto the shaft as well, until she could feel its tip up high in her guts, in the middle of her belly and thrashed her hips. She experimented with her rectum. She had conscious control over it; she could make it relax or she could squeeze down brutally with it. She began to squeeze and relax as fast as she could alternate. She sensed dimly that she was again master of the situation-that the captain was prisoner to whatever gripped his penis.
I made him a slave to my mouth that other night, she thought. Today I'll make him slave to my rectum! He's buried in shit, and I'll make him cum in it!
She pumped her shapely hips and gnawed at the base of the intruding prick with her snapping rectum. Revenge! she thought. Revenge and mastery!
But her triumph was flawed. She had known exactly what she was doing that other time. She had done it coldly and full of hate. This time, she could not escape her own passion. The movement shot charges of electricity into the barrel of her vagina, driving her cold determination into the recesses of her mind and replacing it with hot eagerness.
"MM-MM-MMHH!" she grunted. And as the captain thrust against her soft buttocks again and again, "UNHH...! UNHH...! UNHH!!"
The slaps had finally stopped, but her bottom was hot and red. Powerful hands grasped her hips, brutal fingertips biting into her flesh to hammer her against Eichmann's rock-hard belly. The rhythm rose to a frenzy. Sandra felt herself yielding to a steady succession of spasms and her guts writhed around the hard fullness.
"YAAAGGHHH!!" she shouted. "AAGGHH!!!"
She flattened her breasts against the table in a raging orgasm, their protesting pain adding to the fire that spread from her rectum. Her eyes bulged and her breath caught in her throat. The screams that fought to escape would not come. Her hair tossed across her sweating face.
Eichmann's wild pounding ceased abruptly and he pulled her against him to hold her as he ground himself slowly and ferociously on her raw tissues. She felt a great surge of thick, boiling fluid fill her belly in the moment before she collapsed.
The captain's hands slowly loosened their grip on her hips. There was a rushing sensation at her rectum and she was empty. The ache receded to her sphincter. Her control was gone, and she felt a hot trickle spread down over the insides of her thighs. She knew it was the white, stringy remains of the captain's lust. She closed her eyes, no longer caring.
Chapter Seven
Sandra had no idea how long the captain remained in the cabin. When she was fully aware of her surroundings again, he was gone. The ropes bit into her wrists and ankles and the tendons in her thighs screamed at her. Every protrusion on her front side burned from its grinding contact with the tabletop.
"Oh-h-h-h!" she groaned. "Please! Someone let me off here!"
There was no answer. Inwardly, she was thankful. The answer would most likely have come from Eichmann or the mate. In either case, it would have signaled a new beginning to her torment. Except for the first night, she had seen little evidence of personal vindictiveness toward her. To Eichmann and his crew she was a woman, nothing more. That they used their women sadistically had little to do with the fact that she was Commodore Deen's niece. But the fact seemed well established that when she ceased to amuse them they would coldly dump her over the side.
Of course, there was the captain's repeated reference to ransom. But Sandra knew that no one at the club cared enough about her to part with any large amount of money. And surely Uncle Ellison had no reason to part with any of his fortune to rescue the girl who had so much of her mother in her character. She wondered what the German's reaction would be when he finally realized the truth. He might very well fly into a rage that could only be cooled by torturing her as he had the unfortunate Willie. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the cabin. God! she thought. I could never stand that! I'd die the first time he slid the knife across me!
A shuffle in the passageway caught her attention. This time, she lay at an angle that allowed her to watch the door. When it opened, the giant Polynesian's head came through it, followed by his stooping form. Her belly tightened. He's come for me! The moment of truth is here! That living spar will never get inside without splitting me apart! Her panic filled her throat with a bitter taste.
The mate untied her and pulled her off the table. He set her on her feet, handed her a grimy handful of toweling and pushed her toward the door. In the passageway, she found a bucket with several inches of water sloshing about in it. She picked it up and took it to the head with her.
She scrubbed herself as best she could. She knew the dirt was not all coming off, but it was being spread evenly. The drier end of the towel removed most of the water and left her only slightly damp. Dawdling would only irritate Koanoa. The next few hours would be bad enough if he was in good humor. She hurried back to the captain's cabin.
Koanoa let his gaze flick up and down her body. "You look ready," he said. "Come."
"But what'll I put on?"
"Put on!' He turned and stared. "Why put anything on?" He shook his head. 'Woman, you're just here for fuckin'. For that, you don't need clothes." He turned back toward the door.
"Now, come!"
She bit her lip and followed him.
Koanoa led the way to the companionway, where he mounted the ladder quickly. Sandra climbed up behind him. She braced herself for the catcalls she knew would fill the air. At the top, the light blinded her. She stepped out on deck groping for support.
"Here's the cunt!" someone cried.
"Yeah! Look at 'er!"
"Man! See them tits!"
"Shit, ya seen 'em th' other night!"
"Look bigger in the sun"
"Oughta get a good ride outta them hips!"
A chorus of laughs met the last observation. "Wanta be careful 'bout that, Hans! She might throw ya clear over the rail!"
"Hell yes, Hans. Hips like that been known to kill a man with bouncin'!"
Sandra's eyes slowly adapted to the sunlight. The Tradewind again ran before the wind. Her great spread of canvas blotted out the ocean ahead, but to the sides Sandra saw that the water was a deep blue. Her throat ached. Such a ship could have been the most beautiful of yachts. With a conscientious crew to keep her clean and a suit of white sails to replace these dingy grey ones, she'd have dazzled the eye. As it was, black rope cluttered the deck and hardware that looked like junk lay in various states of disassembly.
The crew slouched about the deck enjoying the easy course they maintained and eyeing her. She thought she counted fifteen of them. Every one of them would mount her before this voyage ended- unless she gave out first.
"Ya gonna loosen 'er up for us, Koa?"
"Yeah, Koa. Gonna stretch it a little this mornin'?"
Even the men recognize the inhuman size of his penis! she thought in new panic. It's now. Now! She felt a tight ache between her thighs that was anticipation of his entry.
Koanoa led the way to the foredeck, a long, broad expanse without obstruction other than the foremast. Even though she knew what awaited her there, Sandra followed him closely. The leers on the faces of the crewmen and their reaching hands seemed far worse than the known evil she expected from the mate. Letting herself fall into the hands of the crew before it was scheduled would be like falling into the pit.
On the foredeck Koanoa motioned to two younger sailors whom she had missed in her earlier count While they approached her, he stripped, piling his clothes in a corner against the forward end of the main cabin.
The two men took Sandra's arms and laid her back on the cabintop. She fought off the urge to resist and studied them. Neither could be as old as she. One was blonde and smooth skinned. His brown eyes were too large for his face and his lips had a fullness that would disappear as he matured. He stared at her with a hungry expression, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. He'd probably be one of the last to get to her, she reflected, and he'd have liked to be first.
The other youth was a strong contrast. His face was dark and deeply scarred. His hair, black and greasy, was too ragged to have been barbered professionally for months. His eyes were narrow and close-set. They regarded her with a cold, black, beady gaze. His nose was thin and sharp and his lips curled in a thin sneer. He wouldn't care when he got her; it was only important to him that he get her.
Each of them tied one of her arms. They pulled at them as if they were engaged in a tug-o'-war, tying the wrist loops much tighter than they needed to and making the free ends fast to the handrail that ran along the edge of the cabin roof. She watched the blonde go to the rigging on his side of the deck and loosen a coiled line that passed through a small snatch-block high above his head. Uncoffing it as he returned he knelt to tie the end to her ankle. She felt hands working at her other ankle and knew that the smaller, dark boy was doing the same thing.
The boys straightened and returned to the rails, where each took the other end of his line in his hand. Glancing at each other, they exchanged nods and began to haul the lines through the blocks. Sandra's feet were lifted from the deck and raised until they were in a deep split and her buttocks barely touched the roof of the cabin. The tendons along the inner sides of her thighs stood out like taut cords and flexing her knees lifted her bottom clear of the cabin.
She looked back at the mate. He was a dirt-streaked, near-black giant. He swelled outward above sturdy hips and a slabbed waist to terrible chest and shoulder width. Seeing him naked, she was startled at how much too small his head seemed for such a tremendous body. But all such thoughts vanished as she caught sight again of his penis. He was going through some sort of calisthenics and the massive weapon bounced before him like a grotesque animal. She felt faint with fear as she tried to judge the size. The head must be as large as both of her fists together. The shaft was the size of Koanoa's wrist; it would more than match both of her arms.
He'll kill me with it! It'll never go in! It'll split me. Oh, God! Make me faint first! But she felt a wet heat spreading through her groin and a tingling sensation along her arms and legs. I'll die for it, she thought, but I'll try, Koanoa! Sandra! What are you saying?
She noticed that the deck was collecting a crowd. The crew was gathering to watch this uneven match. She remembered her silent conviction that such a sacrifice should be made in some gladiatorial arena and realized that this was the arena. Horror seized her at the murmurs she overheard.
"Gets bigger everytime I see it!"
"Go slow, Koa. No need to let the blood spray as far as last time."
"John's got his needles and marlin. He kin sew her back up if she splits." (She thought that remark and the one before it were made for her benefit.)
But; "Christ," she heard one of them exclaim to the man next to him. "I'll never get over having cold chills when I see that thing hammer up against some tender cunt! Goddam wonder they don't all split!"
"Yeah," growled the other. "Oughta make the sonovabitch wait'll last. Ain't fair for him to ruin 'em 'fore we even get a chance."
"Well, he don't ruin all of 'em."
"So what! Every one he splits means one we don't get no good out of them!"
Then it wasn't all just to terrorize her! She expected Koanoa to make some sharp retort, but he did not.
Koanoa made a sign to the blonde boy. Sandra turned her head to see what it was going to cause.
The boy came to her and knelt at her exposed bottom. He lowered his head toward her and intense thrills shot through her as his tongue probed to the inner lips of her vagina.
"Nn-nn-nn-nn!" she moaned softly.
It feels so good, she thought. It's gentle and slow and wet and knowing. He's so innocent, she thought, laughing inwardly at the use of the word for a boy who lived with this terrible crew. There was no innocence aboard the Tradewind! But warmth spread over her and she relaxed into animal response. The frightening mutterings of the gathering seamen no longer reached her. She felt hot cunt-fluid spring to her opening to meet the tip of that probing tongue.
Its touch was alternately feather-light and urgent. It caressed her outer folds until they swelled and opened, then gently teased the delicate inner lips. It slipped easily past them to play over the scalloped mouth that reached for it. It withdrew to cover the flesh around her clitoris with saliva. The boy's lips sucked her clitoris in between them so that his tongue could work at it without interference.
Sandra's hips took up a slow, measured rotation, grinding out her desire and excitement for the questing mouth. "NN-NN-NN-NNNNHH!" she moaned. Keep it up forever, she thought. When you stop, that awful probe will split me and I'll never feel this way again. Oh, keep it up!
The blonde head drew back and she felt hands on her buttocks. They spread her folds wide, stretching the turgid flesh, and the tongue was back. Now, it was demanding. It penetrated her gaping mouth, probing the inner recess and triggering spasms in her belly. She breathed heavily, each breath a hoarse cough.
"You're going to make me cum this way," she moaned to the boy.
He drew his head back and grinned at her, his teeth a gleaming white and his eyes widening. "Not this time," he said. "Just have to get you ready this time." He watched her until her breathing steadied, then returned his mouth to her waiting tissues.
It's a kiss, thought Sandra. In a curious way, we're kissing. My cunt is a mouth and its lips are meeting his. She let herself sink into the fancy, imagining her vaginal lips puckering-extending-to drink in the pressure of his mouth. She felt them squeeze his intruding tongue and milk it.
Abruptly, he sucked at the swollen pink folds. He drew in a wet mouthful and chewed on the flesh, his tongue extended deep into her. She felt herself grow and distend under his chewing. Her hips surged until he grasped them in his hands to hold them still. Again she approached an orgasm.
She moaned again to him. "Oh...! Oh...! I'm going to cum!"
He jerked his head away and stared at her. She thrust her hips toward him and tried to recapture the thrill of his manipulation. Slowly, her passion receded and her breathing eased and her near-orgasm collapsed.
"Whew!" he laughed. "You almost did it that time!"
It was impossibly weird to lie here in this position and have to carry on a quiet exchange with a boy she'd first seen less than an hour ago. She must have abandoned all pretense at being a decent woman. Only the worst kind of slut could adapt so readily to such a bizarre situation. She actually felt a sort of warmth for this boy! She felt as if she'd like to pat his hair and cradle his head against her breast. Oh, Uncle Ellison! If ever you should see me like this you'd kill me! You'd know that the worst things you predicted about me weren't as bad as the truth!
But her savage thoughts of herself were cut short as the marvelous tongue sought her sex out once more. Again she felt herself rise toward orgasm, her hips swinging wildly until the boy had to capture them and hold them still. She worried suddenly that he would fall in; she felt so stretched that she had a vision of him having to throw out his arms to save himself from being swallowed.
"Oh, oh, you're a cruel boy...! If you... if you keep this up," she gasped, "if you keep this up, you'll... you'll drive me insane!!"
The corners of his eyes crinkled at her. He was laughing into her barrel! She groaned and strained against his face. If only her hands were free! She'd drown him by pulling his whole face into her flowing cunt! But that would be such a shame; he was a sweet, innocent looking boy who maybe just needed the love of a missing mother.
Behind the blonde hair, she saw the giant Polynesian approaching. Even through her flaming passion, she felt a knot form in her belly. He's coming! her inner fear screamed at her. He's coming to drive that spar into you!
She tried to hold her breath, but the boy's tongue continued to drive her lungs in heavy, panting rhythm. She wanted to scream; instead, she moaned in a low, hungry voice.
No matter how impossible it was, she suddenly cried out to be full. The tongue had built her to the edge of an orgasm twice before and had her there again. But it could not fill her. She had to have something long and thick and hot plunged up into the emptiness of her belly.
Koanoa placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Okay, Olaf. You learn good."
Olaf backed away and leaned against the rail. His eyes sought out Sandra's. She read in them a message of promise and shivered.
But she forgot him almost instantly. Koanoa stood before her, framed in the vee her shapely thighs made. His spar stood erect between them. To her frightened eyes it appeared large enough to be a third leg.
"NN-NN-NNG!" she exclaimed. "P-puh-please... p-p-put it in-s-slow!"
The giant placed his hands on her hips and crouched slightly, aiming his spar at her pulsing pink opening. She watched him with terrified eyes. She dared not let herself think of what the next seconds would bring. He had watched the captain ram his thumb suddenly and brutally into her and listened to the callous explanation. Oh, God! If he followed Eichmann's example now, it would surely kill her!
She forced her mind into a detour as he leaned closer. Imagine getting your sex this way! Your woman spread and helpless, and someone else, a boy, to bring her to the point of orgasm for you first...! All the mate had to do was be sure he had a hard-on and then get it in!
The bulbous head disappeared behind her golden pussy hair. She bit her lip and tensed for the contact. She felt it touch the wetness that was her gaping mouth and remembered Koanoa's wistfulness as she'd taken Eichmann with her other mouth. "Cock too big," the Polynesian had said. It was. But it might be able to bury itself deep in her stomach if he gave it a chance.
He leaned closer and she felt the pressure mount. The heat that flowed from that monster into her own hot skin startled her and shot tremors through her body. She was suddenly hot and eager and savage. She thrust her hips at him and gulped at his spar with her fluid-covered lips. The pressure grew and seemed to move inward and she felt herself stretch.
For a terrible moment, she was certain that she could not swallow him, and she screamed out at the agony of tearing flesh before she even tore. Then there was an awful sliding rush of air leaving her cunt in a wet fart and then her belly swelled and she had him inside her. She felt like her hips would part. She could not breathe and her eyes bulged until she could not close the lids. She stared wildly upward into the rigging, half expecting to see it collapse in sympathetic agony.
