Sailing Ch 1a

montycrusto · Jun 30, 2022

Online_Ratt said:
Her head aches as consciousness slowly returns, and she groans. She's lying on her stomach on something soft, a couch or bed. It's vibrating gently in time with a deep thrumming noise. The air is cool, and the smell of salt and diesel is in the air. She tries to move but can't: she’s hogtied, arms and ankles pulled high behind her back and lashed together. She lifts her head, blinking in the dim light. She’s on a bunk in a sparse cabin. The last thing she remembers is changing out of her uniform when her shift ended, hurrying from the hospital towards the bus stop, and then, in the quiet section of the road... was there... was there a man she passed, one arm in a sling, standing by his car with its hazard lights flashing, looking dolefully at it as he talked on a cell phone? And as she passed him, was there a sudden crackle, like something electric sparking? And then... she remembers going rigid, then everything going dark. Now, through a round porthole, she can see the last rays of the setting sun turning the clouds yellow and red, and the tips of the waves golden as the ship cuts through the water.

A hand slides into the folds of her long strawberry-blonde hair and grabs, pulling her head back. She squeals, and hot breath caresses her cheek. A voice growls in her ear, "Where's the USB thumb-drive?"

Shocked, she wrenches her head and tries to twist her body away so she can see the man, scramble away from him. But another hand, strong in the small of her back, shoves her torso down into the mattress, holding her in place. The hand in her hair pulls harder.

"Well?"

She wrinkles her forehead in confusion and gasps, "What thumb-drive? I don't understand.... Who are you? Where am I?"

"Don't play dumb. You were one of Silbert's nurses in the hospital. I've checked everyone else: you’re the only one left who could have taken it from his things. That thumb-drive has 750 bitcoins on it, worth more than 40 million dollars. My 40 million dollars. If you think I won't hurt you to get that back, you’re mistaken."

The hand yanks her hair hard and she squeals, "I don't have it! I don't know anything about it! And I would never steal from a patient! Ow -- let go!"

"Wrong answer," the voice rumbles. "It will take us about an hour to reach open water, away from other boats. You have until then for your memory to improve."

She hears the man rise and walk to the cabin door, then pause.

"Eventually, you'll tell me where you put it, and I'll have no further reason to detain you. But if you make me work for that information... well, disposing of a female body at sea is easy. Shove short lengths of pipe a little ways into its holes so seawater and scavengers can get in: they'll make sure no DNA evidence lingers there. Roll it up in wire mesh with some weights: the mesh lets water through to hasten decomposition but holds everything together so nothing floats up or is dragged away by the current. Then toss it all over the side. Easy."

He pauses, then finishes meaningfully, "I have everything I need in the hold."

He leaves, locking the door behind him. After a moment, she hears heavy feet on stairs, then the engine revs higher. The prow of the boat bounces as it glides through the chop, rocking her on the bunk. A tear trickles down her cheek, then with grim determination, she flexes her numb fingers, trying to restore some life to them, and starts exploring the knots holding her helpless. She intends to be free and awaiting the man's return.

---

The hour passes slowly. She struggles until her wrists and ankles are raw, almost falling off the bunk as she flops and wriggles from side to side. Eventually, furious and frustrated, she calls, hoping to explain her innocence. No one comes. She schemes, pondering ways to get out of the porthole with a life jacket or to radio for help if she could just slip her bonds. And all the while, the cries of the seagulls fade as the land disappears behind the ship, the growing swells slap louder and harder against the hull, and the rolling of the vessel intensifies.

When the door lock snaps open, she's made no headway on the ropes: it seems sailors truly are good at tying knots. The man steps in and for the first time, she see him: tall, dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, long face with a hooked nose, strong hands and arms. He glares down at her.

"Well?

Her heart jumps into her throat. "I don't have it, really I don't; I don't even know what it looks like. Please let me go! I won't tell anyone!"

He sighs, then crosses over to her. He sits on the edge of the bunk and pushes her over so she lies on her side, feet and hands to the wall, torso and hips next to him, her face looking up towards his. The he pulls a knife from the sheath on his belt.

"That's too bad," he says, and slides the blade under the top button of her blouse. Eyes wide, she freezes, her chest sucked in so her flesh is as far from the carbon steel as possible. The man saws gently, and after a moment, the button pops off. There's a tiny plink as it hits the floor. He slides the tip of the blade down towards the next button, but detours: first to one side, then the other, up and down the curves of her breasts, the material catching and pulling as the knife's honed tip drags across a nipple stiff from fear, then slides across her chest to circle the other. He watches her quiver.

"So sensitive. Shame if you were to lose them... "

She blinks back tears, shuddering, and he returns the blade to the button between her tits. Plink, and it's gone, her shirt pulling open as the tension is released. His eyebrows rise as he sees her bra, and he chuckles.

"Giving yourself a little something more than nature did, are you? Cheaters don't prosper, you know." He leans forward slightly, slits the centerpiece between the cups, and flips them to the side. He gazes, evaluating, lips slightly pursed. "Mmm. Lovely pale skin and pink pencil-eraser nipples. How pretty they'll look covered in bruises and blisters...."

Her big eyes squeeze shut and she wails. Swiftly, he stabs the knife down into the mattress next to her head, grabs her hard nubs -- one in each hand between his thumbs and index fingers, his skin rough and calloused against them -- and pinches. Her wail rises to a shriek, and with a malevolent grin, the man yanks her flesh forward into agonized cones. He twists, transforming her shriek to a scream, her hands and feet behind her back beating a tattoo against the bulkhead, head jerking in pain, torso thrashing and flexing as much as her awkward position will allow.

"Stop-STOP! Please! Pl-AAAH! I don't have it! I swear! I SWEAR! PLEASE!"

He gives her breasts a final wrench, then releases them. She lies gasping and shaking, her flesh throbbing as the pain recedes.

"That cannot be true: you must be the one who has it. And..." He pulls the knife from in front of her nose and slices off the remaining buttons. Plink. Plink. Plink. "...you will give it to me."

With her shirt hanging free, he slides his blade under the waistband of her jeans, under the elastic of her panties and along her tender skin. The tip drags through her tiny decorative thatch of red pussy hair, then recedes, pulling back up and out of her pants to sever the button from her fly. He slides the zipper open and slips a questing finger along the thin cotton of her briefs. It traces her mons, follows the curve of her labia down and back, slips between the lips to feel and follow her heat, first delving, then circling and tickling her clit.

"I can feel your fear, smell it, almost taste it. And you're right to be afraid. This is your last chance. Where is the thumb-drive?"

The uninvited finger continues to explore and caress, sending involuntary shudders through her. His touch revolts her; she can feel her gorge rising.

"Listen -- listen to me. My roommate's expecting me home. When I'm late, she'll..." -- she licks her dry lips -- "tell the police. They'll see you on the security cameras at the hospital. So the best thing you can do is let me go and disappear before the cops find you.

"And I DON'T have your drive. So keeping me here won't get you anything. At all. Except trouble!"

Unphased, chuckling, the man begins slitting the seams of her garments and pulling them off her, strip by strip. The sea air feels very cool on her pale, unveiled skin; goosebumps rise as the cloth slides off her body. Socks, jeans, blouse, bra, panties -- soon all of it lies strewn on the floor in a colourful, shredded heap.

"Unlike the ones I have installed on this boat, your hospital's security cameras saw nothing. It seems someone changed their angles just enough to leave a small blind spot. And you do have my drive."

The man regards her, enjoying the sight of her nude, bound, helpless. A flush creeps over her shoulders and neck, then up to her cheeks as he stares. She’s not used to this kind of frank assessment, and it embarrasses her.

"Why don't she take a picture, you asshole? It'll last longer," she snarls, then immediately wishes she hadn't.

"Oh, I will, but not while you're still so comfortable -- later, when you're strung up and hurting," he says with a grin. He slips his knife back into its sheath, then runs a proprietorial hand over her exposed side and belly. From there, he slides it up to her breasts again, roughly stroking and squeezing, enjoying their pert pliability. She twists her head up and away so she doesn't have to look at him as he plays with her body. After a moment, he notices and chuckles, then stands. He leans forward, slips his arms under her, hoists her up, and hauls her heaving and struggling from the cabin.

