When Mary meets a talent scout backstage one night and is offered a gig on a cruise ship, she leaps at the chance. However, once she is aboard she finds that the entertainment that is required is rather different to what she imagined!
All the passengers are Dominants and have brought along their submissive counterparts. Mary is quickly inducted into their number and is subjected to a dazzling array of imaginative torments. But to add to the fun another ship is stalking them, intent on piracy and more!
6. Deck Games
Mary had been kept constantly below decks since she came aboard, and all the portholes had been curtained, so she had no idea in which direction they had been sailing. The heat that struck her as she emerged into the open air immediately revealed that they had travelled far south. No land was in sight. Wherever she looked the watery horizon was obscured by a dancing heat haze. Madame was wearing a white blouse and skirt, as if for tennis, and such casual attire seemed general among the members strolling the decks. The slaves were all naked, and all beautiful. Some were walking arm in arm with their masters, as if they were equals who had simply forgotten to dress that morning, while others were on hands and knees, their necks caught in leashes. It was all a matter of whim. The next moment the bitches might become women again, and the women bitches. Madame Colet draped an affectionate arm around Mary, conferring human status on her for the time being, and began her promenade. All the masters greeted Madame warmly, although Mary noticed that several winked at one another lasciviously while her attention was elsewhere. On a raised portion of the deck they came across a dozen slaves sunbathing under the orders of an elderly member. He was seated at his ease, shaded by a huge parasol, and with a long cool drink at his elbow. The sweltering women were spread out before him, their backs glistening with oil, in the full glare of the sun. As Mary and Madame Colet passed by, the ugly old man croaked out "turn,” and the twelve slaves rolled over in military unison. "Oil" was the next laconic command, and without rising from their backs the twelve reached to bottles at their sides and splashed liberal quantities of the lotion over their faces, their breasts, and their bellies. "Legs" said the old master, and twenty-four rose from the waist as one, so that the slaves could oil their thighs and shins without raising their heads from the deck.
As Mary looked back towards the sun deck this position exposed twelve pudenda to her anxious gaze. Most of the women had been shaved, and their labia showed stark and glistening. Two had also been ringed like Lady Logan, and one of these had a thick plug embedded in her cunt, and locked in position by her rings. She seemed older than the others, perhaps in her thirties. Mary soon learned her name, for the master now proved that he could manage more than one word at a time by ordering:
"Mrs.Carmichael, two minutes peddling. Legs down, the rest."
The other eleven women lowered their legs immediately, but the ringed redhead with the cunt plug wedged her hands below her hips for support, and began a vigorous peddling action in the air, while the master kept half an eye on her and half on his watch. The two minutes were never completed. Within seconds the increasing colour of her face and the faltering rhythm of her peddling showed her distress. After little more than a minute Mrs.Carmichael's legs went rigid, her toes pointed to the sky, and her laboured breathing indicated the intense struggle for self control raging within her. It was soon lost. She locked her left hand behind her knees, pulling them back almost to her face, as if to hide her blushes, and clamped her right hand to her clit. It fluttered there for a few seconds before she collapsed screaming in an oily heap.
"The oldest member will make her pay for that," whispered Madame, "though I'll wager she has already put in half a dozen spurts of peddling this morning."
"The oldest member, Madame?"
"We call him that because it is literally true, but also in allusion to his tall stories about the feats of his youth. At different times he has told us that every woman at Victoria's court was his abject slave. He even hints that it was only her age that protected the queen herself. Sir George Carmichael is his name. You must have heard of him."
"The same name as the slave!"
"Yes. She is the wife of his grandson. The boy married against Sir George's wishes, and the old fox soon saw to it that the couple ran into the financial quicksand. Then he stepped in to save the poor fool from ruin, and the price you have seen for yourself."
"The grandson sold his wife into slavery?"
"Temporary slavery. And she loves him so much - God knows why - that she was a willing victim. She is saving him not only from bankruptcy, but from prison, for he had resorted to fraud."