Koanoa started a slow, gentle pumping and it felt to Sandra like her guts were being pulled out and then pushed back in. But heat flooded her and she saw a deep flush spread over her heaving breasts and she opened her mouth and shrieked silently. She had never experienced such a sensation. Nothing she had read or dreamed or imagined had prepared her for the depth and power of this awesome invasion. Her muscles knotted and writhed as if they were trying to crawl the length of her bones. Great surges of heat swept over her, spreading from the shouting tension of her cunt. She rolled her head from side to side and shouted gibberish at the tightly grouped crew.
She was aware of them-of the way they had sidled closer and closer until they hung over her in an inverted circle of faces, each trying to see the awful pussy stretching where the spar had impaled her. They hung so close that she could no longer see the giant who was holding her hips.
"BACK!!" she panted and screamed at them. "Get back! OH STOP DROOLING ON ME!!"
She felt her hips released and two great hands appeared beneath the gaping faces. The hands swept outward and the faces spun out of her way. Koanoa stared down into her face, his lips wet, sweat beading his forehead.. He still pumped slowly, but with her hips free she answered his thrusts with a faster rhythm of her own.
A sense of triumph burst within her. She had swallowed all he had to give! He was hers as the captain had twice been hers. It would always be this way! In the moment that a man conquered her, he would have to give himself to her and then she would be the master!
She flexed the ringed bands of muscle in her barrel to milk Koanoa. The drops of sweat ran down his face and spilled onto her belly. His hands closed over her full breasts, kneading them and rolling the thick nipples between enormous fingers.
The rigging swirled in and out of view and mists of brilliant hues rose before her eyes. She screamed wordlessly as her body leaped into a rigid arch.
Only her legs continued to move, working the ropes that spread her open, she strained and bucked, driving her again and again against the base of Koanoa's mast. The bright colors gave way to a crimson-streaked black, and she tasted the salty-iron of an uncontrolled orgasm.
Chapter Eight
Something was wrong. Something was terribly, unbelievably wrong. Sandra fought back her collapse and tried to collect her impressions. She knew she had wrung herself out in the most devastating orgasm of her life. She should be collapsing into that delicious sea of forgetfulness. She should have the warm, relaxed feeling of shrinking tissues and a slowing pulse. In this instance, there should be an accompanying feeling of victory over one of her degenerate captors. After all, hadn't she turned another invader into a...
VICTORY! She made a supreme effort to focus her eyes. Where her tissues should have shrunk fastest, they felt like they had not shrunk at all. Where the fat prick-invader ought to be shriveling and slipping out, there was still an incredible fullness somehow she had missed the flood of hot ball-fluid that should have blown her up in that final moment.
Koanoa swam into focus out of the receding mists before her eyes. His face was hard-lined and alert and waiting. It had no hint of the exhaustion and his tongue played over his lips with the slow weave of a snake's head as it watches an unsuspecting bird. His hands still cupped her breasts, and she felt his pulse leap in his fingertips.
Something was terribly wrong! In all her triumph over the mastery that she could achieve in the moment that her conqueror thought he had made her his own she had forgotten that her own passion could also betray her! Brought repeatedly to the threshold of endurance by the golden-tongued youth in preparation for the giant Islander, she had let herself be carried away by the terrible urgency that surrounded his deep-thrust mast. She had let herself soar into the other-world of orgasm without thought of Koanoa's steady pace. And she had left him behind. The awful suspicion dawned that perhaps he had deliberately withheld himself.
She had now thrashed her way through two violent orgasms since awakening. She wanted to go limp-to sink into sleep that was too deep to be penetrated by memories or dreams. But instead, she hung helpless on a pivot that was as thick as her own leg, and she knew that she was about to be forced to an even greater climax.
She breathed harder. Her breasts heaved against Koanoa's cupped hands and her vagina pulsed around its distended captive. She... was not ready to collapse! Her hips took up a terrible, slow rotation, grinding her flesh against the wiry hair at the base of the giant's penis. The flush returned to her chest and to her thighs.
"Untie the woman," ordered Koanoa.
The boys leaped to her wrists to free them. Then they loosed her ankles and backed away.
Koanoa removed his hands from her breasts and held them out to her. "Take my hands," he ordered.
She reached up and put her small hands in his. As he drew her off her back, she clamped her legs around his hips. In a moment, she felt herself pressed against his broad chest. He now held her with one great arm encircling her waist to pull her belly in against his and the other hand pressed against her back between her shoulderblades. Her entire front was a mass of fiery sensation. But above it all rose the fury of the fullness in her belly.
She remembered the boast he had made in Eichmann's cabin. Slowly and carefully, she let her legs relax and allowed her weight to settle onto the mast that intruded so deep in her guts. She worried what internal organs his penis would bend destroy if she settled onto him fully. If she let that happen, it would spill her guts out on the deck at his feet, when he was done and withdrew, she knew, but she had to test his boast. The pressure against her crotch grew almost unbearable, but he did not relent. Instead, he relaxed the arm that circled her waist and let her entire weight hang on his rigid spar.
With confident laughter in his eyes, he flexed his knees, bouncing her up and down. Sandra felt herself flush. She panted and thrust her hot red face against the Islander's chest. The coarse terms were working their way through her reserves again. She clamped her jaws, determined not to say the things that were forming in her mind. It was a useless struggle.
"Koa," she whispered against his sweating skin. "Oh, Koa! Let me ride you this way until your mighty cock explodes in me, and the pressure inside me makes me explode. Shoot me into the top of the rigging." She paused to draw a long, shuddering breath. "Oh, Koa! You've stretched me so far! You've ruined my cunt! After you, it'll never close. Never mind... The plug you have in it is in so tight... it will never come out. If it ever does, I'll spill out after it."
Koanoa increased the jouncing and Sandra peeked down his body to watch her legs and thighs flop up and down like a cowboy's on a bronco. Sweat poured off both of them. Sandra slid back and forth against his skin over the grimy layer of thick salty sweat-water. Even the distension of her vaginal mouth gave way to the foamy slipperiness of her copious cunt-fluids. She slid up and down the shaft greasily now, each new bottoming shooting hot fire into her system. She knew that she was building rapidly and irreversibly to another orgasm. But this time the giant mate was keeping pace with her.
"Unhh!" she grunted as she slammed down painfully onto the base of the shaft.
"Unhh!" grunted the giant.
"UNHH!!" she yelled a moment later.
"UNHH! !" bellowed Koanoa.
"FASTER!" she demanded. "FASTER."
"Faster?" he hissed. The tempo increased. "Fast enough now, cunt?"
"HANG ON, WOMAN!!" bellowed the giant. He backed toward the mast and leaned the back of his neck against it.
Sandra hooked her toes over the fronts of his thighs and began to pump herself up and down on his shaft. He froze, a stricken look glazing his eyes. Suddenly he was not breathing. She felt his chest heave, but his clenched jaws and his corded throat denied passage to the trapped air. She felt a giant tremor start in the iron flesh under hers and answered it with her own deep-seated buzz.
The penis that was the stump of a mast pulsed powerfully again and again. Sandra kept her legs pumping as she tumbled into her third climax. She felt as if she must drown in the infinite depth of her passion. Koanoa seized her hips and drove her down onto the base of his shaft, holding her there by brute force as his fluid spurted into her in mighty surges. Her orgasmic struggles scrubbed her against his groin, instantly scraping her raw, and a terrible roar filled her head.
"UHN-UNH-UNHH!!!" they yelled in unison.
Sandra felt the giant's muscles going limp as the strength drained out of her also. Koanoa slid slowly down the mast until he sprawled on the deck. Sandra collapsed over him, her hair spread over his slumped shoulder, her crotch still impaled on his softening mast. Thick, white fluid oozed out around the shaft to spread between their tight-pressed thighs. Their sweat glistened in the sun and their pulses fluttered beneath near-lifeless skin.
* * * * *
"Gawd damn!" There was a hushed reverence in the exclamation. "Didja ever see anything like that!?"
"Didn't think there was a broad alive that could take all Koa could give her and still knock him on his ass!"
"Still don't believe it!"
"Just don't hardly seem she could be human!"
"Gaw-w-wd damn!" The reverence remained.
* * * * *
"Koa, you met your match!" Eichmann eyed his first mate closely.
The Polynesian nodded. "Good cunt," he said. "Good cunt!"
"Maybe we just oughta keep sailin'. Plenty o' islands in the Marquessas where we could put up a hut for her."
The Islander shook his head. He looked aloft at the dingy spread of sail. "We need a new suit of sails worsen we need a fuckin' woman," he growled. "Keep a woman permanent, have nothin' but trouble."
"Think we oughta go ahead and hit 'em up for the ransom."
Koanoa nodded. He turned his head away from Eichmann and stared out at the horizon. Good cunt, she was. Trouble was, she wouldn't be nearly so good by the time she'd made the rounds of the crew once or twice. Some of them had strange tastes. Kinda ruined a woman.
Eichmann watched the mate. "Guess we might feed the broad 'fore we turn her over to Markette."
Koanoa shook his head. "Go through that better on an empty stomach," he said. "Give her to him now."
* * * * *
Sandra wondered wearily where they were taking her-what came next. What she had already gone through horrified her when she thought about it. The day before the Midsummer Ocean Race, she'd have said a woman could not survive such an experience. That might have been right; she was no longer Sandra Deen, Club Secretary. But she was still Sandra and she was alive. But so far she had found her experiences merely revolting and degrading. None of them had been physically harmful. Even the immense organ of that Koanoa had been possible to take.
The crew might well be another matter. There was a degenerate, mad gleam in the eyes of more than one of the men. She knew that she was to be passed from one to another until each had, had his turn. Willie, the Rat, had given her a taste of what she might expect somewhere along the way. The captain's remarks as he had chastised the little man had carried no reassurance.
"Ya stole her screams from the crew, Willie," he said.
Evidently he had no aversion to listening to screams of pain from a woman, anymore than he did from a man. And she would scream! Physical pain was something that frightened and sickened her. It broke down her reserves faster than anything else she knew. She doubted that she could live through a real session of torture.
They stopped when they reached the cockpit. The helmsman looked up with a look of eager expectancy. "My turn, cap'n?" he asked with obvious delight.
"Your turn, Markette."
Sandra shuddered. Here was one of the men with a mad gleam in his eye. The way he looked at her had sent cold shivers racing along her spine from the first time she had noticed him.
"Gimme a hand settin' 'er up?" he asked.
"Sure."
They lashed Sandra's wrists to two spokes of the great wheel, spreading them at a wide angle above her head. They lashed each arm in two other places, above and below the elbow. And they lashed her wrist to the hub. Then they spread her legs and lashed them to other spokes and stepped away.
On the aft face of the wheel, facing aft, Sandra stared up into the face of the helmsman. When he turned the wheel through an eighth of a turn, she turned with it. If he ever had to spin it, she'd spin. The ropes bit into her flesh as she waited for her torture to begin. Obviously the helmsman had no immediate intention to assault her. He was on watch, and the ship plowed southwest at top speed under its full head of sail.
She found herself in constant motion as the ship was kept at the proper angle to the wind and the ever-changing face of the sea. She knew that if she was ever going to be seasick this would be the time. But other sensations drove that possibility from her mind.
"Used to be better," volunteered Markette. "Was a time when we sailed on a boat with a tiller instead of a wheel. There was one broad built like you. Governor's wife, she was. Seemed the Governor had the cap'n's son hanged. Wasn't much love lost on the woman when we snuck her aboard one night."
The man's eyes had a far-off expression, as if he saw again the events of that cruise.
"Come my turn," he continued, "it took half a dozen men to rig the broad. They held her out flat on their arms, face down, and backed her onto the end of the tiller. Eased it up into her as far as it'd go. Tied lines from her ankles to the other end of the tiller to keep her from slidin' off the end. Didja see that big beam over the cockpit when ya come out? That's for restin' the boom on when the sails are down. Well, they ran lines from her wrists up to the crutch. Oh, yeah. Wound rope around her legs from the ankles to the hips; made 'er good and solid on the tiller. So she swung out from the end of the tiller, hangin' between 'er cunt an' her wrists. Had good tits, she did," he mused. "Good tits!"
He studied Sandra as if seeing her for the first time. "Like yours, they was! Yessir, yours is just like hers was! 'Course, hangin' face down like she did made 'em hang different." He paused and frowned. Came up a hell of a blow while she was there. Ship buckin' like a sonovabitch an' me havin' to work the hell out of the rudder. Too bad. Guess she cum four or five times-maybe died cummin'- but die she did. Beautiful woman when we brought 'er aboard."
Painful as the ropes were, they had a comforting feel about them as Sandra listened to the old man's monologue. She could see the Governor's wife in her imagination. She thought she could imagine the woman's terror and her agony and the hateful sexual stimulus that overrode both as she died from the beating of a blow at sea.
"Was that Captain Eichmann?" she asked.
Markette nodded. "Had an Islander woman. Half-breed son. Boy didn't really do nothin'. Got caught fuckin' one of the plantation owners' daughters out in the hills. Governor figured he'd set an example. Goddamn shame. Kid killed three Islander women with his special brand o' sex an' nothing happened. Got caught with that yellow-haired cunt an' they hanged 'im!"
And Eichmann-warped, misfit Eichmann- turned on the Governor's wife for his vengeance. Sandra felt nauseated. She knew that the incident had happened years before-if it had happened ever. But she had no doubt that the man could watch a beautiful woman die in the middle of an orgasm with complete indifference. To him, the real world was enclosed by the dome of sky that covered his ship and the floor of ocean that supported it. The only real people in the world were those who permanently shared that space with him. Others who passed short periods within his world were not real; why should he be concerned over their suffering?
Markette stroked Sandra's breasts. He pinched the nipples-too hard, but not deliberately so-and pushed his fingers into the firm mounds until he felt her ribs behind them.
"Good tits," he repeated. "Woman with good tits oughta be somewhere on land. No business fuckin' around on a schooner like the Tradewind." He turned his head to eject an enormous gob of tobacco juice downwind over the rail. "Tits flatten out fast at sea. They do on a workin' ship, anyway," he amended. "'Course, them fancy yachts is different."
He reached down to finger her groin. After considerable probing, he inserted a horny finger into her. "Jaysus Christ!" he breathed. "Ya mean Koa could get that thing into this little hole?"
He shook his head. "You must be magic! I'd not o' thought you could stretch enough to let mine in, let alone that one o' Koa's!"
She squirmed. There was nothing about this dirty old man to stimulate her, but he was probing ultra-sensitive flesh.
"That's right!" He chuckled. "You're the hot one that cum when the cap'n was chewin' yer tit, ain'tcha!" He cackled with glee. "Damn few o' the cunts they bring aboard are young enough-or new enough-to be that hot!"
A gust struck the ship and he swung the wheel over hard, cursing. "If I'd been watchin' the water 'stead o' fuckin' around with you, I'd a-seen that comin'!" he growled.
Sandra's head snapped to the side as he brought the wheel back to its central position. You could get hurt on this thing! she thought. If you weren't ready for a swing like that, it could break your neck! It would be sheer murder to have someone on here when a real wind came up! She scanned the sky anxiously. It was a clear, deep blue, without a wisp of cloud.
"How long will you keep me on the wheel?" she asked.
Markette sighed. "I got a two hour watch. They brought you out just a half hour after I went on."
She had heard the ship's bells chime twice since they had lashed her to the wheel. She had something less than a half hour to go. The sea was kind-looking, the breeze fresh enough to keep the ship moving well but not hard enough to kick up a chop. A long, smooth swell moved under them, giving them the slow rocking that sailors loved best of all shipboard motions. Sandra caught herself on the verge of nodding. She must not let herself be lulled. Even a gust would force Markette to make a sudden correction in their helm, and her head would flop sharply. She concentrated on the numbing of her arms and legs. If she worried about them, she'd stay wide awake.