Great start, Ratt! Kidnapped, hog-tied and terrified, and having her clothes cut off with a knife .. with only the prospect of torture and suffering ahead, since she seems unable to give her captors what they want .. good job, I’ll look out for the next chapter! :devil:

Online_Ratt · Jul 1, 2022

montycrusto said:
Great start, Ratt! Kidnapped, hog-tied and terrified, and having her clothes cut off with a knife .. with only the prospect of torture and suffering ahead, since she seems unable to give her captors what they want .. good job, I’ll look out for the next chapter!

For such a talent as you, your wish is my command.

Online_Ratt · Jul 1, 2022

Sailing Ch 1b

Her eyes devour the ship's layout as he carries her down a short hallway and up some stairs, etching it into her memory in case she can get free. Her goosebumps intensify as they emerge onto the deck into cool, salt sea air, and she cranes her head around, peering into the blackness for the shore -- for any kind of landmark at all. But she can see nothing: no lights, no other ships, no reference points. Even the deck is lit only faintly, and the ship's red and green navigation lights are out. Clearly the man doesn't want to be noticed.

She can tell she's on a small, sleek yacht. It would probably sleep four comfortably, six in a pinch, and has both a sail and a diesel engine for speed. The sail is furled, and the craft bobs playfully on the rough water. It's either fairly new or has been retrofitted extensively, maybe both. The man dumps her unceremoniously onto the heavily-varnished teak boards of the deck, knocking the breath out of her with a whoof. As she gasps, he entwines a rope around her bound wrists and ankles and secures the other end to the railing. Then he kneels next to her and rolls her over onto her side again.

Silently, he produces three C-clamps from his pocket: two small and one larger. He says nothing but positions the first small clamp on her left nipple and starts to tighten it.

“What are you… no! Wait!”

The ridged metal jaws bite, squashing her tender nub between them, her teeth on edge as the pressure builds uncomfortably. He cranks the clamp further closed until her pink point is painfully compressed, and she sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, dreading the next turn of the handle, determined not to give him the satisfaction of begging him to stop -- but the man switches to her other nipple. He repeats the process: harshly tweaking her nub into stiffness, tightening the second small clamp onto it to just the brink of anguish while her eyes bulge and her mouth opens to loose a strangled whine... then he stops.

Finally, his eyes glide down her body and he picks up the third, larger clamp. He shoves a muscled arm roughly between her thighs, the waterproof material of his dark blue nautical jacket smooth against her skin, and forces them a few inches apart. Immediately, she presses her strong legs together, trapping his forearm, squeezing it viciously, trying to hurt him, but he doesn't move it. With his other arm, he slips the top of the C-clamp between her labia and slides it down, down, down her slit until it reaches the opening of her vagina.

"Don’t do that… stop! STOP!"

"You stop. The more you fight me, the worse it will be."

The metal is very cold as it slips an inch into her silky passage. She winces, then cries out as the man maneuvers it remorselessly back and forth and deeper inside her until it's situated. When he stops, the top arm of the clamp is a few inches in her passage, its back runs in rough parallel up the slit of her pussy towards her mons, and the screw is angled so it hovers directly above her clitoris. Satisfied, the man pulls his arm from between her thighs and, with a low chuckle, starts to twist the screw closed. She jerks as its chill, serrated edges touch her delicate point, then gasps at the bizarre feeling of the metal inside her squeezing her inner tissue up against her pubic symphysis even as her clit is mashed down against it on the outside. Pain spikes through her as he gives it another turn, and another. She bites her cheek to prevent herself from screaming as he twists it tighter: this is a contest of wills between them. And then he pauses.

"The drive?"

"I... don't have it... you asshole!"

The man nods once, then reaches for her. She bites down on her lip till she tastes blood as he slowly tightens one clamp, then the next, then the last, the pain building in her body until she can't stand it any more. She screams, her head shaking wildly back and forth, hands clawing the air where they're roped behind her back, toes pointed and straining.

And as she does, he gathers her into his arms, stands, and pitches her over the side. She screams again as she falls, the rope tied to the railing spooling out behind her as she tumbles towards the cold salt water. She has just enough presence of mind to suck in a breath before she hits the surface, then, with a deafening splash, frothing waves close over her head. Her arms and legs churn frantically to get free from her ropes as she sinks, eyes stinging, ears and mouth filling with water, bubbles streaming from her nose, the shock of the cold momentarily dulling the pain of the clamps. Long seconds tick slowly by as the need for air grows; her lungs are burning, diaphragm heaving. She thrashes, terror setting in, trying to find some way, any way, to force herself back up towards the surface, towards air. Then the rope goes tight and, slowly, she rises; a few moments later, her hogtied feet and hands break the surface. Desperately, she cranes her neck up, searching, until -- hair streaming and ears popping -- her face reaches the air. She sucks in a huge breath, coughing and spluttering, while the man hauls her up, her sides scraping and banging against the hull, until eventually she lies on the deck once more, dripping and shivering.

"Unless you'd like another, longer dip, tell me where the drive is."

"Fuck you! Let me go! I don't--"

But the man has already stopped listening. With businesslike efficiency, he gives each clamp another vicious turn, changing her outraged rant to squeals and sobs, then chucks her over the side again. This time, she knows what's coming and is ready: taking in a big lungful of air as she falls, weathering the belly flop stoically, holding her breath patiently in the black water, waiting for him to pull her up again. He wants the information, so she knows he'll retrieve her before she drowns.

Right?

Time flows like molasses, slow and thick. Her lungs ache again; he can't possibly leave her here much longer. Can he? The urge to take a breath builds; she swats it back down. But irresistibly, it grows, stronger and stronger. She starts to struggle against the ropes again, trying to indicate to the man that she's out of air, that he needs to pull her up NOW, that panic is setting in. She coughs; bubbles float up past her face in the water, and then she can't wait another moment, not another half-second, she has to breathe, it's the only thing in the world that matters, and she opens her mouth and pulls in a breath, but it's not air she gets but water flowing into her lungs, and she’s frantically twisting and thrashing and choking as the liquid pours into her, and then the rope goes taut as finally, finally he reels her up from the depths again.

She coughs up water as she rises up the side of the boat; it burbles as it pours from her back into the sea as she hacks and wheezes. She hangs limply, arms and legs burning from supporting her dangling body, the weight of the clamps stretching her breasts into agonized cones as they shake with the heaving of her chest, the final clamp grinding her clitoris raw as it bounces in time with her stop-start ascent back to the deck. She crests the rail and tumbles back to the deck with a bruising thud, leaving her groaning and writhing slowly.

"You're all wet, poor thing. Let me dry you off before your next dip. Unless you're done swimming and have something to tell me?"

"I... don't have... it," she croaks.

He sighs. "Very well."

With a flick and a hiss, a lighter sparks to life. He turns it up to high, the flame impossibly bright in the gloom. Leisurely, the man brings it towards her stomach, a mischievous yellow faerie dancing in the wind, the droplets of water on her skin glistening and sparkling as it moves. Her muscles tense as the heat spreads across her abdomen: it's pleasant for a scant moment, then hot, then excruciating. She bucks, screaming hoarsely; the man's other hand pins her down against the wood as he slowly draws an angry red line along her abdomen, between her tits, and up her slender neck to the point of her chin.

She screams again, jerking her face away from the dazzling, tormenting flame, its light reflecting crazily on the man's teeth as he grins. Then the lighter drops back down: wisps of smoke rise from her flesh and searing pain consumes her as the lighter blisters her breasts in slow figure-eights across them. Her howls and pleas echo across the silent water, vanishing into the waves and empty darkness as she convulses. Finally, the flame touches the clamp on her right nipple, engulfing it, gradually heating the metal imprisoning her nub. Her breath quickens as the heat grows and she spasms, sobbing and begging.

"Think about this," the man says in reply. "After this nipple, I will send you for another, even longer swim.... then my lighter will toast your other one before you go again to Davy Jones' locker... and if I can revive you after that, there is still the third clamp to do.

"And then, my gloves will really come off."

The heat of the clamp is unbearable. Her vision dims as somewhere, far away, a foghorn sounds, and the long, dark night drags on.

montycrusto · Jul 1, 2022

Very cruel and unusual torture, with inventive use of C-clamps.. (which I think are the same as G-clamps). I wonder if the captive really does have any secrets to spill!

