LASHED

Dr. J.

The waves lulled us in the middle of the ocean. On the side of this historic replica of an eighteenth-century sailing ship, I sat with Nelson. Sailing this vessel had been Nelson’s dream. As he toyed with his new rope, we watched the palette of the early morning sky flash a sailor’s warning of red.

Nelson was a seadog from way back. His skill set made him reliable at our craft.

“Do you trust me?” His hesitant words hit me as he stood and faced the sea.

His question seemed out of place. His stance was edgy and agitated. I knew this behavior well.

Nelson had always taken care of me, my well-being, my safety. But today, he expressed a need. It was evident he wrestled with it; I could feel it. I became privy to a personal process of his, with me.

For him to grapple with an idea meant that I would too. For when he pushed himself, he pushed me. When he surrendered to his true nature, I yielded entirely to mine.

I joined Nelson, looking out. I picked up the end of the rope and offered it to him. “Show me.”

With both our hands on the line, he caressed my thumb. When our fingers touched, I slipped mine to intertwine with his, and the dominant place in him expanded. Warm, firm, calloused fingertips pressed into my hand. He let out a deep breath.

“Undress. I have something unique in mind.”

I created a pile. My bra and panties followed my shorts and a tank top.

Nelson opened a bench seat and pulled out a gauzy piece of fabric. He draped it over my shoulder, and it floated past my hips on both sides of my nude body. I felt more naked wearing the flimsy material than only sporting my bare skin.

Nelson pointed. “Stand in front of this pole.” I faced the bow of the boat as a wave rose, and salt spray misted my face.

Nelson looped my hands to the pole. The intensity with which he worked the loops suggested an artist weaving on a loom or a fisherman making nets. The sentiment was gratification.

“How’s the tightness?”

“It’s good.”

“You know I like a particular tension.”

“I do.”

I was mesmerized by the sensation of the pattern he created on me. As the gulls overhead squawked, I owned a secret part of myself. I had yearned for another level. Did he know? His calm almost made me combust. I was dropping into that other place inside myself when I realized he was talking to me.

“Sorry, what?”

“I want to create you as my ‘Neptune’s Wooden Angel.’”

The intensity and control of his words shattered something deep inside me, primal, urgent. “May I ask what that is?”

He nodded. “At one time in history, carved maiden figures graced the prow of wooden sailing ships.” Nelson paused to test the rope’s tension across my flesh. “Lookouts, if you will. There to ensure safe passage for sailors.”

The morning light caused a sparkle in his eyes. “Am I that to you, Sir?”

He secured a knot then kissed my cheek. “You are and more.”

“Tell me. I will go there.”

“I intend to photograph you, bound to this pole. You are my personal maidenhead, recreating history and demonstrating, as in the days of old, my might and wealth as an owner. Your beauty will grace this ship and me.”

He grabbed my face and kissed me fiercely, nipping my lip, drawing blood. Marked.

He was mine; I was his.

The sting of the salt settled into my cut lip, as he lashed me to the pole. I inhaled the ocean scent. The strength of her nature grew in me.

I imagined how I would look as his Neptune’s Angel, my red hair unfurled like the banner of a beautiful sailing vessel. I was his treasure. Now he was making me his jewel of the sea.

Nelson tapped my foot, and I lifted it. He bent my leg, placed the sole of my foot on the pole, and knotted it in place.

He had never used these particular rope designs before. They highlighted the femininity of my breasts and the lips of my vulva.

After he had finished the design, he rubbed sunscreen on my fair, uncovered skin. He executed a future visual plan of enjoyment. No burn, just rope marks. His sure and steady fingers worked me with the motion of the waves, causing my arousal to build. I shook.

He shifted me and the pole to an angle, replicating the maidenhead’s direction pointed out to sea.

He retrieved his camera, snapping pictures of me as I hovered in this wanting, needy phase. I hung forward into the world of the sea. My breathing shifted. The shudder clicks grew distant, and I felt consumed by the churning ocean.

Nelson stimulated me by alternating strokes to my erect nipples and then my clit. The ocean whispered to me. “You are his. Submit.”

He read me so well and knew exactly when to stop the touches before I moved into an orgasm. Sweet torture. Today, it was amplified. But I would do this for him, for us.

He revved me up, and then backed off, over and over.

I ached, I craved release, and I wanted him.

The wind whipped me, the sun cooked me, and the rope held me in my angled position as a roar belted out of me and spewed into the air. Its potency would have done the job of keeping another safe, Nelson safe, from everything. That was the last thing I remembered until I felt his wet, warm mouth in the heart of my sex.

As Nelson’s hand held my bent, roped leg, his lips and tongue devoured me. He pulled on my lips with his mouth. I was lost in pleasure. His teeth grazed my clit, and he drew it into his mouth with pulsating sucks. My urgency and his determination might be the death of me. The ropes allowed the orgasm to rumble through me. It broke me apart. At that moment, I was the maiden on the front of the boat, and the waves broke over me, again and again.

Nelson righted the pole and removed the ropes. His tender touches and kisses nudged me to wakefulness as I lay in his arms.

“There you are.”

“Nelson.”

“My beautiful sea angel.”

“We went there, into the deep.”

“We did, love. I have the pictures.”

“I expanded myself to take it all in.”

“I know.” His thumb stroked my thigh and then he traced the rope marks on my skin. “It’s imprinted on you.”

“Yes, and the ocean has pounded it into me, forever.”