* * * * *
When they took her off the wheel, her arms and legs felt like chunks of wood. She was icy cold and faint. Cut-off circulation, she supposed. Another half hour and they might have had to pitch her overboard. They rubbed her limbs vigorously until the skin began to prickle. As life flowed back, the pain brought tears to her eyes.
"Stop!" she cried. "They're waking up!" She twitched and squirmed under the torment. When she could stand to put her weight on her legs she paced slowly to and fro, clutching at lines and stanchions for support. The fire continued to build until she was certain that she could not stand it. It even gnawed through her chest. But at last it began to subside. She stopped walking and leaned against the rail to stare into the clear water below.
Eichmann and Koanoa joined her. With one of the men on each side of her, she forgot her nakedness momentarily. Then Eichmann's hand stroked her buttocks and she remembered how grotesque the scene must be. She steeled herself against reaction.
"Better get somethin' to eat," advised the captain. "Ling has hot stew in the galley. Y'ain't had nothin' hot since ya came aboard."
At the mention of hot food, Sandra's stomach churned. She needed rest. But she needed food worse. She hesitated. There was a lurking reluctance to go below-decks on the Tradewind. Out in the open, she felt that she had a measure of protection.
Whatever was going to be done to her, it would be on schedule. Out from under the eyes of the captain and the mate, any one of the crewmen might decide not to wait for the planned turn. Even Willie's example might not deter them. But there seemed to be no real choice. She turned from the rail and went below. She found the galley by following the smells. She smelled coffee most clearly, but there was the odor of stew, too, and her stomach rumbled. In the galley, she lowered herself onto a bench at the table and watched the little Chinaman. In a moment, she would get up to pour herself a mug of coffee and dish up some food.
It was not necessary. Ling brought them to her. She stared at them for a long time before eating. They were the first things she'd seen or smelled that appeared to be clean on the Tradewind.
Chapter Nine
Eichmann checked the compass and flicked his glance upward over the rigging, "She's runnin' clean and on course," he observed. "If we keep this up, we'll make Tahiti four or five days ahead of time."
Koanoa grinned. "Extra time on the beach," He glanced aft, "Is Sparks workin' on that message for the Commodore?"
"Yeah, Coupla hours ago he raised one o' the commercial fishin' p1aces. Guy agreed to get Dean over there to talk to us. They oughta be callin' back any time,"
"How much'll you ask?"
The captain squinted aloft. He pursed his lips and whistled a tuneless snatch of song. The question appeared to cause him trouble, "Damfino!" he said. "Cargo like that oughta bring a good piece."
"Hundred grand?"
"Might. But it ain't what she'll bring; it's what they'll pay without fightin'."
"How's that?"
"Well, we ain't ready to quit sailin' yet. Ask too much an' it'd be cheaper for 'em to outfit somethin' o' their own and try to run us down."
"Or bring in the authorities."
"Long as we keep 'er on the high seas, the authorities ain't gonna bother us none."
"Send out a gunboat or somethin'. That'd bother me!"
Eichmann shook his head. "Not me. Gunboat shows up, we wrap 'er in four or five fathoms o' chain an' slip 'er over the rail. Anyone coulda sent a phony message."
The mate grinned and heaved a relieved sigh. "Do that if they outfit their own ship."
"If they take us serious enough to come out to the Islands and hire a ship an' a crew, they won't be listen' to stories about phony messages."
"Why not?"
"Look at it their way. You believe I've got your cargo. I've asked so much for it that you hire a ship and crew an' outfit 'em to take me. You find the cargo's gone. You know the authorities won't do nothin'. What do you do?"
Koanoa studied the sea. "Don't know just what I'd do about the crew, but you'd have a bad accident."
"Cap'n and mate," mused Eichmann. "What would it cost to set up that kinda operation?"
"Cost the Commodore a lot more 'n it would you or me."
"Twenty-five or thirty thousand, with the accidents."
"That's what I figure. I figure there's another twenty-five thousand worth of trouble and risk makin' that kinda deal, too."
"It's a toss-up if you ask for fifty grand, then?"
"Yeah. We'll ask for forty. It'll be easier to pay the forty than to do anything about it."
* * * * *
Ellison Deen paced the floor of his private office. Forty thousand dollars they asked. Not a large amount as ransom goes. Probably cheaper than organizing any kind of counter-effort. On the other hand, there was the matter of personal pride and a citizen's duty.
They refused to say who they were. Could be anyone. He'd had the whole thing taped and there was nothing in it that could really be used by the authorities. But the "cargo"-Sandra-had disappeared the night that the Tradewind had sailed in and out of port. Naming Tahiti as the point of exchange strengthened that connection.
Eichmann's actions that day had been an affront to everything that Deen stood for. It was bad enough for a crew like that to sail into any American port and behave as they had. To sail into this one-to pick the Ballast Point Yacht Club as a target-to kidnap Deen's own niece-made it a personal thing. (What had they said...? "Of course, we'll be using what we need of the cargo along the way..." )
If you added this incident to the Tradewind's unsavory reputation throughout the Pacific Islands, the notion grew that direct action was long overdue. No one country could do anything effective. And no real international action was likely. There was little left but the private citizens in the world.
By God, if it took that, then it took it! Deen smashed his fist into his other palm. Have to move fast! He'd fly out. Let's see... there was Dale Winkler. He'd gone back to Tahiti after the war. Then there was...
* * * * *
Sandra surprised herself in the act of comparing the whole thing to the old trials of strength. It was terrifying not to know what was coming, of course. But knowing might be even worse. Koanoa hadn't been nearly as bad as she'd expected.
Her body had come through with little damage, so far. The only scars she had were rope burns; they'd heal. Her mind was a different matter. The crew had taken away her ability to thrill to simple things. She suspected that she was ruined for normal, quiet sex. Unless she found a more important kind of satisfaction than that growing out of sheer excitement she was doomed to a life of sexual boredom. That loss was a minor one; they had also stripped away her self-respect. Where Uncle Ellison had failed with his years of dire predictions they had succeeded in a day, proving to her that she had her mother's carnal lusts in full measure.
She had been surprised at the quiet afternoon. Somehow she expected to be rushed from one experience to another with only the briefest rest between. Having the afternoon off made her uneasy. Now she sat with the crew eating supper. She could hardly forget that she was naked among these crude men. Their jests and stares were constant reminders. But she must be developing some kind of immunity; their obscene comments no longer made her cringe or want to hide her face.
It wasn't that she felt comfortable. She was still acutely conscious of her exposure.
Over and over she pictured herself as she would have looked to Uncle Ellison and Aunt Hilda if they were suddenly to appear in the companionway. She sat at the end of the table with her back to the door. They would first notice the slim, straight back rising from an inverted heart that was her bottom. She wondered just how much the hard wooden bench flattened her rounded cheeks. Coming around the table, they would discover that she had given up the vain effort to hide her breasts. Instead, she leaned on her elbows with deep shadows lying across her chest
They would see a new hardness in her expression. When the lantern swung just right they might notice the new tracery of lines in her face, etched there by distortions that accompanied screams and passionate grimaces. And they might see the darting glances that she hardly noticed, herself, or the involuntary twitch at the base of her throat. But she knew that they'd never see the warm tightness that gripped her belly as she absorbed the hungry stares of these rough seamen.
* * * * *
Her reverie betrayed her. The main dish was some oriental mixture based on rice and flakes of green vegetables. She ate it with real pleasure and took a small second helping. Ling beamed and rubbed his tiny hands together. He hung over her through the rest of the meal, but she was too absorbed in her gloomy thoughts to notice how much she had pleased him.
As she pushed her plate back, however, she did turn her head and whisper to him, "I wish we had you back at the club. I loved that!"
She was surprised to note that her plate was the last one on the table. It had appeared to her that clearing the table was a chore that Ling left until the crew had scattered from the galley. Tonight, it seemed that there must be something special in the offing. Instead of Ling's having to clean-up, each of the seamen had taken his own utensils to the tub.
And yet they still sat quietly at the table! Perhaps there was to be a special dessert. There was that shallow pan boiling vigorously on the stove and Ling had shown considerable interest in its contents.
"Ready, Ling?" asked Koanoa.
"Ling ready!" The little Chinaman nodded happily.
Koanoa rose and came around the table to Sandra. He took her elbow in his hand and helped her to her feet. Then he and another of the crewmen tipped her onto the table, face down.
"John and Olaf," said Koanoa. "Hands."
The day-dreaming John and the youthful blonde Olaf stood. Each grasped one of Sandra's forearms, pulling them out away from her body and into a spread-eagle position. As they did, Koanoa and the crewman who had helped him put her on the table spread her legs wide and held her calves. She struggled briefly before remembering that struggles did nothing but tire her. This was to be her fourth trial. Fifth, if she counted Willie.
Ling hummed a weird, Chinese melody as he busied himself over the stove. He moved something about in the boiling water and watched it closely for a moment. Then he turned to a shelf and got down a fine-tipped brush and a bottle of black ink. He came toward Sandra with his face wreathed in smiles.
"Name Sandra?"
She managed a nod from her restricted position.
"Write China characters on back," Ling said. He dipped the brush, twirled it in the bottle, then bent over her.
It was a moving tickle. It felt like he made short, bold strokes, close-spaced and neat. He resumed the low sing-song.
"Characters a charm from Old China," he explained. "Bring composure and long life and right sized family if magic ceremony observed."
Long life and composure! thought Sandra. On this horrible ship a long life is the last thing I have to look forward to! And if I'm as wicked as Uncle Ellison says I'm going to be, the right sized family is no family at all!
"What is the ceremony?" she asked.
"Secret known only to direct descendants of great magicians of the courts!"
"But you know the secret."
"I direct descendent. Learn secret from great-grandfather!"
"But you'll share it?"
"Not share secret. Glad to reward your goodness with performance of ceremony, though."
"You really would?" It was a harmless enough game. God knows I need some luck, she told herself. If Ling has some to offer, try it!
He capped the bottle and wiped the brush. Setting them carefully aside, he stroked her buttocks gently. He chanted in his native sing-song manner and occasionally rapped one buttock or the other sharply.
"Now properly prepared!" he announced.
He hurried to the stove and used what looked to Sandra like tweezers to pull something out of the boiling water. He held it close to the lantern and studied it carefully.
Reading omens, thought Sandra. She tried to relax. The four men who held her were evidently not thinking about the merits of relaxation. They had her drawn too taut to permit any real relaxation.
Ling replaced the small object in the pan. He used hot mats to lift a dripping rack from the water and carry it to the table. Sandra tried to see what it was, but she could not raise her head far enough. She tightened when Ling began again to stroke her buttocks. Under his skillful touch her muscles quickly relaxed and she wondered if she'd fall asleep in the middle of the ceremony.
"Reaching first critical gate in ceremony," said Ling. "This gate leads to serenity in one's own thoughts."
He slapped the lower curve of her left buttock with a ringing blow. The cheek jerked tight, then relaxed completely. In the next instant, something stabbed deeply into the relaxed spot with a fiery suddenness.
"YII-II-II-AAIGHHH!!!!" She arched her back. Her legs and arms leaped against the restraining hands of the four men. "DON'T! DON'T! she screamed. "STOP HIM! DON'T LET HIM DO THAT!!!"
"Inside first gate now," Ling told her calmly. "Inner thought serene when ambitions right size and own strength properly measured." He caressed her buttocks and they relaxed in spite of her effort to keep them tight.
She felt another stinging slap and another agonizing stab.
"AAIIIGHHH-AAHGHHH-AAIIGHHH!!!" she shrieked again. "YOU FIENDS!! FOR CHRIST'S SAKE STOP IT!!!" She writhed in torment.
Ling stroked her buttocks and the upper swell of her thighs. He let his tiny fingers wander to the folds of her vagina and she felt a different tension spring to life. In the warmth of the sudden new awareness of sexual desire, she listened to his continuing instruction. "Must know real self. Must know what can be helped and what is instinct. Cannot accept blame for instinct."
"Oooohh-hh-hh!" she moaned softly. The deep pain spread and grew less intense.
SLAP!
STAB!
"AAIIYIYIYIIIHHH!!!"
"Must see ambitions in right frame. Put them against strengths and people you live with."
Like Uncle Ellison and Aunt Hilda, she thought. Keep the ambitions in tune with their ideas for me.
SLAP!!
STAB!!!
"YAAAGGHHHH!!!" She was going to faint. There was a dizziness where she could sense it but could not quite yield to it. The room seemed to be growing so that everything in it receded. Even her arm looked like it was growing longer.
But Ling's sing-song lecture continued to reach her clearly.
"Second gate also critical. Can live useless, miserable life between first gate and second."
SLAP!!
STAB!!!
"AAAGGHHHHH!!!" Pain filled the tissues of her buttocks and spilled over into her back muscles. "MMM-MM-MMHH!" she moaned. "Please don't do it to me anymore!"
An intense inner struggle took shape. Cutting through the mist of pain like the clear tone of a ship's bell came the insistent clamor of her sex urge. Somewhere in this black pall of horror was an element that made her vagina throb and its juices flow. What kind of beast have I become? she demanded. Why is this awful torture a sexual experience? I must be totally perverted!! Oh, Uncle Ellison!
"Inside second gate reason and judgment. Reason must be based on knowing right and hearing facts."
SLAP!!
STAB!!
"UNHH!! AAIIYYAAAGHHH!!!!" She choked on the scream. "PLEASE... PLEASE-PLEASE DON'T!!!"
But there was that something in her that resisted her right to plead. It swelled and pushed the heat from the walls of her vagina through her belly and into her mind. She writhed and it was not all the writhing of pain. Her breath grew labored and they were not entirely the pantings of torture.
The low-ceilinged room degenerated into a chamber of horrors. Agony ricocheted off its walls and rolled on the floor. Faces leaned close to study the contortions of her face. The stabs of deep- driven needles turned into blinding visual streaks of light.
And through the pain her terrible lust kept growing. It threatened to engulf the world. It took pain to be its own and converted it to pleasure. It guided the fiery agony of each needle's penetration to her genitals and made them fantasy-penises. It bore her above the torture into a realm of painfully intense desire. She strained against her captors in an effort to squirm into a position that would allow her to soar to her orgasm.
The thin Chinese voice laid out the ancient philosophy for her. The thin Chinese hands punctuated each idea with the insertion of another needle. Deep grunts spilled from the throats of the crewmen to form a solid background for the bright-streaked drama.
The cabin faded and the voices faded and the pain faded. Sandra was one vast embodiment of sex. She talked to herself in fantasy language.
I'm cunt, she said. I'm Cunt with a capital C. I'm all Cunt to all men. But that's all that I am.
She sobbed, throbbed and pulsed in her fantasy world. She absorbed the whole world's sex offering and demanded more.
And still the needles penetrated.
Suddenly she was alert and aware of her surroundings again. The same sadistic hands held her down to the table's surface and the same delicate fingers drove needles deep into her buttocks. But something important had happened. There was so much pain in that tender ass-flesh that her nerves were saturated.
More important than that, her passion had risen to such a height that pain no longer mattered. She thrashed and screamed and ground her hips. Tremors raced over her body and spasms locked her muscles and she felt her belly rock to its contractions.
"NN-NN-NN-NYNYNYNNNHHHHH!!!!" she shouted to the roomful of lustful men. "I'M CUMMING!! I'VE MADE IT!!!" She drew herself into a quivering being made up entirely of fulfillment.
"AAIIJAAAGGHHHH!!!!"
Slowly, muscle by muscle, she went limp. The needles stopped and the sing-song stopped and the hands at her wrists and ankles let go. She rolled onto her side and curled into a ball and let herself slide into sleep.
Chapter Ten
Sandra lay over Koanoa's shoulder in a half stupor. She was aware of the fact that she ought to know the pattern of the skin on his back better than anything on the ship. She rode with her face brushing against it almost more than she walked now. But it was unimportant. She felt as if she had no bones or muscles and the ache in her buttocks puzzled her. It felt too deep to have anything to do with her skin. It reminded her of a toothache, flaring and receding in a slow rhythm that neither slowed nor speeded up.