I had no idea bitcoins could be stored on thumb drives, I thought they were stored in some gigantic server-farm somewhere, or in “the cloud”, but I really know nothing of such things!

The clamps remind me of my drawing “clamp”, one of my darker and more torturey pieces

Online_Ratt · Jul 1, 2022

montycrusto said:
Very cruel and unusual torture, with inventive use of C-clamps.. (which I think are the same as G-clamps). I wonder if the captive really does have any secrets to spill!

I had no idea bitcoins could be stored on thumb drives, I thought they were stored in some gigantic server-farm somewhere, or in “the cloud”, but I really know nothing of such things!

The clamps remind me of my drawing “clamp”, one of my darker and more torturey pieces
View attachment 1197146

I do love that picture — it’s a favourites. Her mournful expression is just right. I know the clamp you show on her wrist as a C-clamp; it’s interesting that there are some regional differences in names. I didn’t know that.

I’m glad you liked my variation of keelhauling — a time-tested torture from the days of sailing ships and piracy and I wondered how to spice it up a little.

Storing bitcoin on a USB thumb drive is called a “cold wallet” (vs. a “hot wallet”, which as you say is when it’s stored on a server for easy use). I’m not a crypto investor either, but I have looked into how it works.

Stay tuned to see if the captive knows anything or not — Chapter 2 to follow soon!

Online_Ratt · Jul 2, 2022

Sailing Ch 2a

For the second time, her eyes flutter reluctantly open to the pressure of rubbery lips over hers. The man blows again, and air burbles into her lungs. Immediately, she's racked with coughs; the man’s head snaps back and he shoves her over onto her side. A gout of salt water sprays from her lungs onto the deck; shakily, she pulls another breath and a second flood pours out of her, and then a third. Her head and lungs ache; her sinuses and throat sting. Her bound arms and legs wheel and shake uncertainly behind her as she attempts to pull them to her front and heave herself up onto all fours. Hazily, she realizes they're still tied; there's no help there. As she wheezes and gasps and splutters, her breathing slowly settling back into regularity, other pains reawaken. Her diaphragm is still spasming agonizingly from expelling water after being resuscitated; her knee and elbow ligaments burn from bearing her weight on her repeated journeys back up the side of the boat; her sides are bruised and scraped from bouncing off the hull. Being crushed and seared by the hot clamps has made her nipples twin points of fire, and lines of angry red crisscross her breasts, shoulders, stomach, and thighs, drawn by the man’s lighter. Between her legs, her passage is in anguish, her clit a bright star of torment.

She feels eyes on her and looks up at the man; he's regarding her thoughtfully. Terror that he might throw her over the side and let her drown again grips her: thrashing under the cold water in mindless panic as the eternity for which she's been holding her breath proves once again not quite long enough; the convulsing of her lungs in her desperation to breathe; her screams captured in bubbles floating up past her head; the water burning like lava as, helplessly, she sucks it down her windpipe; the sudden burst of adrenaline as her body realizes it's dying; limbs flailing, muscles knotting, the restraining ropes abrading her skin; the desperation and disbelief as her vision narrows to a tunnel and her consciousness becomes heavy, an anvil she has to fight to carry; the final spasm as the darkness closes over her, her life gurgling away into the vast deep, until, an infinity later, a breath is forced into her, the agony of revival begins, and the cycle starts anew.

This time, however, the man simply looks down at her. Then he speaks.

"You're probably already thinking of plans for that money: buy a mansion, travel the world in luxury, look after your ailing parents, whatever. And you're figuring you can tolerate a little pain to get it. But it’s not going to be ‘a little pain’ —I’ll see to that.

“This little game” — he waves a hand at the sea — “was just a fun starter. But some weather is coming in, so I’m going to stop dunking your donut now and leave you to enjoy the fresh air while I prepare for it. Take this time to ponder your options. And in return for the break, you can do something for me… unless you want to tell me where the drive is, of course?”

He waits a beat for a reply, but the nurse only coughs, wheezes, and glares. He shrugs and reaches for the clamps on her nipples. Her face folds into a grimace of bleak expectation and she whimpers, but to her surprise, he loosens and removes them. She gasps and her eyes widen at the sudden searing pain as blood returns to her nubs, but her wail turns into another fit of coughing. She continues to hack and twist as he unscrews and removes the clamp in her pussy, then pulls his knife and cuts first the rope holding her feet to her wrists behind her back, then the loops holding her ankles together. Leaving her wrists tied, he flips her onto her back and steps between her calves.

Despite her exhaustion, she lashes out venomously, her foot aimed at his crotch. He brings up a knee to block it but a hair too slowly, and her foot glances off his thigh. He staggers back out from between her legs, muttering an imprecation, then lunges up towards her head, drops to a knee beside her, and slaps her hard, snapping her head sideways, making her ears ring, leaving a bright red handprint on her cheek radiating heat and pain. For a moment, the dark sky above the ship whirls as she feels him sliding over her body and between her thighs once again, forcing them apart with his knees.

The noise of his fly unzipping electrifies her: suddenly frantic, she struggles backwards, throwing her hips and torso from side to side, trying to find leverage with her feet to propel herself up the wet deck away from him. But he moves with her, scrabbling forward as she retreats, bearing her down with the weight of his body, his chest rising and falling atop hers, his breath hot against her cheek, his arms forcing her shoulders flat, his hips pinning hers, his hard cock pulsing on her pubis. He readjusts and she jerks as the tip of his cock slides down her labia, parting them, and slides just barely into her, testing the waters. Then, as she flinches away, her head shaking no,no, no, he plunges into her depths, filling her in one long hard stroke. She shrieks, then curses pour out of her like bilge.

“You bastard! Get off me! Fuck! I’ll have your balls for this, you son of a bitch! Aaugh — uugh…. No… stop!”

Revolted, she strains against him, arching her back to throw him off, her abdominal muscles taut. He gasps at the pleasure of her clenching pussy, eyes closing for a moment at the bliss of her tight silken heat, then grins down at her and starts to pump. Wildly, she flails at his back and ass with her heels, landing punishing blows, then snaps her teeth at his neck. Jerking back in surprise, he grabs her bruised left nipple and twists it savagely, simultaneously slamming his hips into hers like a punch, harpooning her with his cock, its head slamming into her cervix. She goes rigid from pain; he releases her nipple, grabs the hair near her temple, and cracks her head down onto the planks of the deck.

“Stop” — thunk — “fighting” — thunk — “me!” — thunk.

Her head throbs and spins; the fight trickles out of her and she lies quiescent, whimpering each time the man drives his cock into her slick tunnel, pounding into her, his dick pulling and pushing her resisting flesh, stretching her wide, burying itself up to the hilt in her pussy as she winces and jerks. His breath comes faster as her inner muscles enfold him, ridges massage him, her clasping passage slowly coaxing the cum from his balls regardless of her wishes, until with a long grunt of satisfaction, he explodes into her, his pelvis mashed against hers, body shaking with spasms of pleasure, cock pulsing inside her cunt as his balls empty, spurt after spurt of cum filling her.

She turns her head to the side, refusing to look at him as he savours her rage and humiliation, staring at the evening sea instead as he rests on her, his dick softening in her wetness. Finally, he unsockets and slides up onto his knees. She pulls her legs closed, disgusted as mingled cum and pussy juice drips from her slit, and lies still, staring daggers up at him. He rises, wipes himself off with his shirt, and -- grinning again at the murderous expression on her face -- zips and buttons his pants. Then he lurches slightly as a large swell rolls the boat, and looks up at the billowing sail.

“The wind’s rising,” he says. Then, more ominously: "Better get you ready."

Online_Ratt · Jul 3, 2022

Sailing Ch 2b

He grabs the nurse’s upper right arm and drags her up into a sitting position. She recoils from his touch, but her anger boils over again and she dives for his fingers, jaws agape. He snatches his hand back — her teeth snap on air — and slaps her a second time, this one so hard she collapses onto her side, stunned, lights popping behind her eyes, head swimming. She feels the man cuffing one of her bound wrists to a railing post, then sitting her up again.

“Stupid cunt!” the man hisses. "You just won’t make this easy on yourself, will you?”