"Poor woman," murmured Mary.
"I suppose so, especially as Sir George is never going to forgive her marriage. Her age is one problem - she is older than her husband - but probably a few years could be overlooked at a pinch. That is not her real crime. Middle class, you understand."
"So am I," said Mary humbly.
"Moi aussi," laughed Madame. "Aren't men silly?"
Towards the bow there was a large open space covered by an awning. Here they found Sir Roger organising a team of slaves who were setting out various chairs and tables and other less familiar items, which seemed to have drawn their inspiration in equal parts from furniture, from sporting equipment, and from the implements of torture.
"Good morning, Madame," said Sir Roger, his eyes flitting over Mary. "I trust you enjoyed a restful night." He was far too polite to exhibit any unseemly mirth, but there was a twinkle deep in his knowing eyes. "Have you come to enter Miss Bowdler for the games?"
"An excellent night, thank you, but as Mary has had a tiring morning I will not race her today. I am sure she will be an interested spectator, though. Have you an amusing seat for her, and a comfortable one for me?"
"For you, Madame, always the best."
A buxom young slave appeared to offer a programme. She could not give one because her wrists were locked at the back of her collar, but she thrust forward her breasts for Madame to help herself. Her pierced nipples had been drawn together and fastened to a single small ring. A roll of programmes had been thrust into the narrowed cleavage. Madame deftly extracted the middle programme without disturbing the others, and rewarded the slave with a playful tug of the nipple ring.
Sir Roger conducted them to a pair of places in the front row. One was a large and well upholstered armchair, for the mistress of course. Beside it was a three legged wooden stool with an obscenely lifelike model of a black penis protruding from the seat, ten inches long, proportionately broad, and dripping with lubricant. It was not mounted in an upright position, but pointing forward at quite an acute angle.
Madame Colet seated herself demurely, and indicated that Mary should do likewise.
"But Madame," stammered Mary, "how can I?"
"Nonsense, girl. Ogden tells me you are unusually roomy. This will be lost in you."
"But the angle, Madame!"
"Don't be silly. The thing is flexible. Just bend it back. Now hide it quickly, you goose. It is making me feel quite faint."
The prong did indeed bend quite readily, and Mary found that its greasy length slid into her easily enough. But as soon as she settled back on the stool the hard rubber tried to spring back to its former position. As it could lean forward very little it continued to press firmly against the front wall of Mary's sheath - her most sensitive spot. After a little exploratory squirming Mary found that by leaning far forward again she could relieve the pressure substantially. She was not allowed to do so for long.
"You are disgracing me in public," hissed Madame. "Sit up straight like a good girl, and stop fidgeting!"
Mary obeyed at once, and the big prong reasserted its steady pressure. It felt wonderful, but she knew that without some assistance from steady fidgeting, to say the least, it would raise her to a plateau of frustration, but never to the peak of satisfaction. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back, but perhaps if she raised her buttocks a little she could stretch a finger or two far enough forward to...
"Elbows out, hands in the small of the back, sit absolutely still," hissed Madame.
Mary adopted the required pose with a sigh of resignation. Madame raised a languid right hand from the arm of her chair and began to toy idly with her slave's left nipple. She varied feather-light tickling of the tip with scratches of her nails around the base and areola. When Mary began to press her breast more firmly against the pleasure-dealing hand Madame gave the nipple a sharp admonitory pinch.
"Quite still, I have said. Are you all hot and bothered, cherie? Never mind. Perhaps the games will provide the cure. Even I have been known to come while watching them, and without the aid of any internal comforter. Or if sport does not excite you concentrate your thoughts on little Suki and her fist."
Madame resumed her tickling and scratching while the rest of the spectator seats on the sports deck gradually filled with masters and a few slaves. When all the places were taken Sir Roger clapped his hands for silence, and ordered:
"Let the games commence!"