Nor had she ever experienced exactly this kind of exhaustion before. An orgasm left her drained and relaxed and she had to admit that she had just completed something that went beyond what she knew as an orgasm. But this sensation was something alien to the post-orgasm letdown. Every muscle was totally relieved of tension. There was no trace of alertness or willingness to respond to command. Even more puzzling to her was the fact that she had no desire to demand response.
Ling's chatter had made little sense to her. She'd been in no condition to listen to it and it seemed to be nonsense when she did catch an occasional phrase. But she did have the idea that Ling regarded the torture as some kind of therapeutic treatment-a sort of oriental massage. Now that it was all over, she could wonder at the care her tormentor had taken with his instruments. It was out of place on this rat-infested ship to see someone actually sterilizing anything. She felt a momentary surge of thankfulness that it was the man who did the cooking that showed such concern over the danger of infection.
Koanoa lowered her to the deck. If he let her go, she'd crumple into a heap at his feet! But he turned her so that she faced the cabin and leaned her over it.
Oh, no! He hadn't placed her with her bottom sticking out this way in preparation for another round of Ling's treatment, had he? The thought drove a shaft of terror into her. But she could neither cry out nor move. In a moment, she felt the cool blow of a quantity of icy water slosh over her buttocks. It drenched her. She gasped and tried to look back. The effort was more than she could manage.
Now that he had explained, she recognized the sound of the bucket hitting the water and the rushing splash as it came out. Splat! Another bucketful struck her.
What little surface sting there had been was already disappearing. She groaned her relief as bucketful after bucketful struck her rear and sluiced off her thighs and legs. The deeper ache slowly faded and strength flowed back into her body.
"Oooooh!" she whistled. Then, "Oh, that Ling is hard to take!" Her voice was so hoarse that she doubted she could be understood.
"Damn fine!" observed Koanoa. "Knows where to put needles to get the best out of a woman. Bet you never cum like that before?"
"W-with needles? Of course not!"
"I mean as hard as that."
"Oo-o-o-o-hh!" She shivered and clenched her fists. "I-I don't know about as hard but never with that kind of feeling!"
"Made every man down there cum right along with you."
The thought startled her. She tried to imagine what it would have looked like if she'd been able to watch what was happening. "Every one?"
"Every fuckin' one! You shoulda seen that big ass o' yours wigglin'! If it hadn't looked so much like a porcupines back by then, there'd have been a fight to see who got to mount you!"
She felt the now-familiar, hateful glow of excitement trickle through her at the thought of the mass appetite. It might be some kind of connection with her pride but it felt like something more meaningful. It must have some sort of symbolic sense. If what Koanoa said was true, every man who witnessed the Chinaman's exhibition had mentally fucked her. And if there was such a thing as mental force she had been possessed by almost the entire crew at the same time.
Without suffering their physical intrusion she had triumphed again. And she hadn't even known she was triumphing! It wasn't all a plus. There had been the needles-those horrible goddam needles- sticking into her poor buttocks.
Koanoa touched her bottom. "Stand up and dry off," he directed.
She took the patch of canvas from him and scrubbed herself with it. She could not believe that the action would not reawaken the agony in her buttocks. But it did not. She poked at herself with a finger. She could no longer find the spot where any one of the needles had entered her flesh!
"Now get below," Koanoa said. "You need a night's sleep. Tomorrow you give it up to some of the duller ones."
Her belly tensed. "Dull?!"
"Simple Ike, for one."
"Who's Simple Ike? What do you mean, duller?"
"Don't know much, simple minds. Just do one thing. Simple Ike only know..."
It hit her. "Joy button!" What had the captain said when he was giving the crew their first look at her responses? Something about Simple Ike's knowing only about the joy button... that he'd spend a whole morning working at it... that she'd have the chance to...
"Oh, God, no!" she exclaimed. "Not Simple Ike!"
"Yep!"
"In the morning?"
"Start right after chow. Make him quit maybe when Ling has lunch ready."
"No!" she groaned. "For God's sake no! Not all that time!"
"You won't really mind it after he gets started. They never do." The mate's voice held a hint of malicious enjoyment. "Don't mind it for awhile, anyhow."
"It'll kill me! If he just does that one thing all morning, I'll keep on... keep on... Oh, GOD!"
"It's sorta like that," admitted Koanoa. "They usually build up kinda slow at first. Then they get to where they gotta cum. 'Course, once they do, they're ready to stop for awhile. Ike don't understand that. He figures once you got 'em there you gotta keep 'em there."
"Ugh!"
"Anyhow, don't hurt to have a night o' sleep under your belt when you start. Get on down below."
She cast a despairing look about the deck. She could see nothing but shadows and deeper shadows. The brilliance of the stars in the moonless sky cast no light onto the tiny world within the ship's rails. In the glare of the morning sun she would strain again at her bonds under the manipulation of the big simpleton who knew only the joy button.
"Ugh!" She felt her way to the companionway and climbed cautiously into the blackness below.
* * * * *
Sleep came hard. No matter that she'd survived another of her trials. No matter even that the thought of Ling's needles caused a sudden tightness in her crotch and started the warm flow within. Every idea led back to what daylight would bring.
She tried again to get her mind on something else. She tried counting up the score. It ought to be important to remember how many of the crewmen had gotten their turns and how many remained.
She thought thirteen were left. Except that she kept forgetting to count the helmsman -or she counted Eichmann three times-or she counted Willie's encounter with Eichmann's knife as a time.
The blackness of her tiny cabin filled her mind and she finally slept.
* * * * *
It was dark. Sandra twisted to the side to escape the hand that shook her shoulder.
"What is it?" she mumbled.
"Up!"
"It's night!"
"It's morning. Up."
She groaned. If she turned her head she could see a grey glimmer at the port. The night had somehow slipped away from her without leaving any relief. She rolled slowly to a sitting position.
When she'd finished her brief use of the head and abandoned the disagreeable little nook she stumbled through the passage to the galley. It was growing lighter by the minute.
The crew was already well started on the great heaps of food that Ling had placed on the table. Sandra braved their leers and coarse suggestions and made her way past their grabbing hands to her own seat. She dawdled over her food, casting concealed glances at Ike. He showed no sign of whatever emotions might be within on this special day. He watched her with his usual open interest and stuffed mountains of hot food into his mouth. But there was no gleam of anticipation-no haste to finish his meal-to indicate that his turn was so close.
Long before Sandra had filled herself, the others pushed back from the table. Koanoa glanced at her, then looked at Ike.
"Special day, Ike," he said.
"Make port today?" asked the other.
"No. The woman's yours this morning."
"Woman?" Ike stared at Sandra again. "Mine today?" The grayness that veiled his eyes appeared to give way to a light. His face lost its vacant look and his mouth spread into a broad grin. "Fuck today?!" He rose as if in a trance. His gaze held Sandra's and he breathed harder, his hands clenching and unclenching slowly. "I fuck the woman today!" he breathed in awe.
Sandra's appetite died and horror welled up into her mouth. It was one thing to suffer indignities and violation at the hands of thinking men like those who had taken her yesterday and the day before; it was another to be turned over to a mindless creature like this one. Even an animal could hardly fill her with such revulsion.
She felt the hands that raised her off the bench as if they were part of a distant dream. She let them push her toward the ladder without resistance and climbed it numbly. They guided her past the cockpit to the stern. She stood quietly while they rummaged among the debris for stray lengths of rope. The deck narrowed here and the sea seemed closer as following swells overtook them and raced forward under the rails. On either side stood a hand winch for taking the last few feet of slack out of the mizzen sheets. They were waist-high for maximum leverage and set far enough in from the rail to provide outboard passage. Forward of them the mast thrust up through the deck, its penetration sealed with a tarred, canvas boot. There seemed to be as great a profusion of taut lines criss-crossing the space here as there was around the cockpit.
She studied the water and wondered if it would be worth the effort to leap a few steps to the rail and throw herself overboard. The forgetfulness of death was one refuge that she could seek. It was certainly the only real forgetfulness she would ever know after this experience. But it looked hopeless today. The ocean surface was made up of long, evenly spaced swells that were topped by wavelets too small to be called chop.
The Tradewind's wake extended far behind them, faintly frothed and free of the miniature chop. A person falling into this sea would be readily visible. Only by the most determined effort would she be able to drown herself before they could put about and fish her out. She knew that the will to live was too strong in her to permit that kind of effort.
The wake intrigued her. It always did on a sailing vessel that was holding a steady course. It ought to run straight and true toward the horizon, but it never did. Each time they dipped into a trough, she could see only that part of their wake that boiled up the face of the following wave. But as the next swell heaved under them and bore them up to its crest, she saw the smooth path rising over all of the succeeding waves.
Her absorption with the water was destroyed by hands that grasped her arms. She braced herself and drew a deep breath to quiet the fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She was still not able to guess what position they would use. She could imagine several that would be as painful as they would be stimulating to the men, but neither Eichmann nor Koanoa was here and she suspected they supplied most of the imagination. So it was no surprise to her when they simply forced her to lie on her back on the deck. Four feet to each side of her hips were the winches. The moment she recognized that fact, she knew what they would do with her feet. And they did.
Simple Ike rested his seat against the stern rail and stared at her. There was a hunger in his eyes. It was barely past six-thirty and the sun's heat would not be noticeable for another hour. But Ike sweated heavily. Big drops stood out on his face and rivulets ran down his sides. He breathed heavily through his mouth. He grinned at her as if they shared some great good fortune, but his gaze left her face repeatedly to return to what lay below that thick patch of golden hair on her loins.
They lashed Sandra's wrists together and pulled her arms back over her head. By twisting, she could see that they had tied a line from the lashings to the base of the mast. Although she was free to pull herself toward the mast, doing so would raise her buttocks from the deck. She would avoid that!
"Ready, Ike?" asked one of those who had tied Sandra in place.
Sandra thought there was a hint of irony in the question.
If there was, Ike missed it. He moistened his lips with his tongue and pushed away from the rail. "Knots tight?" He checked each one carefully. "Gotta be sure," he told Sandra. "When Ike fuck, woman jump all over. Try to turn inside out. Try to get joy button away. Gotta be sure knots are tight."
Sandra cringed. She tried desperately to avoid dwelling on the hours that lay ahead. Even the cluster of men who now surrounded her to survey their crewmates' handiwork awakened only the lowest level of excitement in her, but she knew that Ike's manipulation would ultimately arouse her beyond any hope of self-control. She would climax over and over again. Each time would drain another piece of her strength. Sooner or later a woman's heart was bound to stop if she could not call a halt. The question was not how she would react or how the ordeal would affect her but just how much endurance she had.
Ike seated himself before her exposed vagina, cross-legged, and she watched him through the V-frame of her breasts. She grasped at the thought; so much of what she had seen aboard the Tradewind had been framed that way.
Ike studied her closely before reaching out to touch her.
"Little," he pronounced. "Not fat blubber."
His shipmates grunted assent.
He leaned forward and parted the folds of flesh with his thumbs. "Little cunt!" He sounded startled. "How'd she fuck Koanoa?!" He stared into her face. "Howja do that?!"
"Stretched me," she replied briefly. She was chagrined. Ike had done no conscious act to stimulate her. Yet the mere pressure of his thumbs as they exposed the mouth of her vagina had brought shivers to her spine. She felt the too-familiar warmth of vaginal juice starting to seep. She groaned inwardly at the realization that there was going to be no period of resistance-no delay in her surrender to this creature's demand for response.
Ike worked his thumbs upward to pull aside the membranes that hid her clitoris. She clenched her teeth and fought to hold her hips still. It was no use. Each time he moved a thumb, there was an involuntary jerk. He touched the tiny organ with his forefinger. She gasped aloud.
"That hurts!" she protested. Without lubrication, the rough surface of his fingertip jabbed into the delicate tissue like a steel-wire brush.
Ike chuckled quietly and happily. "Don't matter," he said. "Feel good pretty soon." He poked the finger into her vagina and wiggled it. "Get juice," he assured her. "Need pussy-juice on joy button."
He'll get juice, alright! she thought. Juice enough in there to take the squeaks out of the whole ship! It was almost embarrassing to find herself producing it so fast.
"Jesus!" exclaimed Ike. "There's a well in here!" He looked at her with respect. "Most cunts not this juicy! Last woman we have all dry." He looked into the distance, appearing to see again that last time. Then he chuckled. "Used black machine grease."
There was a snicker from one of the watching men and then a general burst of guffaws.
"Cable grease!" said the soft-spoken, tall man Eichmann had called John the first night.
"Bet she never got rid of all of it!" added a fat one who looked like he must coat himself with the stuff regularly.
"Inside an' out, it was," recalled another.
"Whole shipful o' black peckers by sundown," muttered John.
But Ike did not hear all that. His full attention was focused on the small area where Sandra's life forces seemed to concentrate. He slid his finger out of her vagina and wiped it over her clitoris. From the feel of it, Sandra knew that he had withdrawn it dripping with her fluid. He thrust it in for another load-and another-and now his touch was smooth and slippery. He surprised her again by sliding his fingertip around the clitoris in a ring instead of rubbing it directly.
"Nn-nn-nn-nn!" she said softly. It was a good feeling. It was warm and tingly and... "NNH!" ...and good and she hoped it would stay at this... "NH! NNH!" ...stay at this level without... "Unhh!" ...getting big and making her go to pieces. But even now the moments when he accidentally brushed the stiffening mound shot jolts through her and brought sharp grunts from her.
For a long time, Ike maintained the slow, feather-light, rotary massage of the tissues surrounding Sandra's clitoris. She fell into a low hum that was almost a tune. "Mmnmmmm-mm-mmm-mm... NNHH! ...Mmm-mm-mm-mm...! UHHH! ...Mmm-m-mmm... UNHH! ...nn-nn-nNNHHNNn...!"
She lost track of time and stopped watching the intent face that seemed to hang in midair between her widely vee-d thighs. Somewhere above lay the focus of her visual universe. It hovered among the blurred tracery of and had no connection with men and their lusts and cruelty. It felt like the dream-softness of the south wind in her mind.
But Ike finally judged the time right for an increase in pressure.
"NN-NN-NNNHH!" The soft crooning yielded to harder moans. "NNN-NNG-NNGNGHH!"
Without quite knowing when it had started, she found that she had bent her knees enough to raise her wide-spread buttocks free of the deck and was rotating her hips in a wide arc.
"Ooohh!" she said. "Oh, wait! Please wait!" But the gentle massage continued without pause.
Ike increased the pressure again and speeded the tempo. Now her hips jerked from side to side in great lunges. He rubbed directly across her clitoris and she abruptly straightened her knees, wetly smacking the deck with her bottom-flesh.
"UNNHH! UNNHH!!" she grunted loudly. "UNNHH!!!"
She raised her plump bottom and slammed it down hard with another smack.
"UNNH!!"
"Good this way," Ike said softly.
"Oh-h-h-hh!!" she cried out in frustration. But the massage continued to pulse messages through her system. She thrashed her hips and twisted her head from side to side. "UNNHH!! UNNHH!! UNN-NN-NNHHH!!!"
She bent her knees as far as she could. Her back rose off the deck, leaving her weight on her shoulders. As she writhed she scrubbed her shoulders against the tar-smoothed planking of the deck and tugged at the lashings on her wrists.
She thrust against the steadily circling finger to drink in the sensation it generated. Her muscles hummed to a tremor that seemed to start everywhere at once. When she would have let herself slide off the peak arid tumble down the other side, the quiet massage kept her in the convulsive spasm of her climax.
Slowly-so terribly slowly that she bit her lip until she tasted blood-her muscles relaxed enough to lower her back to the deck.