The man steps over to the cockpit, releases a rope and hauls on it, swinging the boom slowly amidships until it’s centered above the aft deck and transom. Satisfied, he secures it, then releases two different lines from the clutch, wraps one a few times around an electric winch, and starts it running. Quickly and quietly, the mainsail retreats along a greased track in the boom as it furls inside the hollow mast; when it’s safely stowed, the man turns off the winch and secures the lines again. Next he grabs a loose coil of rope from a locker and tosses its end over a low crosstree on the mast. He spends a moment routing it to the cockpit and through a clutch, then wraps it around the electric winch. Finally, flashing that malevolent schoolboy grin she's coming to know well, he pulls the end dangling from the crosstree over to where she sits watching, perplexed, dark-red bruises spreading up to her eye.

As he approaches, she kicks out at him again vengefully. He pivots hastily to the side, narrowly avoiding her attack, then steps forward and shoves her head viciously down towards her knees. She yelps; he puts his own knee across her shoulders to hold her in place. Behind her back, she feels his hands looping and securing the new rope around her wrists. Then she hears the snick of the handcuffs releasing, and he yanks her to her feet. She struggles furiously, kicking like a wildcat, but he grabs her in a bear hug as she flails and lift-drags her towards the cockpit. She tries to butt him with her head -- and is gratified when the back of her skull connects with a cheekbone. It’s a glancing blow, and instead of releasing her, the man slams a fist into her right kidney. She squeals and doubles over -- only for a few seconds, but it's enough time for him to get within reach of the winch's green On button.

He slaps it with a swift, exasperated hand. Rope spools through it, wrenching her sore arms up behind her, making her hunch over to relieve the strain, gasping, eyes widening with pain. She cries out, stretching her body and legs as much as she can, straining to keep the very tips of her toes just touching the smooth wood as he stops the winch, leaving her almost-hanging by her throbbing wrists, suddenly motionless, her breath hissing between her gritted teeth.

For a moment, the man places a hand on one of her breasts, and she raises her head to glare at him. He laughs, then says, "Tempting to have a second round with you like this, but there’s not enough time, I think."

Instead, he pulls two more small bundles of rope from a locker, then spins her until she's facing aft. He secures one rope to each ankle, pulls her legs slightly apart, and loops the one from her right leg around a post on the port railing but doesn’t tie it. He throws the rope from her left leg over the boom, then loops it around the starboard railing. He doesn’t secure that one either. Finally, he moves next to her and calmly delivers an uppercut to her solar plexus.

The breath explodes out of her and for a moment, she can't pull any back in. She's gulping like a fish; she can hear him speaking but the words aren't fully registering; he's demanding the thumb drive, threatening her with... bad weather? She can't follow it. Her vision blurs; her only concern is breathing past the pain, stopping her coughing so the air flows into her burning lungs again.

The man heads down into the cabin. Her breathing slowly becomes more regular; she shifts her weight from foot to foot, trying to reduce the agony in the tips of her toes. Time passes glacially; she's not sure if he's coming back. The boat rocks, constantly changing the amount of weight on each wrist, each elbow, each shoulder, each toe; it's maddening.

Eventually, she hears his footsteps on the stair and he returns carrying a band of cloth about a foot wide and three feet long, T-Rex waterproof tape, and something small and shiny. He wraps the material around her breasts, leaving a tiny bit of slack, then ties it behind her back and tapes its upper and lower edges to her collarbone and ribs, the tape's strong adhesive itchy and irritating. The fabric seems somehow stiff: since it’s not tight against her skin, it doesn’t move when she does. Her forehead wrinkles in dismay as the reason becomes clear: the man has lined the inside of the faux-bra with emery cloth. With each breath she takes and each movement of the ship, her tits move slightly and her nipples rub against the abrasive surface; with each gust of wind, the rough sandpaper-like texture is blown back and forth against her flesh, slowly scouring away her tender skin. If he leaves her there for any length of time, the slow torture of it will become unendurable.

Stepping back, the man holds the small, shiny object in front of her face. It's a simple 9 volt battery, lithium-based, with a silver label. Energizer. He's soldered a wire crudely to each of its terminals: one wire is about 4 inches long, the other twice that and ending in a metal clip. He's stripped the insulation off both.

"Last chance to tell me where the drive is before I put you up for the night," he says. "Clock's ticking."

"Look..." she croaks, forcing the words through her hoarse throat, "I don't know" -- his hand starts to dip -- "but! But I'll help you look for it. I know the hospital and where they keep lost patient items. We can... we can go find it. You just need to untie me and we can go there together right now."

"Not a chance," he answers. "You'll just scream for the police as soon as we reach the shore. No, you'll tell me where you've hidden it, in detail. And you will do so while in enough pain that I know you can't be lying."

His left hand slips between her legs and parts her labia; his right shoves the rectangular battery, terminals-first, as far up her sticky passage as his fingers will reach. Instantly, she shrieks, eyes squeezing shut, torso and hips jerking and twisting as the shock bites into her, the stripped wires delivering the charge down the full length of her passage, a biting pain that grows every moment.

“AAAGH! Take it out! TakeitOUT! Enough!”

In reply, the man parts her labia a second time, her body shaking and spasming against his calloused hand, to open the metal alligator clip at the end of the long wire. He spits on her clitoris, then snaps the jaws shut on it; her pain takes another quantum leap as the sharp teeth bite and the charge hits her most sensitive spot. She screams — once, twice — then starts to plead, babbling, promising to find the drive, to give it to him, to do whatever he wants if he’ll stop this, take the battery out and end her suffering.

She doesn't see where he pulls the wet rag from, but suddenly it’s packed into her mouth, the salt brine it's been soaked in puckering her cheeks and smarting on her tongue, held there with three strips of the man’s brutal industrial tape. She wails at him through the gag, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“Hush,” the man says, putting a finger on the outline of her full lips under the tape. “Mustn’t wake the neighbours. So much pain from such a little thing! It’s amazing, isn’t it? It will go dead in a few hours. Until then, it will hurt... but it won’t do you irreparable damage. Think about getting me that drive before I do something that does.”

He steps past her to the cockpit and the winch whirrs back to life, yanking her up into the air by her reversed arms, her ankle ropes unspooling smoothly as she rises. She howls into the gag again: panic, outrage, and pain roil inside her as her shoulders threaten to dislocate and her tendons stretch to their tearing point, the pain from the battery momentarily forgotten. After 10 feet, the winch stops; almost without her volition, her legs paddle and reach, searching desperately for any footing to take her weight off her agonized arms. The man walks under her as she sobs, glances up salaciously, grabs her ankle ropes, and hauls on them until she's positioned above the boom, legs wide. She guesses what’s coming and closes her eyes as he lowers her onto the metal rail. It creaks and dips slightly as it takes her weight. With the sail stowed, the slot in the boom is covered by the outhaul rope: thick, rough, hardened by exposure to salt and sun. She cries out as she comes to rest on the coarse weave, then moans as her full weight presses her bruised labia down onto the unforgiving line. Her eyes squeeze shut: while much of her weight comes off her shoulders, the place her hunched-forward position puts it is even worse. And inside her passage and on her clit, the pain from the battery builds like stings from a tireless swarm of tiny hornets.

The man secures her ankle ropes to their respective rail posts, making sure her thighs are stretched well apart: she won’t be gripping the boom with them to alleviate any of her anguish. A swell lifts the yacht, which rolls to port, then starboard as it passes. She sways back and forth with the movement and whimpers, her eyes opening wide in realization: the rocking of the ship changes where her weight is centered every moment, keeping her nerves fresh and the pain searing. As the squall worsens, it will add more violent rising and falling into the mix, driving her weight down onto her pussy every few moments. Despite the chill of the rising wind, she's already sweating from the pain — shoulders and arms aching, bruises all over, rales in both lungs, head bursting, nipples scorched, breasts rubbed raw and stinging, legs spread painfully wide, full weight borne agonizingly on a few inches of her most sensitive flesh, the vicious bite of the battery up her passage making her hips shake as she sobs into her gag, a cruel thirst from the brine slowly rising in her like the tide.

The man finishes his work and steps in front of her; she yells muffled, unintelligible curses at him. He grins again.

“You'll have to go without supper tonight, since I don't want you getting seasick and throwing up behind your gag. But if you're cooperative tomorrow, perhaps there could be something in the galley for you.”

Through a tiny gap in the clouds, the last rays of the setting sun turn the heaving water red and gold, glittering on the 10' swells, throwing the churning thunderclouds above the yacht into sharp relief. A sudden gust raises goosebumps on her skin; she shivers despite her pain-sweat as it strengthens, nipples hardening in the cold night air under the abhorrent cloth. The first few drops of rain dot her as the yacht lurches to the side and rolls back, and she moans and shivers again.

With a last glance at her, seemingly unconcerned about the weather, quietly humming "God damn them all: I was told / We’d cruise the seas for American gold; / We’d fire no guns, shed no tears…", the man turns and heads back down the stairs to the cabin. Her eyes follow him, her expression of disbelief slowly collapsing to one of stricken hopelessness. He‘s really going to leave her strung up like this, naked and hurting in the open night air, unable even to call to him. A sudden spray of water soaks her as a wave breaks against the hull and splashes up, beading on her face, stomach, and thighs, trickling down her curves and valleys, pushing the emery cloth across her nipples again. She sputters, then screams as the water reaches the electrode on her clit, increasing its conductivity and the strength of the shock. She vibrates from the pain, her wet, now-stringy hair hanging down into her eyes, and blinks away the stinging salt. Then the motion of the boat shifts her weight from shoulder to racked shoulder, one side of her tormented slit to the other, and the pain builds to an overwhelming agony. She screams again into her gag as she sits and suffers, then sobs despondently. The minutes crawl horribly by as, around her, the storm prepares for a lively night.

montycrusto · Jul 3, 2022

Great job @Online_Ratt ! Marvellous bondage and torture. :devil:

Online_Ratt · Jul 4, 2022

Sailing Ch 3a

Her eyes flicker open at a sudden stripe of pain across her stomach, then instantly squeeze shut again against the bright morning light. It’s a new pain, sharp and stinging. The familiar pains — the agony of her bodyweight crushing her labia into the rough rope along the boom; the unending ache in her shoulders and her bloodless hands pulled high up behind her, the swaying and bobbing of the boat yanking her arms and body back and forth, up and down; the burning and biting of the emery cloth slapping and sliding along her raw, abraded breasts and nipples; the maddening thirst from the salt-water-soaked gag taped into her mouth — still torment her, pulling moans and whimpers from her raw throat as the yacht moves. Her tears have dried, though: this suffering is too huge, too encompassing for them. They stopped about an hour before the battery searing her vagina went dead, though lost in the leaden hours of the night, she couldn’t say exactly when with any certainty.

But this pain she doesn't recognize. She forces her eyes open into a reluctant squint against the light and looks down. The storm must have blown itself out sometime in the night: the sun is fierce and glittering on the water. The man stands in front of her holding a long piece of electrical wire. He swings it, and with a hiss and a snap, a second red line of anguish appears, this time across her back. She jerks and yelps at the lash, then screams in earnest as her sudden motion reawakens all the deadened nerves in her crotch. As the anguish slowly fades back to its previous unbearable level, her long pleading whine makes the man chuckle.

“Hurts, does it? Good. You look like hell, so you must have had a really miserable night. Also good. Glad you managed to stay put in all that wind and rain and that the lightning didn’t zap you. Time for you to come down from there in case someone sees you; we wouldn’t want to cause a scandal on the high seas, would we? And perhaps you’re finally ready to turn over my drive, yes?”

She doesn't bother to reply, just closes her eyes, lowers her head, and waits.

“I said: wake up!” His deep voice takes on a menacing edge. After another moment, the makeshift whip cracks across her torso again, wrapping around her body near her hips, and she squeals. Confident he has her attention now, he snaps the wire around her a third time, a fourth, a fifth, and each time she shrieks then howls as the movement reignites the agony in her abused body.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and her grudging, hate-filled gaze swivels to him as he coils the wire and stows it. “I’m not unreasonable. I’m going to take you down and give you some breakfast so you can think about your options. Just one quick thing first…”

He steps up to her, pulls out his knife, and cuts away the cloth taped across her breasts, making clucking sounds of concern as her red-streaked, abraded flesh is revealed.

“Tsk,” he says. “That’s not very picturesque.” Shaking his head, he strides to the rail, lowers a bucket on a rope over the side, hauls it up full of seawater, and sloshes it over her. She splutters as some spray strikes her face, hazel eyes opening wide at the sudden stinging agony as the salt bites into her wounds. The water sluices down her body, carrying away flecks of dried blood, particles of sanded-off skin and flesh, and her dried pain-sweat, until after another couple of buckets, she is shivering but clean, rivulets of now-clear water trickling from her goosebumped skin to the deck.

Apparently satisfied, her captor pulls out his phone and she looks on in disbelief as he snaps some pictures of her on her torture perch, moving here and there to get different and interesting angles. When done, he fusses with the device for a moment before returning it to his pocket, then steps back to the rail and releases the ropes holding her legs outstretched. Her stiff muscles and joints ache and burn as her legs abruptly swing down until her inner thighs rest against the boom. She gasps and sobs; for a moment, and when the pain fades and movement seems possible, she tries squeezing the metal spar between her legs to see if she can lift her herself up a fraction of an inch and take some — any — of the weight off her cunt. Her muscles just won’t respond, but a moment later, her wish is granted — in a horrible way: the man starts the winch, pulling her up off the boom by her reversed arms. White fuzz fills her vision as pain explodes in her shoulders and, in a few seconds as blood returns to her labia, her groin too. She opens her mouth to scream but no sound will pass her throat. After a foot or so, as her knees reach the boom, her upward motion suddenly stops. She sways precariously, confused, looking down at the man, who's regarding her curiously. Then he releases the rope's brake and drops her back down onto the boom. She screams as her bodyweight crushes her bruised pussy against the salt-hardened rope once more, and then her world goes dark.

---

He’s inside her when her consciousness staggers back, his hateful face grinning down as her eyes flicker open, the wood of the deck oddly warm against her back. Agony flares in her battered vulva each time his hips slam into hers, his thick cock pumping in and out of her passage. Instinctively, she tries to shove and kick him off but her limbs are boneless; her muscles just won’t respond after her night of frozen immobility. The gag is gone too, and desperate, she raises her head to try to bite him again. but gives up halfway. In a daze, she lies still, her body burning, staring at something metal glinting near her head; after a moment, her eyes focus on it and she realizes it's the now-dead battery that was inside her all night, abandoned with its wires and clips tangled on the deck.

Fingers grip her hair and hold her head fast against the deck as he pumps harder, his balls slapping her perineum, his shaft filling her, stretching every crevice of her passage each time he plows into her, her passage grudgingly getting slick, clasping and swallowing him. She squeezes her eyes shut as the pressure builds in his cock: his muscles tensing, rhythm accelerating, breathing turning ragged. He's near to cumming, so near. Frantic to end the assault, she squeezes her inner muscles around him, her pussy walls resisting his thrusts, gripping him, wringing the cum from his balls, trying to push him over the edge.

It works: he gasps and stiffens, then slams into her, his thighs forcing hers even further apart as he crams every millimeter of his cock up her pussy. Her eyes pop and she squeals as his groin crushes hers; the hand in her hair yanks it painfully as his jets of hot cum spurt into her. She takes a deep shaky breath, then another, as he pulls his softening cock out of her, sticky with her juices. After a moment, he rises onto his knees, slips his arms under her knees and shoulders, and carries her into the cabin.

—-

“All right, let’s talk business,” the man says, putting a cup of orange juice and a plate with a hot, diagonally-cut Monte Cristo sandwich on it onto the small bolted-down table in front of her. The smell of the melted cheese and ham makes her mouth water. Gratefully, she grabs the cup with her one free hand — her ankles are cuffed to a large u-ring bolted to the floor, her right wrist is cuffed to another u-ring screwed into the bottom of the table, and a tight leather belt across her hips keeps her seated on the galley's bench -- and take a gulp, its acidity stinging and cleansing her sore throat. She trades the glass for half the sandwich, then takes a nervous bite. Her eyes drift closed for a moment: it's the first food she’s had in nearly a day and it’s delicious. She takes another, much larger mouthful and wolfs it down.