Chapter Eleven
She wanted to collapse. She wanted to rest. She wanted to lie quiet for just a few minutes and catch her breath. She begged Simple Ike.
"Please stop. Please Just stop for a few minutes!"
But Ike seemed not to hear her.
"Please! PLEASE!" Her hips jerked from side to side and her breath came faster.
Ike looked up absently. "Don't want to stop," he informed her. "Want to fuck! You fuck good!" He patted her hip and soft bottom with his free hand. "You best fuck I ever have, I think!"
"OOOH-H-!!" Sandra's cry was a mixture of frustration and renewed lust. She had known it would turn out like this. It didn't matter how much her mind argued against response. It didn't really mattered that she was built so that there was a priority center down there between her legs. Messages from there overrode every other command or inclination. It was another face of her heritage from that terrible mother she'd been cursed with, she supposed.
Sandra was convinced that she had a demon. It was the demon of wild desire that had ruined her mother and, through her, killed her father. It was the terrible compulsion to mate. It didn't matter what she mated with; she'd probably fall on her hands and knees now if a dog sniffed at her. She'd probably slip off her panties and hike up her skirt and get down on her hands and knees and push her ass up for his caress.
And she'd betrayed herself again! The visual image of her likely reaction to the dog renewed her flow and jabbed her hips back into their frantic motion. The message from Ike's fingers swept over her and she panted and shouted.
She was vaguely aware that the crewmen had drifted off after her first orgasm. Now they crowded around again.
"Christ, she's fast!"
"Is she still goin' on the first one, or is she on the second?"
"The third one now..."
"Got somethin' special there today, Ike?"
"What the hell did Ling feed the cunt this mornin'!"
"If she keeps it up like that, won't be nothin' left fer th' rest of us!"
"Shit, Ike! What're ya doin' that's different?
Ike grinned proudly. "Can't beat the joy button!" he said. "But it takes Ike to use it right." He stroked across Sandra's clitoris twice, drawing loud grunts from her. "She knows a good fuck when she gets it!"
Sandra dismissed the conversation from her mind and gave herself up to her reactions. She didn't know how she could respond harder than she had the first or second time. There was nothing left to do. But it felt as if she'd reached a new level. When the convulsion seized her it was deeper and more powerful and longer lasting that it had been before. She was wildly convinced that the first time had sensitized her. This time was "for real."
Again she tried to collapse. Again her pleas failed to move the cross-legged, single-minded man. The gentle massage went on as if it had been in motion when her world was created and would be when the last star had exploded and faded into nothingness. Her breathing did not return to normal; it quieted to a steady panting, but it was panting. Her body not only failed to go limp, it hardly relaxed.
Her lust had caught her far earlier in her slide, this time. It halted the downward plunge and reversed it and started her back toward yet another peak. She was going to reach her third climax without ever quite, finishing her second.
It had to be impossible. There had to be some kind of limit. At least, she reflected thankfully, there were the troughs. This one wasn't as deep as it ought to be. But it was there. She was definitely not cumming-not now-not with the spasms and the buzzing tremors and the dry heat that spread over the skin in a relentless tide.
But her hips were terribly violent in their leaping. Her jiggling breasts bounced without pause. Her hair flipped back and forth across her face. And she was no longer moaning her pleasure; she was screaming for something to fill her empty vagina.
* * * * *
The deck was hot enough for the tar to bubble in the sun. Where Sandra lay, the mizzens'l cast its life-saving shadow and allowed the sea air to circulate. She stared upward into the rigging without seeing it. Her eyes bulged and her lids refused to blink. Her mouth was stretched and dry, opened wide in a scream that had no sound and that did not stop. Her shoulders knotted in cramped, motionless tautness. Her legs extended toward the winches, toes pointed and knees locked and tendons corded. Only her fleshy buttocks and the swollen pink flesh that dripped its fluid over them moved. And the motion was a deep quiver that made the wet surfaces shimmer.
Inside that unmoving body, Sandra sensed the world from a dark, hidden retreat. The inner pussy walls pulsed and throbbed in a continuous orgasm. The world was ending for her, and she knew it. She was acutely aware of each labored beat of her heart. She thought she could tell exactly which would be the last one. She believed that she had been cumming forever and that she would never stop.
There was a sort of dream in which Koanoa helped Simple Ike to his feet and guided him forward along the deck. But in her world, the orgasm continued without any change in intensity. In the dream, Koanoa's massive frame reappeared. He seemed to hold of a bucket. He raised it and tilted it over her, the cold brackish water dumped on her the way one might douse on a dog in heat. Somehow the dream became more real than the reality of her forever and ever orgasm and she realized she was soaked and shivering. She started to breathe and unlocked her knees. Her shoulders slowly unknotted and the tremor began to fade. Her eyes burned. She forced her eyelids to close, wincing at the dry raspiness. She became aware of her open mouth and closed it.
When she could lean against the mast without sliding back to the deck, Koanoa stopped pouring water over her. She looked about at the afterdeck. It was incredible that it should look now just as it had looked at dawn this morning. It was even more unbelievable that she had survived Ike's loving manipulations.
"Did Ike..." she began. "Didn't he ever... Did he get to...?"
"Shit!" Koanoa shook his head in obvious disgust at her inability to get out the question. "Didja get fucked? You don't even know? Well, Ike thinks you did. He gave you all he knew how." He paused and stared over the stern. "Man without a prick can't always satisfy a woman. He lost it so early he doesn't even know he's supposed to have one."
"How? How did he lose it?"
Koanoa shrugged. "How would you find out from one like that? He doesn't think he ever had one."
She shuddered. Whatever had deprived Simple Ike of that organ had either happened unfairly to a person already deprived or it had, at the same time, caused the loss of his mental capacity. It was the height of injustice. But the world was unjust; she was thoroughly convinced of that.
She rose painfully to her feet and forced herself to walk slowly about. One by one, her muscles recovered their strength and ability to obey her commands.
"You came through better'n I thought you would," commented the Polynesian. "More'n once we've found Ike workin' on a dead woman when noon came."
Sandra nodded soberly. "I didn't think I'd make it," she admitted. "I think my heart would have stopped before much longer."
"Last woman we had on board took on more'n half the crew without even knowin' it."
Something stirred in her memory. "The one with the cable grease?"
Koanoa grinned and nodded. "She fought it. Wasn't about to cum just because Ike knew about joy buttons, or so she figured. Finally caved. Couldn't stop once she got started. Passed out like a light!"
"Passed out?"
"Or somethin'. Didn't quite die. But the rules is that the guys with no special tricks an' privileges gets the woman in the afternoon after Ike's had 'er for the mornin'. This'n just didn't know they was even fuckin' 'er."
Koanoa looked at her with a sort of pitying scorn. "Most of 'em aren't as weak as you," he said. "They been around some. She just hadn't come to yet."
"And they... the crew...!"
"Why not! As long as it's warm and kinda soft, what's the difference? They don't give a shit whether you know they're fuckin' you or not!"
Koanoa had given her a considerable amount of information in that simple story. Survival suddenly began to look possible. Terrible as the Ling episode had been, Simple Ike had come the closest to finishing her. She'd wondered how she could muster enough strength to make it through the next trial. Now It looked like she'd get through most of the rest of the crew with hardly any effort. She wondered whether they lined up for it and where they would have her. She was suddenly hungry for some of Ling's food.
Koanoa shook his head. "Sure didn't think I'd see you walkin' today!" he said. "Hell of a lot more woman than you look like!"
She followed him below to the galley.
"Hey look!" shouted a knobby little man with a hooked nose. "Look what's comin', fer crisake! An' even walkin'!"
His announcement raised a chorus of cheers.
"Th' cunt's okay!" said John. "Lotta guts."
"Lotta wiggle, too," observed Knobby. "Sure glad she's still kickin! Get our fair share, this time!"
Ling looked at the speaker in disgust. "You no care," he snapped. "You take roast, cut hole in it. Just as happy." He snorted and turned back to the stove.
"Roast cost a hell of a lot more," John observed. "Ain't always got one around, either."
"Don't need none today!" Knobby's tone suggested that the exchange meant nothing with Sandra walking.
She concealed her disgust as she crossed to her spot. Ling set a sizzling steak before her. "Miss Sandra eat good," he advised. "Lotta men for you to fuck this afternoon. Get plenty hungry. Gotta keep strong."
Crude as he was and sadistic as his particular form of sex had been, he had treated her as well as he could aboard this hellship since the needle business. Something about her reaction to that had gotten to him. The fragrance of the steak reached her through the rotting stench that was the Tradewind and she forgot degradation and the future. She attacked the meat with an enthusiasm that brought a great smile to Ling's pinched face.
"Sandra know good food as well as good fuck," he announced to the crew. "Plenty smart woman!"
* * * * *
There had been one minor flaw in Koanoa's assessment of the duller crewmen as Sandra saw it. They might not care whether their woman was conscious or not, but they damned well did care what position she was in. It turned out that Knobby was the first of them to mount her. She'd half expected them to file into her cabin, one at a time, and climb on top of her. That she was mistaken became obvious when they urged her back out on deck.
Knobby led her to the starboard rigging, where he lashed each of her wrists at chest height to the ratlines. Grasping her hips, he walked her backward until she was bent sharply, her arms extended in the same straight line as her back. He kicked her feet wide apart and fumbled at her genitals until her ready flow started. He held her hips tightly as he bellied up to her. She felt his coarse pants rubbing against her buttocks and what must be his penis jabbing at her rectum. He used one hand to correct his aim and pushed steadily until he had buried himself fully in her vagina.
She braced herself. The blunt, uncouth approach half nauseated her. It wasn't exactly like being a whore. That was a business. This was more like being what she'd once heard called a "fur-lined knothole" and being passed around to the crew. Knobby had taken no interest in her reaction. His quick pawing at her was more to feel out the land than to do anything for her. Now that he was in he really wasn't so bad. She wondered if there was a human penis in the world that would really feel bad. Big, maybe-or little-but bad? She doubted it.
So in spite of her revulsion over the approach she felt the streak that she was coming to think of as her "Uncle Ellison Complex" surge out of her depths. She heated rapidly to Knobby's no-non-sense pumping. But she was no match for him in speed. He rocketed to his orgasm with all the dispatch of any man who had stood around for days watching a beautiful, naked woman getting it in the most erotic possible ways. She regretted that she had failed to count the number of strokes he used in reaching that quivering, grunting, bursting climax. It could hardly have been more than fifteen. But the flood he poured into her suggested long storage. She was certain it would squirt out around his shaft before he could withdraw.
Whether it did or not, she never quite knew. He pressed his belly against her buttocks for what seemed a long time after the pulsing of his penis stopped. The buttons on his fly dug into her flesh and his pants legs tickled the inner backs of her thighs. He continued to shake. When he had shrunk to the point where he could no longer stay in her and pulled out she could still feel the tremors.
Feeling Knobby's orgasm without having one of her own she had learned something. Funny, she thought, to find a really basic difference between the way men and women cum. With me, I want the motion and stimulus until I'm all through. With Knobby, the first big spasm seemed to freeze him. He just pushed tight and held perfectly still while his prick pulsed and the fluid spurted. She ought to have a chance to see if that was the way men generally acted. She doubted that she'd match many of their orgasms with climaxes of her own this afternoon.
She hung in position without moving. She felt the chill of fluid running down the inner sides of her legs and glanced back. It was no surprise to see the stringy, white waste clinging to her thighs as it rolled downward. Even as she looked, she saw another pair of feet approach her. Whoever it was- and she didn't care who-must have no concern over sloppy seconds.
Sandra gagged and nearly threw up as she felt his stiff penis poke into the mess that now exuded from her vagina. But she regained her self-control.
She counted. After sixteen strokes there was a convulsion. Rough hands clamped fiercely on the tender flesh of her hips and the now still prick pulsed and hot fluid welled from it to fill her. The man's orgasmic grunts were louder and deeper than Knobby's. She could detect no other real difference.
There was a difference in her own reactions. Not having been able to match the speed of either of these men, she had found her excitement rise a little with each. She received the second with considerably more heat than she had the first. Whoever was to be third would arrive to find even more readiness.
The third turned out to prefer another position. He quickly untied her from the rigging, pushed her across the narrow space to the side of the cabin and bent her over it. He tied her wrists together and stretched a line to the handrail on the opposite side of the roof. But he wanted her feet secure, too. He spread them further than she could get them in comfort and tied her ankles. She was once more spread wide and totally helpless to participate.
She felt him enter, or more precisely-ram it home, and pump two or three times. Then he withdrew. The next moment she felt a slimy knob pressed against her rectum. Her stomach churned and her legs knotted. Goddam bastard, she thought savagely. Why do you have to be different?
She relaxed her sphincter as much as she could. He pushed. Nothing happened. Disgusted and irritated, she surged back against the blunt prick. The quick stab of fire that she expected was there. The sudden pressure of fullness made her catch her breath as she'd known it would. But the jolt that hit her was unexpected. She knew that her own lust was being aroused a little with each new assault. This time it leaped far higher than it should have. Her act of impatient aggression had added a factor she hadn't counted on.
She let her hips surge to the tempo of the entrapped penis. This time there were only two strokes before the freeze-up hit. She clamped her buttocks together and squeezed in the same rhythm as the pulses that were the squirts of semen.
"Oh-h-hh!" groaned her rider. "Oh-n-h-h! Oh- h-h-h-!"
After a brief rest, he started to pull away. Sandra clamped down tight. I'll hold onto you for awhile, she thought. Next time you think about riding a helpless woman in her ass you might think twice. But her squeeze accomplished the opposite effect. It squirted out the imbedded organ with a loud pop.
"Christ!" she heard the man exclaim. "Like fuckin' a machine!"
Sandra let her belly press hard against the textured cabintop. Its roughness agitated and stimulated her. She no longer dreaded the next man; she waited impatiently. She tried to tell herself that it was simply her reaction to the knowledge that she had a certain number to go-that she knew this would continue as long as there was one who hadn't mounted her-that she'd be free of their obscene attentions only when she'd had the last one. It was no good. She couldn't escape the fact that it was simply her own passion riding over everything that she knew was right.
Hurry up! she cried silently. No! objected her reason. Let something happen to stop this orgy! But her voice of passion rang louder in her struggling mind. Stop dilly-dallying around! it said. Bring on the next one!
The fourth man-she decided to number them rather than trying to identify them by name-was not satisfied with her position either. He untied her ankles and extended her legs. He made the lines fast to the rail with her legs widespread so that he could stand comfortably between them. For the first time in this mass exercise she was facing the owner of the prick that was to be thrust into her. It was one of the older men. He took a moment to stroke her breasts and brush the clinging paint particles from her belly. But he'd been waiting too long to be able to delay his entry long.
Sandra met his thrust with a downward thrust of her own. She gritted her teeth and surged to match his motion. But she remembered to count. Twelve rapid strokes later, "Number Four" drew his breath in sharply and pushed with vicious pressure against her crotch. Even the cruel bite of the loops on her ankles seemed to add to her passion. But she could not overtake his wild rush.
Number Five untied the line that led from her wrists. He used one of the lanyards that ran through a pulley high on the mast to pull her to a sitting position, her arms stretched above her head. Then he pulled her feet together and lashed her ankles to her elbows. She thought she'd suffocate. She gasped and struggled and discovered that she could breathe well enough to be able to last. He pulled her to the very edge of the cabintop and eased his penis against her.
The depth and intensity of the effect startled Sandra. She gasped and cried out. "OOOOOHH! GODDD! SO DEE-EE-EEEEEP! UNHH!!"
It was obvious that the deep penetration and the sensation of the long, taut muscles of the backs of her thighs against his body were even more exciting to the seaman than they were to her. Without pumping at all, he leaned into her and stiffened.
"OH, NO!" she cried. "NOT YET! WAIT FOR ME-E-E-EEE!!"
"Sorry, yellow-haired-cunt! Can't... can't wait! Gotta!! Gotta cum NOW!"