"Not so fast; you’ll make yourself puke,” the man admonishes, pouring a mug of steaming coffee and pushing it forward until it sits next to the juice. “Ok. You’ve proven you’re tough; coercing the location out of you is going to take work and time, and I’d prefer speed. So I'd be willing to give you, say, 25% of the bitcoins on the drive as... a finder's fee. That would be about $10 million, enough to set you up for life. You can't unlock the drive without my password; my password is useless without the drive. So this is a great deal for us both.

“So option 1 is that you tell me where the drive is and I go get it.”

She stares skeptically at him over the crust of the sandwich and growls hoarsely past her mouthful, “I’m not stupid. Even if I knew where it was, if I told you, you ’d kill me as soon as I got back with it. So why should I help you?”

The man tilts his head slightly to the side and purses his lips in acknowledgment. “All right: option 2. We go get the drive together. But I can’t take you back on shore without some surety you won’t yell for help or try to get away. Like an explosive vest.”

He eyes her naked torso as she finishes the sandwich and reaches for the coffee cup, then grins.

“Or perhaps an explosive bra and panties would be more fun. Anyway, I don’t like this option; it’s too risky. If you try to run, I could be killed by the blast or the cops. That’s no good.

"The third option is that if you really don’t know where it is, I could cut my losses and get rid of you.”

He picks something up from next to his seat and places it onto the table. It looks vaguely like an AR-15 assault rifle, but about half the usual size and oddly proportioned: the barrel is just a foot long but ridiculously fat, about 2” in diameter.

“This is my TAC-79 military-grade flare launcher — much more powerful than the snub-nose revolver ones you usually see. I’ve always wondered what would happen if I shoved this up a woman’s pussy and pulled the trigger. I’d have chum to keep the fishing great for weeks, probably.”

The nurse’s eyes open wide for a moment at the threat, then narrow as she drains the last of the coffee and switches back to the orange juice.

“Nope,” she says matter-of-factly, momentarily contemplating throwing the now-empty plastic tumblr at him. She dismisses the idea since the cup wouldn't do any real damage; in retrospect, she wishes she’d thrown the hot coffee at him instead. But it had smelled so good. Regretfully, she sets the cup back down on the table. “You’re not going to walk away from $40 million. So we’re still at an impasse.”

He laughs, genuinely delighted by her blunt call of his bluff.

“Right you are,” he says. “So here’s what I’m really going to do. I’m going to break you.

“I’ve got some friends in Honduras. You may have noticed my taking a picture of you earlier; I sent it to them to gauge their interest. And they’re excited. They run a kind of school where they train tough guys for drug gangs across Latin and South America. They always need pretty women as bribes for generals and politicians, or for their students to hone their techniques on. They need anyone who crosses them to last a really long time so they’re an example to others, and that takes practice.

“So: if you won’t give me my thumb drive, I’ll set a course there — a slow one. I’ll have you all to myself for a couple of weeks while we sail; that will be nice, won’t it? And when we get there, if you still haven’t told me where the drive is, I’ll turn you over to them for a month or two. By the end, I guarantee whatever’s left of you will happily tell me anything I want to know. I’ll let you think about that for a bit while I go plot the course.

“And I'll help you be useful while you wait.”

John Delves Richardson · Jul 6, 2022

As my friend @Online_Ratt knows, I am a proud sailboat owner, but - even though I had imagined some bdsm related uses of its equipment - I have have never reached the peaks of creativity that he demonstrates in this story.

montycrusto · Jul 6, 2022

Online_Ratt said:
Monte Cristo sandwich

You’re welcome

Great storytelling Mr Ratt, I am enjoying every moment! I like where the story’s heading too.

Online_Ratt · Jul 6, 2022

Sailing Ch 3b

The man twists around in his chair and opens a drawer behind him, from which he pulls a length of clothesline and a bag of heavy-duty wooden clothespins. He stands, stretches, and moves to the far end of the galley, where he attaches one end of the rope to a hook in the wall. Then, uncoiling the line as he goes, he comes back to her, first humming, then quietly singing.

“My money don’t jingle jingle; it’s vanished / Gonna make you wiggle wiggle; get punished….”

The nurse swipes at him with her free hand, but he grabs her wrist and smashes it down onto the faux-wood finish of the table. The shock reverberates up her arm, leaving it numb to the elbow. He yanks another pair of handcuffs from a pocket and leans in to snap one end closed around her wrist, then — repelling her attempt to head butt him by shoving her back against the galley wall so hard she loses her breath for a moment — he secures her hand under the table with its mate.

Inured to them, the man says nothing about her struggles. He simply shakes out the rest of the clothesline. Unlike the far end, the near one is split into two lines that form a Y where they merge into the main trunk. He threads the two ends through the spring holes of two of the industrial clothespins, intended to stay in place through any motion of the yacht. She guesses what coming and, squeezing her lips together in futile rage, turns her head to the wall. Silently, she vows to breathe through the pain and not scream — but the self-promise shatters as the first high-tension clip closes excruciatingly on her bruised and raw right nipple. She shrieks and sucks air through gritted teeth at the spike of pain, then again as the second clip finds her left nub and a new crescendo of agony washes over her.

“Take them off!” she hisses. “Now! Or no help from me! NOW!”

“I… don’t… think so,” he says, mimicking her breathy gasps. “You have work to do. Got to earn your keep.

“And don’t worry! I know they hurt now, but it’ll stop when… well, let’s see… when I decide to take them off you, not before, to be honest.”

He grins, then saunters over to the far side of the galley where he leans down to a small machine built into the lower set of cupboards. It’s a marine clothes washer, just able to handle eight or nine articles of clothing per load. The door clanks open at his pull, and he removes a heavy navy blue knit sweater. Her hazel eyes, glinting with cold fury, track him as he strides to the clothesline and, with a theatrical and completely unnecessary flourish, starts clipping the sweater to it. She groans, squeezing her eyes shut, as the line takes the weight and her breasts stretch into anguished cones, the tension on her pink nipples pulling her forward until her rib cage rests against the edge of the table.

Next the man adds a thick pair of jeans, then a t-shirt, grinning as tears roll down her cheeks, her breaths shallow and rapid from the growing pain. He works his way down the line towards her as he adds socks and a dish towel, each evoking another moan as the strain on the line grows. But as he picks up a big fluffy body towel, the remnants of her self-control evaporate.

“Stop it! I can’t take any more! My nipples are going tear off! It hurts — it hurts so much! You’ve made your point. Stop now! Please!”

He chuckles and throws the towel over the clothesline, clipping it into place as she wails and starts to sob. Finally, at the point where the line splits to run to each breast, he hangs a pair of blue Adidas sport boxers, grinning at her appalled expression. Then, twanging the line with a finger and listening to her howl as it reverberates, he looks down at her thoughtfully.

“We need a little wind to dry it all out,” he says, and steps over to the porthole above the galley sink. He opens it, then ducks under the swaying clothesline to open a second porthole near the table. A fresh gust, tangy with the smell of the ocean, sweeps through the humid air of the cabin, making the clothes flap and swing on the line, tugging her distended nipples and breasts this way and that as the clothesline moves. She screams, then screams again as the clothes ripple and undulate, alternately tightening and loosening the lines clipped to her tender flesh.

The man watches her appreciatively for a few moments, then nods.

“Shame the table’s in the way; I wish I could add a third line to your clit. Ah well, I’ll take care of that later. For now, I’ll leave you to your work and go plot the course,” he says, and starts up the steps. “See you in an hour or so.”

“Wait! Wait! Take them off! Please! PLEASE! Come back!”

He chuckles as he disappears up the stairs. The minutes pass like centuries as she alternately struggles against the pain, twisting her torso left and right, hoping her movements will dislodge the clothespins as they crush her raw nubs, then freezes, letting the motion of the clothes on the line — and the anguish they cause her — subside. Soon the yacht’s engine starts, layering a third dimension of agony onto her as the boat rolls with and breaks through the waves, throwing her randomly back and forth.

She hears the man moving on the deck, cleaning up and stowing gear, making things ship-shape for the voyage ahead. She calls to him again, her voice hoarse and breaking, because she can’t stand it anymore, she just can’t, the pain going on and on, getting worse and worse, with her powerless to do anything to stop it. The man sticks his head back in the door and grins down at her.