Sandra felt that she could have wept with disappointment. But she managed to hold back the tears and submit to his withdrawal. At least he took most of the drying semen with him on his shirt front and her thighs felt less sticky. It appeared to be a matter of trading one mess for another, for her position pulled her vagina open and everything that was left in it ran out over her plump bottom.
At least I can't see it, she reflected thankfully
Chapter Twelve
Hurry, hurry! thought Sandra. I can't hang like this very long without something happening! Either take me down or do something to me!
She had reached the stage where she hoped they did something to her rather than taking her down. The exposure in this position was almost more than she'd have believed possible. She was sure that it would have killed her to have her ankles tied directly to her extended arms. Instead, a line had been run from ankle lashings to the elbows and looped there. Even with that provision, she had to part her knees so that her thighs lay along the sides of her abdomen instead of being pressed together. Her lower abdomen bulged just a bit this way and her genitals were thrust out boldly. The simple knowledge that she was so mercilessly displayed for their view sent hot shivers over her entire body. She felt new outpourings of her own pussy-fluid added to the sticky layers of semen that already coated her.
"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" she whispered. And, louder, "Oh! Please do something!"
Her plea was greeted by coarse laughter.
"Told ya she was hotter'n hell!"
"Just can't wait for the next big dick in her!"
"Lucky she's tied up! She'd run us down for it!"
"Fuck us to death if she wasn't hogtied!'
"Gotta be'sure the Cap'n doesn't let 'er loose!"
"Or make 'im give us somethin to defend ourselves with!"
"Foul-mouth bastards!' said Sandra under her breath. She gritted her teeth and tried to work out some way she could get a deep breath.
There was a sudden flurry of excitement. "Goddamit Wilkins!" yelled a skinny, red-faced man with no shirt. "Git in there an' fuck 'er, or take yer turn later!" I'm about to go off in my pants!"
"Don't get yer balls in an uproar," retorted Wilkins, his bloated face abruptly turning a mottled purple. "Y'always was an impatient shit!"
"Fer crisake what're ya waitin' fer? 'Fraid ya can't get a hard-on? Or haven'tcha got anything to blow out of it if ya do get it in?"
"Martin, yer a smartmouth. Oughta take time out to throw ya overboard."
Sandra groaned and squirmed.
"But I ain't got time right now," continued Wilkins. "Can't let a good fuck like that wait too long. She'd dry up." He groped for his penis and approached Sandra.
Without making any move toward repositioning her, he laid his penis against her honey-colored thatch and felt the taut curve of her buttocks.
"Unhh!" she exclaimed at the contact.
He chuckled. "Been waitin' for me, haven'tcha! Y'ain't the first! But holdjer breath, 'cause here it goes. Oo-oo-oo-oops! All the way!" And having cocked the shaft down enough to line it up with her cunt-barrel, he slid it in and up. She sucked in her belly and thrust her bottom up against him. He responded to the pressure.
He wrapped his arms around her awkward figure and pulled her hard against himself, ramming his penis in deeper than any had penetrated her this afternoon.
"Unnn-unnhh!' she said with a shudder. "You're in clear up to my lungs!"
Wilkins appeared not to have the urgency that the earlier men had shown. He pumped thirty strokes without a break in rhythm and gave no indication of being ready to cum.
Sandra let her head bob back and forth, hair flying, and gave herself over to her mounting passion. It swept over her in close-spaced waves. She felt it reaching her deeper muscles and contracting walls in her guts. She kept up a fierce stream of grunts. Suddenly it seemed to explode. She bent her knees, throwing her bottom forward hard against Wilkins.
"UNNNUNNNUNNNHHH!!!" he yelled. "HARDER... HARDER...!!" and in the next breath, "AAAIIGHAAGHHHH!!!! You're going to rupture me!!! Oh, push-push-push!" her voice dropped to a low, savage whisper. "In a little... no, out a hair... now push...! Sandra-slut, shut up! Oh, you are a pig...! Just keep pumping, you bastard! Harder... faster...! OH, YES...!! That's it! DON'T STOP NOW...!!! PUSH...! UNHH!!
UNHH!!
In some dim recess beneath her surging passion, she had been vaguely aware that Wilkins was keeping up his rhythmic stroking without any evidence of change. Now at the last moment in her own overpowering climax she felt his encircling arms jerk her against him savagely. His pumping stopped abruptly and his body shook with an intense, visible tremor. The shaft that impaled her throbbed and she felt the buzzing pulses of his orgasm spurting fluid into her.
"Arrrrghh" he growled. "Arrrrrghh!" He jerked in a terrible spasm. "ARRRRRRGHHH!!!!"
The flesh on his face purpled again, mottled white spots standing out sharply, and his eyes bulged.
"Jesus Christ!" someone yelled. "Lookee old Wilkins! Never seen 'im make it with one o' these broads before! He finally made it!"
"Aghh...! Aghh!" barked Wilkins. He stared into Sandra's eyes with a stricken look. His throat worked and he moved his jaws as if trying to speak. She felt his arms go limp and he slid down and away from her.
"Christ, Wilkins," yelled Martin, his skinny Adam's apple bobbing like a cork. "When you make it, you really blow!"
There was no reply.
Martin approached and bent down. "Wilkins? Wilkins...! Hey, what re you up to!" He dropped to the deck beside the bloated man. "Wilkins!" He shook the quiet form. "WILKINS!!!" he shouted. "He's dead!" There was a hint of sentiment in his voice. "Old Wilkins-dead."
Martin rose to his feet and stared at Sandra. His expression was a mixture of awe and anger and puzzlement. He shook his head and the anger disappeared. In its place was a slow-breaking smile. He leaned close. "Only friend I ever had," he confided in low tones. "Thirty years, he never came. Somethin' froze 'im up. Women couldn't stand 'im. Guess that turned 'im off every time he tried. Said he hoped when he died it'd be in the middle of the best cum he ever had. Got his wish!"
Slowly and ceremoniously, Martin dropped his baggy trousers and stepped out of them. He leaned his belly against hers and guided the head of his penis to the slimy orifice below her golden hair. It pushed up and inward in slow motion, easing her swollen tissues aside just enough to admit it. She felt the wiry hair bristle against her and the hard ridges of his belly mold her own softer flesh.
"Somethin' o' his in here," Martin told her. "Ya gave 'im somethin' no other woman ever did, I reckon." He paused, straining to push his penis deeper against the distended membrane at the inner end of her vagina.
She watched his look turn to one of distant concentration, as if he hoped to absorb some message left in her by the dead man. Then he returned to reality and recognized her presence again.
"You gave him somethin'," he repeated. "But he left somethin' in you, too. He'd like it if his 'n' mine mixed in there." He pumped against her, soberly and almost reverently. "Sorta like his burial service," he said. "Ain't no other in the book he'd think was as fittin'."
Sandra thrust her hips out to Martin by bending her knees further. She relaxed inside. Letting the feel of the stiff hair that scrubbed her crotch seep through her. It brought a warmth which was free of excitement.
Martin closed his eyes and leaned harder. His motion stopped and his penis throbbed and she felt the warm gush that mingled his sperm with those that Wilkins had deposited in her. The weird culmination of a lifelong friendship between two of the earth's scum was complete.
Martin withdrew slowly. As his penis popped out, the mixed semen gushed after it, running down through the valley between Sandra's buttocks and hung in heavy, stringy gobs on the deck.
* * * * *
The rest of the men liked Sandra's position but preferred to have her on the deck. They released her from the lanyard and laid her on a pile of wet-smelling canvas, tying her wrists to a cleat in the deck. One after another, they mounted her to relieve themselves of their too-long-stored mating tensions. Thrice, some combination of extra penetration and slower than usual orgasm in the crewman brought her to another orgasm of her own. When the last of the hands stumbled away and Koanoa brought the bucket to sluice away their accumulated filth, Sandra realized that three members of the crew had not joined the others in the afternoon's activities. Three, she corrected herself, that hadn't already had her. John, the one who appeared to be the dreamy type, Alonzo, the dark, weasel-faced urchin of the foredeck, and Olaf, the blonde boy whose tongue had so inflamed her, had still not had their turns. But she'd survived another major portion of her trial schedule. She'd feared the crew. Rough and crude and vicious-looking, they had the potential for the most horrible acts. In the end, they had been the least offensive of all.
* * * * *
After the evening meal, Eichmann joined her. "Looks like ya might make it," he observed gruffly. "Hope ya do; yer uncle agreed to buy ya back from us when we make Tahiti."
"But what if I don't make it? How will you explain that?"
Eichmann shrugged. "Can't help it if someone fooled him with a fake story, can I?"
"What about all the things you've done to me? I mean, if I do make it? Uncle Ellison isn't going to be very understanding about that part of it."
"He may get mad," agreed the captain, grinning, "but he'll understand, alright. I'd guess he might not have time to chase off huntin' us when he does find out."
Sandra knew she hadn't caught the full meaning of that remark. Still, there were some things she'd rather not know until they happened. She was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that most of her terror was anticipation rather than reality.
"I'm probably infected with every disease that there is," Sandra remarked bitterly.
Eichmann shook his head, laughing harder. "There's a lot of 'em we don't have on this ship," he said. "If you've caught what we do have, they can cure it pretty easy. That's somethin' most of the women we bring aboard don't get the chance to worry about, though."
"Why not?"
"Lot of 'em don't make it. Somewhere along the line they can't take what happens to 'em. You'd think the kind we usually have could take more than you, wouldn't you?"
Sandra nodded.
"Fact is, you had it easy. Guess the men liked the way you heated up so fast. Didn't make 'em try so hard to prove they could get action outta ya."
"Oh!" Her rotten core had survival value, then. She wondered if this was the only place in the world where it did.
"Willie didn't get much of a chance at you, either. When he got through with a woman, she wasn't much use to anyone else-ever! We always made him go last." Eichmann paused. Any remorse or regret he might feel about the tragic effect his crew's lust had on their captives was well buried.
He continued, "Didn't have much reason to turn loose the ones that did make it. They'd just spread wild stories and make it hard for us to keep alive. So when we finished with 'em, we threw 'em overboard. Didn't ever find one that could swim even a hundred miles."
Sandra closed her eyes and fought down the sudden reaction his last statement had brought. If Uncle Ellison had refused to bargain over her...! She shuddered.
"Wasn't there ever anyone who wondered what happened to those women?"
"Naw. Lotta women around without no one who gives a shit where they are or what happens to 'em. Them're the kind we generally use."
Something ought to happen to this vile man and his crew! The thought that he could go on with such practices for years without any action being taken nauseated Sandra. A sudden thought struck her. "Are there other crews that do the kind of things you do?"
"Of course!"
Sandra groaned.
"There's some that do different, though. Some guys are hogs. I know two or three captains that have all the females saved for them and the crew. Don't know just how they manage, but they act like they don't want it no other way."
At the moment, Sandra had no interest in that sort of thing. She could only think of the horror of putting individual women through this kind of hell and then, it they survived, killing them without mercy.
But there was something else gnawing at the edge of her consciousness. These men with Eichmann lived in another part of the same hell. Somehow they seemed doomed to an even worse fate than the women they tortured. At least there was an end to it for the women. The crew must feel like they were trapped in an endless wheel of brutality and degradation. She wondered briefly if they ever sensed their hopelessness.
* * * * *
"John's ready today," Koanoa told her several days later. "He thinks you're probably rested up right."
A chill foreboding struck at her. "Will it be bad?" she asked. Her throat was suddenly too tight to give the words a voice. They came out as a hoarse whisper.
The Polynesian shrugged. "What he does ain't too hard on 'em. Way he sets 'em up for it makes it rough for some of 'em. Anyhow, it gets 'em goddam excited!"
Sandra shivered. Even the suggestion of excitement made her tingle.
She followed Koanoa on deck. Amidships, several of the crewmen clustered around Sandra. They picked her up and inverted her. They carried her to the rail and held her against the ratlines and shrouds while others busied themselves with scraps of rope.
When they stepped back, Sandra hung head down from the rigging. She was spread-eagled, her legs lashed at six-inch intervals to the ratlines and her wrists secured to the rail. If she looked up her body, she saw it against the background of interlaced lines and full-bellied sails and dark spars. Because the shrouds sloped inward as they rose, her belly hung inward, her feet several inches inboard of her head.
John came along the deck. The other crewmen made way for him. He surveyed their work closely. "Good," he said. "She's just right."
As he reached for her, she felt the juice come to her inner surfaces. Quietly and very gently, he caressed her breasts. At the delicious tingle that puckered her nipples she realized that this was only the second time since she had been brought aboard that her breasts had been stimulated. She settled against her bonds and let herself warm to the touch.
John rolled her nipples between his fingertips, watching them swell. Sandra gazed at his face and tried to sort out its soft features from its hard ones.
"Most of 'em keep their eyes shut when someone's handlin' 'em," observed John.
Sandra nodded and continued to watch him. He took her left nipple in his mouth and teased it with his tongue.
"'At's good, John! Keep a mouthful o' that tittie!"
"Bite it!" suggested someone.
Sandra tried to see who had recommended that. It didn't really matter, once she located both of the boys from the foredeck and knew they hadn't. No one else would have the chance.
John ran his hands slowly up and down her sides. She made her muscles ripple under his touch and felt the juice increase its flow.
"Come on, John! Work on 'er cunt!"
"Go fuck yourself!" replied John.
"Unn-nn-nnhhh!" moaned Sandra softly.
"Like this?' whispered John.
"Unh-huh!" she whispered back.
"Like the position?"
"It's good for awhile."
"But not for long?"
"Makes it hard to breathe and my head feels full."
"Gets hard to think straight after awhile," he commented.
"Make me cum fast? Please!" she begged. "I want to know it when it happens."
John grinned at her. "You do like fuckin', don't you?"
"I guess I do," she admitted.
His hands wandered skillfully over her sides, her belly and her hips. They moved ever closer to the now eager flesh in the vee between her thighs.
"Soon," she whispered to herself. "Soon he'll touch it."
His fingertips brushed through the soft pussy hair on her loins and she felt her hips twitch.
"When you get them hips movin, it really does things to your shape," said John.
"What kind of things?"
"Makes it change like waves change the ocean."
"Nn-nn-nn-nn-unhnhhh!" She did not know whether her growing excitement was fed by his whispered comments or not. She suspected that it was.
His hands continued to prowl. Now they brushed over her labia frequently and her hips oscillated rapidly. She breathed hard and hissed between her teeth. She watched John's jaw as he continued to suck her left breast. She noticed that her right one, free to move, was beginning to swing with the movements of her body.
"I'm getting hot," she whispered.
"Good!"
She gasped and thrashed when he let his fingers linger on her clitoris. Then they probed among the folds behind it and sent surges of heat through her.
"UNHH!" she grunted.
John released her breast and straightened to look at the effect that his hands were producing. "You're unfolding," he said. "You're unfolding like a butterfly. You're opening up."
"Sure I am, she said. "When things like this happen there's a part of me that says, 'Fill me up!"
John chuckled. "Then let's fill it up!"
How? she asked herself. How, with her in this position?
John reached down the rail and pulled a belaying pin from the rack.
Sandra gasped. The pin looked almost too unyielding. "Does it have splinters?"
"No splinters."
She let her head hang free. She wanted to feel the insertion without the strain of trying to watch John as he made it.
He's using his other hand to open me up wider, she thought. He's got the lips open, but the hole isn't very wide. He's using his finger-running it around the rim to loosen it up. Now he's touching my cunt with the club. He's rubbing it around in the juice to get it lubricated so it'll go in easier. Now he's... "UNNHHH!" ...shoving it in. He's shoving it in!! GOD...! IT'S IN... IT'S IN SO DEEP!!!
"UNNHH!!!!"
Chapter Thirteen
Still gently, John worked the club in her vagina as if it were a great penis. He used his free hand to stroke and caress the soft, turgid flesh.