“Sit there and suffer, princess. Maybe — just maybe — you can stop being my laundry maid after I’m done up here. Say half an hour or so… unless I stop for a beer.”

She groans and sobs and resolves yet again to take the pain silently, to use it to fuel her rage and escape, but it’s useless. The seconds crawl by on the galley clock, and a scant five minutes later, she’s frantically begging and cursing the man until he reappears smirking at the top of the stairs, his pants bulging, his cock hard from hearing her entreaties. But after watching her appreciatively for a few more moments, he again steps away, ignoring her pleas and futile attempts to get free, his parting laugh ringing in her ears. When he finally comes back 45 minutes later, she’s shivering and gasping from the pain, her nakedness sweat-soaked and goose fleshed, her long strawberry-blonde hair damp and sticking itchily to her neck and shoulders.

“All right — the Hate Cruise is underway. And I’m definitely looking forward to looking down into your face later tonight while I fuck you and you think about how this next month is going to go.

“But there’s a stop we need to make first for diesel fuel. Can’t have you seen or heard while I fill up, so into storage you go.”

He reaches towards her nipples to remove the clothespins, then hesitates for a moment at her absurdly thankful expression.

“What am I thinking?” he says mockingly. “I can’t take the clothesline down without removing the clothes first.”

Slowly, deliberately, her wide eyes tracking his every movement, he removes each article of clothing from the line and tosses it into a small basket to re-hang later. As the weight on the line lessens, the pain decreases too — near-bliss after her long torment. She looks up at him gratefully as he pulls the clothespins from her nipples, then down to see they’re pale from lack of blood flow, bruised, lacerated from the wooden jaws. For a moment, the relief from the pain is euphoric, then as blood rushes back into them, they turn a dark, fevered red, stinging and burning as if a candle flame were being held to them.

She shrieks and jerks her hands up to soothe them, only for her wrists to be arrested by the handcuffs. Trickles of blood start down her arms as the metal cuts into her skin and she shrieks again. The man steps forward, and for a split second she wonders if he's going to help her, but instead he swings a fist deftly between the table and her body to slug her in the diaphragm. She folds, her forehead crashing onto the table; as she twitches weakly, fighting for breath, the man releases her wrist and ankle cuffs, then the hip restraint, and shoves her sideways onto the floor.

Retching, trembling, she instinctively curls into a fetal ball and immediately the man goes to work. He yanks her hands from where they protect her breasts and twists them high up her back, where he lashes them together and -- shoving her hair out of the way -- to her neck; she tries to pull them back down but feels the noose tightening, cutting off her air, and stops. He throws a second rope around her neck, then secures an end around each of her knees so that her thighs press up against her breasts, holding her doubled over. He finishes by cinching several loops of rope tightly around her whole body, across her shins and back. It’s so tight she can't kick or struggle and has to fight for each breath. She lies glaring up at him, a gasping, angry ball. He grins.

"Almost ready!" the man says. “Can’t have you yelling for help in port” — he stuffs a sock from the clothes basket into her mouth, then slaps some wide sticky strips of his waterproof tape across her lips to keep her silenced — “or seeing anyone who might come aboard,” he adds, and straps a thick leather blindfold over her eyes.

“There we go. Now, those nipples look sore after all that hard work; let’s do something about that.” She winces and moans as he forces his fingers between her thighs and chest to smear some sort of thick unguent onto her breasts. Her eyes water at its scent, and then she recognizes it: Tiger Balm. Her eyes open wide under the blindfold, dreading what’s coming, and in moments, her wounded flesh is aflame as the menthol, camphor, and capsaicin soaks into it.

She hears a small glug as the man squeezes the tube again; this time, his fingers slide up and down, in and out of the folds and crevices of her pussy, coating her labia, clit, and passage liberally with the greasy cream before sliding over to do the same to her asshole. She yowls into her gag as the lotion bites, and the man watches contentedly, wiping his fingers clean on a rag, as her hands flap frantically, straining to reach around to her nipples or down to her crotch, her torso twisting and hips bouncing the tiny amount the ropes allow.

“Looks like there’s balm in Gilead after all,” he remarks, then bends down to squeeze another dollop from the tube into her cunt.

She screams and screams into the gag, jerking and writhing in her hemp prison, until the man grabs her hair with one hand and pulls her head back, turning her noises to a gargle. At the same time, he slides a cold, smooth point between her pursed labia and into the vestibule of her passage. With her legs pressed together, the object feels huge as the man shoves it deeply into her, but it’s less the length — about 6 inches — than the width. It’s cone-shaped, and the base is about two inches across. She groans as her tunnel stretches to accommodate it. The man rips more strips of tape from his roll and presses them carelessly across her pussy and ass, sealing the thing in place. Then he tilts her head until she feels his hot breath on her cheeks.

“The thing up your cunt,” he says, “is a cone snail, named for its long, thin, conical shell. It’s hiding in there now, lying quiet. They live in the water but are fine out of it for a while. And they’re venomous. If you move too much, you’ll stir it up and it’ll sting you. Their stings hurt like a son of a bitch — in fact, it’ll kill small fish. So lie very, very still and quiet, and you might be ok. You hear?”

Petrified, she nods. Strong arms slide under her and lift, and she feels herself carried along the galley and down the short flight of stairs to the cabins and engine room. There’s a creak of something being opened, then she’s tilted so she’s left-side down and stuffed into a tiny, hot compartment. She barely fits into it; the walls press against her back, head, ass, and shins. It smells unpleasantly of engine oil, dirt, and something sickeningly sweet, making her gag, and where her shoulder, hip, and leg rest on the floor, grit and small stones dig into her skin.

“Welcome to my smuggler’s nook,” the man says. “No one will hear any noise you might make while you’re in there. But to make sure you stay still, here are a few more friends to keep watch.”

She hears water slosh in a small bucket a split second before it’s dumped over her, warm and brackish. Involuntarily, she jerks, only to feel hundreds of needle-sharp spines suddenly pressing against her flesh, prickling and itchy, ready to sink into her at the tiniest shiver. She holds her breath in momentary panic: sea urchins, she guesses, maybe a dozen. Slowly, she lets her breath out and tries to keep her laboured breathing slow and regular.

“Sit tight,” the man says. There’s a creak as the lid of the compartment closes, then the sound of bolts being thrown. Alone in the sweltering box, forced into a painful ball, barely able to breathe, covered in sticky salt and irritating grit, beads of sweat slowly working their way down her skin from the insufferable heat and humidity, unable to see or speak or move, nipples and groin aflame from the unguent, pussy and mouth painfully stuffed and sealed, expecting to be stung at any moment by the sea urchins as the motion of the boat rocks her from side to side, she miserably waits for whatever will come next. Outside, the yacht’s motor revs higher as the man pilots it south.

Online_Ratt · Jul 6, 2022

John Delves Richardson said:
As my friend @Online_Ratt knows, I am a proud sailboat owner, but - even though I had imagined some bdsm related uses of its equipment - I have have never reached the peaks of creativity that he demonstrates in this story.

You're very kind, @John Delves Richardson -- I appreciate it. I don't have an artistic bone in my body so I can't do what you do at all, but at least I can do this...

osouk1 · Sep 27, 2022

This is a fantastic story. Very inventive and cruel tortures, written with such care and detail you can imagine you're there. I really hope you continue this story. I'd particularly like to read about her time in Honduras. I think a couple of months with those guys will make her a very unhappy girl indeed.

I've read a couple of your other stories at the bring out the GIMP site. Have you written any others and if so where can read them?

Online_Ratt · Oct 2, 2022

osouk1 said:
This is a fantastic story. Very inventive and cruel tortures, written with such care and detail you can imagine you're there. I really hope you continue this story. I'd particularly like to read about her time in Honduras. I think a couple of months with those guys will make her a very unhappy girl indeed.

I've read a couple of your other stories at the bring out the GIMP site. Have you written any others and if so where can read them?