"N-N-Nn-nn-nn-nn-N-NN-NN-Nn-nn-nnnnhhh!" moaned Sandra. Her excitement was building fast now. She found it easier to keep her eyes open than shut in this position. But everything seemed to be covered with a faint red haze. Must be the blood settling in my head, she thought.
Fingers probed and the club pumped up and down. Sandra's passion rose in giant leaps. Suddenly she knew she had to do something for this skilled seaman.
"Your prick!" she said in smothered tones. "Let me have your prick!"
"You know I cant get it up there!" His reply sounded exasperated.
"Not up there! Just get it out and lean close!'
"Oh!" Understanding.
She panted and strained, mouth open, as he lowered one hand to free his stiff penis. It sprang erect from the restraint of his trousers.
"Lean in," she said.
He thrust his hips toward her. His penis grazed her cheek.
"A little to the left," she instructed.
He took the penis in his hand and pointed it.
"That's right," she said. "Good! It'll just fit in my... mou-ll-ll-ll-wlwlwlwl...!" She stopped trying to talk as suddenly she found he had her mouth stuffed full of his salty, sweaty penis... She found herself dealing with a great mouthful of... tastes salty... lick off sweaty... and suck... hardon... head... caress-with-teeth... lips... tongue-tongue-tongue...
She sensed that her sincere effort to please his prick had disconcerted John. His hands were suddenly unsteady and his hips jerked.
MMmmmmnnnnnn! Big prick... juice coming out in my mouth... suck and swallow... stick shaking in my cunt... fire all over me... UNNHH-unnhh-UNNHH...! Oh, keep tongue going on ridge... ooooh... tease opening... suck and swallow... get more in my mouth...! Oh, God! Ooohh... the twitch in my cunt!
"UNNGGG!!!"
Suck harder... he's jerking my head... my hips jerking hard!
"UNNHH! UNNHH!! !"
Cumming...! Oh! The stick is deep... Ow! Oh, suck hard...! Mmmmnn... suck faster...! MMHH!!!! Oooohh a big mouthful...! God! Must swallow fast...! Swallow...! SWALLOW FASTER!
There was the long, slow collapse and the hands supporting her while they loosened the ropes that dug in so painfully and the warm satisfaction between her legs. She could no longer see herself the virtuous niece of Commodore Deen. It had been too many days with them. Too much that had happened to her that could not be reversed.
* * * * *
Alonzo worried her. There was a furtive air about him that frightened her each time she caught his gaze on her.
"How does he do it?" she asked Koanoa.
"Do what?" he studied the dark-haired youth with a look of distaste.
"Fuck," she forced herself to reply.
"Don't know."
"You've never watched him?"
"He came aboard after the last woman was here."
The boy would have to prove something to the crew. Sandra's belly knotted. "He'll kill me," she said slowly and with complete certainty.
"Not kill," replied Koanoa. He looked down at her.
"He'll kill me."
"He's not stupid. He knows there's fort... he knows there's a big price on you. Eichmann, would skin him alive, and he knows it."
Sandra shuddered at the memory of Willie, but she was not convinced. "He'll kill me," she insisted.
Koanoa shook his head. "Come," he said.
She followed him fearfully, going to give herself to the boy who had to prove himself.
* * * * *
Alonzo stared at her with smoldering contemptuous eyes. "Rich bitch," he said. "Spoiled and soft bitch. Shit don't stink. Fuckin' rich spoiled bitch!"
She lay in the rope locker. Her bottom was wedged into a huge coil of rope and her legs hung over the edge. Her shoulders and head rested against the bulkhead. Alonzo sat with his back to the opposite bulkhead less then eight feet away. With the hatches closed, the tiny room must be the quietest place on the ship. She could hear none of the normal deck noise. Worst of all, she was alone with the boy.
Now Alonzo eased himself off his rump and drew his legs under him. His gaze held steadily on her face.
"How old are you, Alonzo?" It was the old instinct to kill time in hopes of rescue, she realized. Only this time there was to be no rescue.
"What fuckin' difference does it make?"
She shrugged.
"Alright. Fifteen!"
She stared at him. Not even full grown! But he was here, taking his share of the crew's sex ration.
He rose to a crouch and pulled a long, thinbladed knife from somewhere.
"Oh, please!" she cried. "No!"
"Shut up, cunt!" He crept toward her, evil shining from his face.
Sandra shrank back. She held her breath. God! To go through all she had and then face death at the hands of a child.
His hand touched her leg. She jerked and screamed.
"Shut up, cunt!"
"Please don't do it!" she sobbed. "You don't have to kill me to prove you're a man!"
"F'r crisake, shut up!" He leaned across her and slid his knife hand around her.
It's going to be one of those spectacular things, she thought with horror. Opened from spine to bellybutton! Her skin crawled.
He leaned on her and put his other hand behind her. He fumbled at her bound wrists. Suddenly, they were free. He pushed himself off her and cut the rope that lashed her ankles together.
"Now show me, cunt!"
"Show you?"
"Show me how to fuck."
"Alonzo!"
His eyes glinted dangerously. "Ain't never fucked. Wanta show me, or have me spend my time carvin' pictures?"
She pushed her way out of the coil. "Sit down," she said. "No! Take off your clothes first."
Alonzo stripped. He was thin and bony, but he had bulges of muscle where they belonged.
"Now sit down."
He sat on the edge or one of the larger coils.
"Lean back."
He did. His young penis lay against his flat belly. It was rigid and swollen and as large as any penis.
She straddled his legs. Moving closer, she knelt on the coil astride the boys hips. Centering herself over him, she took his penis in her hand. He gasped and stiffened.
"Jesus!" he breathed. "Grabbin' it that way just about makes me cum!"
She pointed his penis upward and placed the head against the mouth of her vagina. She lowered herself, sinking onto the shaft.
"UNH!" cried the boy. He tensed under her. "Now fuck me!"
Sandra leaned forward until her breasts rested on his chest and her hair brushed his face. She kissed his cheek and let her lips move slowly to cover his. She put her arms around him and held his body against hers.
"Mm-mm-mm-mmmm-mmm!" he exclaimed behind closed lips.
She parted her lips and let her tongue play over his. He responded by trying to suck the darting tip into his mouth.
She moved her hips slowly, stroking his enveloped organ. She felt the tremor that started somewhere low in his abdomen and the sudden rigidity of his hard, young thighs.
He let himself fall backward, circling her waist with one arm and seizing one of her buttocks with his other hand. He squeezed convulsively as the semen spurted along its tube to erupt within her.
After that long moment of rigidity, he went limp. She raised her mouth to let him breath.
"Jesus!" he whispered. "Jesus, but it's good!"
She lay still on him until his penis shrank to the point where it slid out of her. Then she backed off and stood.
"I guess it's alright if you go now," Alonzo told her drowsily. "Think I'll stay awhile."
She let herself out through the hatch. When she turned for a last look, he was asleep, a smile tugging at the corner of his ugly mouth.
* * * * *
"He scared me nearly to death," she told Koanoa when he asked.
"How?"
"Pulled out a knife and let me think he planned to cut me in two!"
But she thought it unnecessary to tell him what else happened.
"Get all the cunt he wanted?" the Polynesian asked.
"He did," she replied truthfully.
Koanoa changed the subject. "Your uncle a good man?"
"Of course!" But was he? She wasn't sure. The more she learned here, the more she realized how many people had two sides. One was the outward appearance, the other was what was deep down inside.
"He does what he says he will?"
"Always," she said. He'd never once failed to carry out a promised punishment.
"Temper?"
"Pretty fierce," she admitted.
Koanoa stared over the rail.
* * *
Two days out of Tahiti, Koanoa told her that Olaf was ready.
"Where?" She suspected that he might have the same need as Alonzo. It would be the rope locker again.
"Foredeck."
"Foredeck! That was no place to teach a boy to fuck!"
"That's what he said."
But perhaps Olaf didn't have to be taught. With that mouth of his...!
"When?"
"Late. Midnight."
"Why then?"
"He goes on watch then."
"Sleep 'til then. I'll wake you."
* * *
The moon was in its waning quarter. It cast deep shadows under the sails, but lighted the decks brightly where its rays fell. The foredeck looked empty.
Sandra peered into the shadows, then leaned against the cabin. Olaf was apparently going to be late.
"You alone?" came a whisper. Sandra started. "Yes," she replied. Olaf appeared before her.
"You ready?" he asked.
"I think so."
"Good!" He took her hand. "Come with me."
In the center of the foredeck, just forward of the foremast, was a raised hatch with a pile of canvas on it.
"Sit on the edge of the hatch," Olaf instructed her.
When she was seated, he tied each ankle to a corner of the hatch box. "Now stand up."
She stood, legs spread until they hurt. Olaf placed one hand behind her back and pushed her backward, laying her across the high pile of canvas.
He planned carefully, she thought. It catches me right in the small of my back. She was arched sharply, and Olaf tied her wrists to the hatch.
"Whew!" she said. "This stretches me!"
"Stretching makes you more sensitive for this," said Olaf.
He knelt beside her legs and she could no longer see him.
"Oo-o-oo-oo-oo-oohhh!" she breathed. His tongue had touched her vaginal folds. It played over them gently; seeming at times hardly to be in contact. She wondered briefly if he was simply blowing on them.
She crooned softly, her hips undulating in a slow, sensuous rhythm.
"Like?" The mouth spoke quietly without leaving the lips.
"Ohh-h-h-h! Ye-e-ess!"
"Beautiful body," the boy murmured. "I like it best this way."
"I like it this way too, now."
As he had done once before, he let the tip of his tongue move effortlessly over the thick outer lips of her vagina while they swelled and folded apart to expose the tender inner ones. Then he licked the inner lips even more lightly, inflaming them and drawing blood to their network of veins until they were fully engorged. He parted them with his thumbs and touched each of the delicate scallops that surrounded the mouth of her vagina with the very tip of his tongue.
Sandra panted heavily. She was sure that she must be flowing heavily.
Olaf raised his head from her crotch for a moment. "You're juicier than any other woman I've ever done this to."
"Mm," she said. Then, "Mm-m-m-m-m-mmmm mm-m-mmmm-mmm!"
Olaf's tongue returned to the throbbing membranes and inner tongues of flame licked along her veins.
"Where... where... where did you... learn... this?" she panted.
"Lived with my aunt," he said.
"How long?" She wanted to rest. For once on the Tradewind she wanted to prolong the session.
"My parents died when I was a baby. There was no one to take me but my mother's sister."
"How old were you when you left there?"
"Sixteen."
"And you learned this there?"
"From my aunt. But she was old-forty when I left."
"Why did you leave?"
"She married."
"How did you learn this?"
"When I found out about boys and girls I... I Well, I asked her to let me look at her. 'You want to learn about girls?' she asked. My aunt was good to me. She was a good woman." He paused.
* * * * *
"It was the first time I'd ever seen her naked. She had a beautiful body like yours. She propped herself up against a pile of pillows and showed me what I wanted to see.
"But she knew that wasn't really enough. She knew I'd need to know more. She showed me what each spot was for
'This is my clitoris, Olaf. It's for exciting me. That's the only thing its good for-the only thing it ever does. Touch it with your tongue. See what... see what it... DOES!'
"She taught me how to use my mouth. 'The mouth is the most versatile tool you have,' she used to tell me. She showed me what did the most on the breasts and around her cunt. When I'd learned all those things to where she was satisfied, she showed me what the penis was for. But she had a thing about that..."
Olaf's thoughts returned to the scene with his aunt.
'It's time to learn about the final part of sex, Olaf.' She breathed with difficulty, but she forced the words to come out smoothly and calmly.
Olaf raised his head from the warm nest between her quivering legs. "I'm ready," he said simply.
'There's some kind of psychological block in me, Olaf. You'll have to understand it and help me for the next step.'
Anything to help this wonderful aunt!
'I can't bring myself to let anyone go that last little way. You'll have to tie me so that I can't stop you.'
She piled pillows in the middle of the bed and lay down with her hips on them. She had Olaf tie her spread-eagled and asked him breathlessly to go through the mouth exercises again.
'Olaf! Olaf!' She gasped for air and arched her body. 'Don't ever stop, Olaf.'
She'll go to pieces in a minute, Olaf thought to himself. She always does when she gets this excited. He drew back and watched her, fascinated by the newness of her lines in this strange position.
'Olaf,' she cried out. 'You've stopped!'
"It is time," he said.
'OOo-o-o-ohhh!' She shuddered and pulled at the knots. 'Yes,' she whispered, 'it is time. You know where to put it. But I can't let you do it.'
"That's why you are tied," he reminded her gently.
But how should he go about getting in without crushing her? If he knelt between her thighs he was too high. If he lay between them, he would crush her.
'Straddle my hips,' she whispered. And Olaf could see what it cost her to suggest it.
But he did. It made it difficult to penetrate, and hard to stay in until he had experimented enough to find the right position. It took the most precise angle.
When he leaned forward over her to take her breast in his mouth, the bony structure above his penis bore on her clitoris. Her sudden frenzy nearly threw him to the floor, but it delighted him.
He had never seen her go to pieces like that before.
* * * * *
"That was when I found out about cumming," Olaf said in a reverent tone. "It was my first time in any woman. It turned out it was only her second time. That first one was the one that made it impossible for her to..." He paused, then went on. "At first it was my aunt who would say I ought to have a little more instruction. Then it was I who pretended to be nervous and in terrible need of practice. After awhile we stopped pretending. When she felt like it she'd come to me with the cords. When I felt like it I'd go get her. I liked it best of all when I could take her by surprise and tie her up with her clothes on. Undressing her was the best fun."
Chapter Fourteen
Olaf stopped talking. He bent his head and returned his tongue to her vagina.
God! she thought. What a waste of a sensitive, skilled boy! But at the moment the important thing to her was the wild passion that welled up out of her crotch to inundate her with fire. She tossed and moaned. The tension in her arms and thighs and abdomen amplified each sharp twinge of excitement and forced a new moan from her throat.
"Oh!" she cried. "Olaf! I can't stand it! Don't ever stop, Olaf!"
She felt a sudden lack of stimulation. Olaf had drawn back his head. He walked around the hatch to stand closer to her head.
"It is time to mount you," he said simply.
"Oh, yes!" she said. "Oh, yes! It's time!" There was hunger in her voice.
He went back to the position beside her legs and removed his clothing.
Beautiful body! she thought. He was straight and tall and lean. He climbed the mountain of canvas and straddled her hips.
"I've learned things since then," he said. "But I like to start out the same way. He lowered himself, using one hand to bend his penis down until the head engaged her yawning hole.
"He's found my cunt!" she whispered to herself. "Now he'll shove it home! Oh, Olaf! I want to have you far, far in, deep in."
She knew that this position did not allow the greatest depth of penetration and she knew that Olaf knew it. Neither of them cared. She also knew that he knew what she meant. That was important! He pushed and she rotated her hips up and the prick slid in to the hilt.
Olaf leaned forward. She felt his weight trap her clitoris between his pelvic bone and her own. With each beat of her heart, the pulse met the clitoral block and sent a surge of fire into her guts. She panted hoarsely and groaned with each exhalation.
Her body writhed beneath Olaf's weight as his prick stroked in and out.
"Oh God!" she cried. "I'm cumming!"
She twisted up against him. "UNNHH!" UNNHHH!!!"
"Keep cumming," he whispered.
She felt a tiny tremor spread over him and his stroking faltered.
"NN-NN-NNNNNNGNGNGNNHHH!!!!!!!!" she cried. "NGNGNGNNNNGH!!!!!!
"AAARRRRRGGHHHHHH! ! ! ! !" came Olaf's answering cry.
He stiffened and pressed his weight against her and they were bathed with sweat and tremors and moonlight.
Then Olaf collapsed upon her, his smooth cheek resting against hers.
* * * * *
Commodore Deen and Dale Winkler lounged on the afterdeck of J. Hart Bender's yacht sipping gin and tonic and dipping into the past. Ellison Deen had managed to get the loan of the yacht for the duration of his stay in Tahiti through a chain of yachting friends. Winkler had known that the yacht was lying idle until the Bender's could resume their around-the-world cruise.
The past few days had been busy ones as days go in Tahiti. Winkler had managed to get certain information about Eichmann leaked to the French authorities. Deen had spent considerable time with the president of Tahiti's Bank of the Republic. There was little to be done now, except wait. The special plan for use if Sandra should not be aboard the Tradewind could not proceed any further than procurement of materials until they knew if it was needed.
"Ell, what ever happened to that girl from Belgium? You know-the one you brought out under the noses of the Germans? Did you marry her?"
Ellison's good humor evaporated and he stared into his glass. "No, I didn't. A lot of the underground showed up in the States in the first few years after the war. Celeste had their creed in her blood-you remember the stories we used to hear. Anyhow, she and I couldn't work it out. My brother, Frank came back and thought he was the man for the job. They died about fifteen years ago. It's their daughter that's on the Tradewind.
"Oh. Sorry I brought it up, Ell."
"Forget it, Dale. Natural question. And things may have worked out the best way anyhow. Hilda likes all the things Celeste did without having the wanderlust."
"Quite a woman, that Hilda," remarked Winkler with respect in his voice. "I'd sort of assumed she was the second Mrs. Deen."
"Don't ever let her hear you say that," Ellison laughed.
* * * * *
Koanoa pushed at a protruding bit of deck tar with his toe. "Think Deen'll be there with the money?" he asked.
"He'll be there, replied Eichmann. "He'll have the money, too." He thought over what he had said, then corrected himself. "I don't know that Deen'll be there at all. He doesn't have to be. Shit, anyone can buy cargo. But the money'll be there."
Koanoa nodded without looking up.
"Koa, what the hell's eatin' ya'?"
"There's somethin' wrong cap'n. Somethin's goin' to work out wrong."
"Sometimes yer more Islander than human," growled. Eichmann. "Ya tryin' to tell me ya gotta premonition?"
"Hell no!" Premonitions aboard a ship were dangerous. Everything that happened at sea had a way of telegraphing itself into the inner senses of its inhabitants. When things looked so bad that it triggered a premonition, matters were grave. "Hell no, cap'n!" But this troubled expression stayed. He wandered below to the galley. Perhaps he had an upset stomach. Ling could fix him up.
* * * * *
Sandra looked up. The mate looked glum. She wondered if the approach of land always did that to him. "Don't you like to make port?" she asked.
" 'Course! What kinda question's that?"
"Well, we're getting close to Tahiti, aren't we?"
"Be there tomorrow, wind an' weather willin'."
Sandra's pulse quickened at the information, but she persisted. "But you look so glum!"
"Probably Ling's cookin'."
"What you say?!" Ling pretended to reach for his meat cleaver. "Bad business piss off cook!" he warned.
"Thought I might need one o' your remedies. Things just don't look right to me these days."
Ling studied the mate. "I got right medicine. I put in breakfast tomorrow."
Koanoa nodded. "That'll put me right," he said. He turned to Sandra. "You made it, woman."
"I made it," she said. She stared at him. "There were a few times when I didn't think I would. One was when you showed me that mast you have."
Koanoa grinned proudly. "Lotta women wouldn't be able to take it. You got a good cunt!" He surveyed her still-naked body. "Wanta try it once more before you go ashore?"
Her pulse jumped and her eyes widened. She stared deep into his eyes for a long silent moment.
He asked if I wanted to, she thought. He didn't have to ask. I'm still a prisoner on the ship and he's big and man enough to take what he wants to from me. But he asked! I did take it! I do have a good cunt! Everything that's happened to me on this ship happened because someone else wanted it to.
Still staring into his eyes, she rose slowly from the table and moved toward the companionway. She saw the startled look leap to his face and the way his hand trembled as he pushed away from the table to follow her.
In her cabin she waited for Koanoa to strip. Seeing the monster exposed again chilled her to the bone. She must have been crazy to take the man up on what had been said in jest! But a powerful heat was building in her gut and she was already wet. She watched the great prick swell and rise to its rigid, erect position of full readiness.
"Sit on this chair," she suggested. "Sort of stretch out."
Koanoa grinned agreeably and humored her. She straddled his legs and moved up them until his penis pressed against her crotch. She leaned forward, reaching for his face with her mouth. He bent his head and took her in his arms. He pulled her up his body until she lay on him, her lips covering his. The long silence that followed was broken only by their heavy breathing.
Their lips parted to let their tongues probe at each other. Sandra drew his into her mouth and sucked on it gently. She felt him go stiff under her. Somehow it surprised her to find him capable of reactions so much like the ignorant youths at the club. Her aggressive actions seemed to inflame him to the same degree that they would have those boys. But not as fast, she reflected. She wiggled her hips and rubbed her crotch on his belly. The motion caught her clitoris and rolled it under her.
The sudden stimulation tapped a reservoir of heat. She clung fiercely to the Polynesian, her mouth suddenly groping over his and crushing his full lips against his teeth. There was a hot feeling of distension in the lips of her vagina.
I'm ready, she said to herself. It's time!
She pushed herself away from his embrace and backed down until her feet reached the floor. She stood on tiptoe as she took the tremendous mast in her hand and pointed it straight up. She moved over it and let herself settle to the point where its head pressed against her hot, red opening. She waited for a moment. The warmth from the throbbing head mingled with her own and she was aware of the slow stretching of her labia as they slid out over the rounded contour. She let a little more of her weight settle on the contact point.
"I'm swallowing it," she said in a husky voice. "I'm doing it easy."
Koanoa peered down. "By God, you are!" he exclaimed. "Half the head is out of sight. Another little bit and you're goin' to..."
"UNNHHH!!!" she yelled. She had finally stretched to the biggest diameter of the head and slid down the pole. Only it was inside her when she slid. And it had reached the end of the barrel and simply pushed the end up into her guts.
Raising her feet from the floor, she hooked her toes over the fronts of his thighs. Now she could lever herself up and down to stroke the pussy-juice-covered mast. She began the measured pumping without fear of bouncing herself off.
"Please! Hold my hips with your hands," she begged His giant hands closed over her rounded flesh and their heat flowed into her.
"Koa!" she said. "I'm so hot I'm melting on you. I can feel the juices running down."
He chuckled. "There's enough cunt-juice to make it feel like you're melting," he agreed. "Feels good this way. Wish it could last forever."
"So do I!"
Her tempo increased and her passion grew.
"NNN... NNN... NNN!!!"
The fullness was still unbelievable. She twisted her trunk about on the unyielding pivot as she bounced. Now her breasts were leaping violently and her hair flogged her face. Her fingers grasped Koanoa's forearms for balance and each downward plunge drove the air from her lungs in a heavy grunt.
"YUNNHHH...!! YUNNHHH...!!! YUNNH!!!"
She felt the beginning of her orgasm and pumped harder.
"YUN!-YUNH!!-YUNNHH!!!"
Koanoa tensed beneath her. The tremor that signaled his cumming hit her like a mechanical buzzer. It rocketed her from her steadily developing climax into a frenzied, beating, screaming explosion.
"YAAAIJGGHHH!!!!!!"
His hands clamped hard on her hips and he drove her down onto his prick until she felt her stretched folds mashed against the bones at the base of his penis. She struggled wildly to move, but he held her fast as spasm after spasm racked his huge frame. Each spasm shot a great, hot fountain of liquid into her, bloating her belly with semen.
"Ohhhhh!!!" she groaned. The hot strength of her body evaporated and she collapsed forward onto the giant. But his rigidity was collapsing, too, and she felt the huge mast soften and bend to let her belly down to his.
"Unh...! Unh!" she grunted weakly. "Koa, you're so massive, so satisfying, oh, just great."
"So are you, woman! No wonder it killed old Wilkins. That's the way to die happy!"
* * * * *
Sandra lay naked on her stomach on the foredeck, elbows planted on the tarry deck, chin resting in cupped hands. She stared at the low fringe of palms that showed against the horizon each time the Tradewind rose to the crest of a swell. There in that lazy place she would be bought back from Eichmann and his crew. She had no idea of the size of the ransom. She could not conceive of her uncle spending it on her, regardless of how small it might be. But she was humbly thankful that he had agreed to do so. Apparently there was no way of knowing whether he would be there. She hoped he would be. She wanted to look into his face for the answers to questions that had arisen during this voyage. She lowered her face to the deck and slept.
* * * * *
They finally carried her ashore in a sailcloth bag. It stunk and steamed and itched, but it was going ashore. She held still when she heard the strange voices that spoke in French. She was motionless as they carried her though the noisy street. She was riding on Koanoa's shoulder again. It would be the last time and she regretted that she could not feel the sweaty skin of his broad back against her cheek.
When they set her down and left, she didn't have to be motionless. She moved about until she found a tiny hole in a seam and studied the place she was in. It was an ordinary storeroom. Boxes and bags were piled in great disarray and strange scents worked their way to her.
There were times when strangers were in and out. At those times she hardly breathed. Then there were times when one or more of the Trade- wind's crew showed up. She didn't have to be careful when that happened. But a time came when she heard the familiar voice of Uncle Ellison. She quivered in glad anticipation.
Uncle Ellison left a small bundle of clothes on a box while one of the crewmen cut open the top of the bag Sandra was in; then everyone left. It took but a heartbeat for her to scramble out of the bag and into the clothes. She felt grimy and she knew that she stunk. A hot shower would remedy that.
And then she was outside sobbing in Uncle Ellison's arms. She clung to him tightly until the seamen from the Tradewind disappeared. They walked together toward the water's edge.
* * * * *
Chapter Fifteen
"But forty thousand dollars!" she protested. "It's so much!"
Uncle Ellison smiled grimly. "It'd be worth it, even if the bastard got away with it.
"He won't?"
"No." He looked down at her as Koanoa had so often. "It's a special draft on the Tahiti Bank of the Republic. We got the president of the bank to verify it for Eichmann, but it was too late for him to cash it. A half hour later, word got around on the docks that there was a special squad on the way in by air to talk to Eichmann about things like smuggling and piracy. The Tradewind'll probably set sail within the hour."
Sandra stared at him. "I hope it works," she said.
"It will." He placed his hand on her arm. "Come below and get some rest. After what you've been through, you need it." He led her gently into the yacht's main salon. Hilda was there and came forward to embrace her. Tears ran and Sandra had to tell her horror story once again. She ended it with a plea to rescue the boy, Olaf.
"The poor unfortunate," said Aunt Hilda. "Imagine his turning up in a place like the Tradewind!" She frowned. "Olaf. No last name."
Sandra grinned. "Introductions weren't very formal."
"I know Ell would like to help the boy," Hilda said. "But I can't think how he could get word to him. I doubt that he and Captain Eichmann parted on very good terms."
"It sounds terrible," Sandra mused, "but I think there was a soft spot for me among those people. Perhaps I could get a moment with Olaf." She felt a warming glow inside but didn't mention that.
Hilda studied her niece. She asked soberly, "Do you think it would be safe?"
Sandra echoed her aunt's seriousness. "It would be safe. I know those men." She rose to her feet. "How do I get from here to the Tradewind? I'll have to hurry. Ellison thought they'd be gone by now."
"Come on!" Hilda said. "I'll get you on a launch!"
* * * * *
"Hell no, Im not going back!" roared Eichmann from the Tradewind's deck. "I don't give a shit if you had to come forty miles to stop me!"
"Don't go back," shouted Sandra from the launch. "Just stop for a few minutes!"
"Y'r outta your fuckin' mind, woman!! You know what it takes to heave to in this schooner!"
"Then bring me aboard for just long enough to talk to Olaf!"
"All right. But you'll have to be right smart about it. The sea's none too kind this night!" He shouted to the launch's helmsman in French.
Sandra wished she, spoke French. Hilda had had to give directions for getting Sandra out to the Tradewind, no matter how far out it was, and now Eichmann was having to instruct the helmsman to bring the girl alongside.
In the moments before the transfer was made, Sandra gave her own instructions.
"Wait for me," she said. "It may take a while. No matter. You wait!" She tried it once more, just to be sure he had understood. This time she spoke just one word at a time. "Wait... for... me... no... matter... how... long!"
* * * * *
"But Olaf, this is no life for a man like you!"
"Look, woman, I like this life! I like the sea-we live on the sea. I like changes of places-every port's a new place. I want to be nobody-here I am nobody. Why try to make me do something else?"
"You are sensitive, Olaf. A man who is sensitive belongs somewhere else," Sandra watched his face. She saw no softening. She gritted her teeth. "Olaf, I want you with me; no, I want to be with you."
His eyes narrowed. "The people on the Tradewind are with me. Everyone else is against me." There was pain in the tone.
"No, Olaf! No! Not everyone!"
"Everyone!"
"Why, Olaf!"
Again his eyes narrowed. Then he said; "I left my aunt's house when she married. First I killed her and the man she married."
Sandra stiffened, then relaxed. "You mean you can't go back."
"Even if I wanted to. And I don't."
She wanted to kiss him-to have him hold her- to experience another night on the hatch. Instead, she touched his arm with her fingertips and walked aft to where Eichmann sat watching the sails.
"I'll leave now. Thank you, cap'n."
"You got a problem, woman." He rose to lean on the rail. "Fuckin' launch set course fer port right after you come aboard. Outta hailin' distance before I got back from showin' you to Olaf's quarters."
"I... I... you mean I..."
Eichmann grinned, and it was an evil thing to see. "Glad to have ya back aboard, cunt. Ya made the last voyage seem mighty short!" He grinned again. "Hey, Koa!!" he shouted.
* * * * *
Ellison boarded the yacht and watched the launch pull away. He crossed to where Hilda lay in a deck lounge and flopped on the one next to it. The moon was already low in the western sky and he stared thoughtfully at the broad track that it laid on the surface of the black water.
"Somewhere out there, that bastard is about to get his," he muttered.
"What did you say, Ell?"
"Eichmann. When Sandra told me what those fiends do to women, I talked to the Governor. Know what? They can't do one thing! No evidence. Not even Sandra's case does it for some reason."
Hilda shuddered. "There are still places the law doesn't reach."
"Arranged a little surprise for Eichmann. Winkler and some of his people got a special kind of fruit put in their supplies this afternoon. About thirty minutes from now, the Tradewind's going to the bottom. Just in case it takes longer than a minute or two, they have radio trouble, too."
"Kill the whole crew?!"
"What about those women?"
"Well, I'm glad Sandra went out to get Olaf off!"
"Who the hell's Olaf!"
Hilda sketched in the story Sandra had told her. Ellison grinned when she mentioned the boy's technique.
"Sounds like she really wanted a guaranteed stud!"
He was still grinning about it twenty-five minutes later when he started below to mix a batch of punch. When Sandra came back with her young stud they'd be thirsty. And their launch was just coming up.
At Hilda's piercing scream he leaped back on deck.
"She didn't come back, Eli! SHE DIDN'T COME BACK!!!"
"For Christ's sake, why not!"
"The boatman says she sent him away!" She fought for calm, then explained. "He doesn't speak English, except for a word here and there. I told him in French to get her to the Tradewind, no matter where it was. When she went aboard she tried to instruct him in English. He thinks she said, 'Wait... for... me... no! Master... now... along."
"Why tell him a thing like that!?"
Hilda's shoulders sagged. "She didn't. Her French was bad, and the negative follows the verb here. What she probably said was; 'Wait for me, no matter how long.' "
Ellison turned to stare toward the western horizon. Somewhere out there-perhaps ten or twelve miles in this light breeze, the Tradewind ghosted along. She...
Hilda screamed again as an orange column of flame flared low on the water to the west, then faded away.
Ellison took her hand and they waited for the sound to reach them.
THE END
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