Thank you for the kind words, @osouk1 — coming from a gifted writer such as yourself, they’re very meaningful to me. I’m a slow writer (it took me ages to research and learn how a small yacht would work) but I have produced a few more stories; the longest is Eminent Domain (written at Arcas’ request, though he retired before illustrating it), which you would have seen over at GIMP. They vary in quality and not all will have wide appeal (eg. there’s a long-ish one set in the Wild West that, shall we say, relies on not-overly-woke stereotypes), but I’ll see what else I can post here. Unfortunately, other than the GIMP, most of the places I’ve posted them in the past have been through some reboot or other and no longer have them, so they’re hard to find on the web.

I’ll give some thought to continuing this story. I do find the stalemate between the characters interesting. And you’re right: bad things can happen to a pretty nurse in the wrong school in Honduras.

Thank you for reaching out!

Online_Ratt · Jun 15, 2023

[I think, with this installment, my writing speed is officially faster than G.R.R. Martin's, but not much. Enjoy.]

---
Sailing Ch. 4a

With a thud, the crossbow bolt slams into the coconut palm near her head and sticks there, quivering. She curses and drops into a low crouch in the undergrowth, scanning for the best means of escape, then sprints down the sandy trail to her left, deeper into the dark interior of the small island, her heart and strong legs pumping. Her hands bat away the hanging vines that seem to grab at her bare skin as she runs while tough ferns lash at her shins and ankles, trying to trip her. But at least her white, sensible nursing sneakers, tightly laced around her sockless feet, guard her soles from the twigs and stones of the jungle floor, the only consideration the men gave her other than a tattered t-shirt. The sound of their laughter follows her dash, malevolent and excited as she flees, and her fear and hatred reaches a new pitch.

Quickly, hands fumbling as she runs, she rips a tiny shred of cloth from the t-shirt: a too-large saffron-yellow rag. For a crazy moment, she wonders what earlier victim it might have belonged to and what she looked like, since it goes oddly well with her strawberry-blonde hair and pale skin. Then she shakes the distraction away. It likely won’t buy much time, but every second helps, she thinks, and throws the scrap of material onto a thorn bush on her left as she break off the trail to the right, into the foliage of the jungle. After a few hundred more steps, she slows, then stops and listens again. Nothing. Her panting lessens and her brain clicks back into gear.

In a small depression ahead of her, some boulders poke up through the moss from the island’s rocky heart. And on either side of the path are small but sturdy trees. She ponders for a moment, then pulls three lengths of thread from the shirt — leaving more of her stomach showing, but so what — and quickly twists them together into a strong, thin tripwire. She ties it between the trees; the yellow is surprisingly hard to see against the green-brown background. With luck, one of the men will catch his foot on it, fall, and smash his head in. She grins — it’s her first happy thought in days — and pivots towards the volcanic peak near the island’s centre. From that vantage point, she should be able to spy the boat, double back to it, and sail off, leaving the two men trapped here. She nods to herself, satisfied with the plan, and starts up the steep slope.

The second man was a shock. She knew nothing of him until crypto-guy opened her box-prison and the two of them hauled her out. She’s not sure how long she suffered in the black, stifling heat — unable to move, barely able to breathe, cramped muscles trembling with pain, begging to stretch, to stand, anything; itchy beads of sweat sliding down her aching body; red pinpoints of agony dotting her flesh from the stings of the sea urchins atop her. But it seems it was long enough for crypto-guy to sail into port, fill up the yacht’s fuel and water tanks, shop for provisions, and have a leisurely dinner out. When she finally heard footsteps on the deck again, she shouted herself hoarse trying to get his attention and plead for release — to no avail. Once, as he moved to and fro checking that all was shipshape for the voyage ahead -- batteries charged, rigging unfrayed, engine running well, propeller linkage tight -- he knocked on the lid of her prison and called, "Still alive in there?" When she squeezed a wail from her dry, scratchy throat through her gag in answer, there was a chuckle, then the footsteps receded again. The engines started, and more hours crept slowly and painfully by.

After what felt like years, the top of the box swung up and bright light streamed in. Strong arms — two sets, to her befuddled surprise — lifted her out of the tiny prison and carried her up the steps to the deck of the yacht. Squinting painfully, she could just make out that the newcomer had swarthy brownish-red skin, straight black hair, a hooked nose, and eyes so dark they were almost black. After her long, hot confinement, the Pacific wind was icy against her naked skin as the pair dumped her on the varnished wood and cut the ropes that held her in an unhappy, bedraggled ball. She was so stiff and sore that for the first few minutes all she could do was slowly uncurl her cramped limbs and spine, muttering and moaning at each agonizing inch.

Crypto-guy, leaning on the yacht’s port railing near the cabin door and watching her, smirked. The early afternoon sun glinted here and there off the sea, and behind him, a small rocky island, green with tropical rain forest, jutted from the water. The yacht was anchored in a small cove, 40’ or so from a narrow, sandy beach. Crypto-guy pointed behind her to the other man.

“Let me introduce you to my business acquaintance. He goes by Eloy, which means ‘warrior.’ Fun fact: he’s a full-blooded Mayan. Before the Spaniards stopped the fun in the 1500s, his ancestors used to cut captives’ hearts out, cook them alive and eat them, lots of entertaining things. He’s proud to carry on many of these same traditions.”

Eloy picked up a plastic bag from the small bench near the cabin door and tossed it to her. In it were the yellow shirt, a hair scrunchie, and her white nursing shoes; the sight of them -- the reminder that she could have been home right now instead of in the hands of these psychopaths if that damn patient had just been taken to a different hospital or she'd worked a different shift -- momentarily filled her eyes with tears.

“Put them on and limber up, copper top. Eloy and I feel like doing some hunting, which means you’re going to be doing some running.”

She blinked. “You mean… like in that story? That’s crazy…”

“Sort of, but we’ll use crossbows instead of guns. They’re quiet. This island is uninhabited, so you won’t find any help here, but we don’t want to attract attention if any ships happen to pass. Oh, and don’t think of not playing along. Eloy is very good at skinning the things he catches; the faster we find you, the more skin he’s going to take.”

She slipped the shirt on, then the shoes, and bunched her scraggly hair as best she could into a haphazard ponytail. Then she asked, “Can I… can I have some pants too? It’s better for running. And, you know… you’re looking for a challenge, right? A good hunt? So I think I should have a knife or something… just to… to keep it interesting, right?”

Crypto-guy burst out laughing and Eloy grinned broadly. “Christ, the balls you’ve got! It’s breathtaking. If you weren’t holding out on me for something I very much want and need, I’d ask you to join our little enterprise. But with that attitude, I think you’ll do just fine with just your wits. We’ll give you a 15 minute head start.”

He motioned to Eloy, who bent down, picked the girl up, and chucked her over the side of the yacht in the direction of the island. She shrieked once before hitting the cool water, and then, with her sore muscles protesting, surfaced spluttering. A crossbow bolt zipped into the water beside her, and with a curse, she struck out towards the beach.

—-

Below her, there’s a sudden yelp and a crash, then laughter in one voice mixed with cursing in a deeper one. She exults: her trap found a mark. Gleefully, but still struggling to get her frantic panting under control from her scramble up the hill, legs shaking from the effort, she risks a guilty-pleasure peek down over the edge of the promontory.

It’s a mistake. She gets barely a glimpse of the muscular black man sitting unhappily on the ground beneath, holding his bandanna against a dripping cut on his forehead as crypto-guy chuckles at his misfortune, when the sun emerges from behind a cloud. Eloy looks up at it, then suddenly points.

“Up there! You can see her hair!” he shouts, his accent thick but unknown to her.

After a quickly-squelched moment of panic, she searches the ledge for fist-sized rocks to throw, to take advantage of the cliff's height and her strong arm. She gets one away, which hits near crypto-guy with a crack, but as he jumps aside to shelter behind a tree, Eloy raises his crossbow. The girl ducks back as another bolt whizzes past her, shattering on the cliff face. The men start to move, and, realizing she's too exposed — in more ways than one, she thinks bleakly — she reconsiders. She heads for the far side of the hill to descend to the boat and find some real weapons there. After all, she muses, I've bought a little time while the men scale the hill.

But it's her second mistake. The flaw in the plan becomes clear about halfway down the steep slope. There’s a zip and a crack of splitting wood behind her, and suddenly her head is jerked viciously backwards by her hair. She shrieks in surprise, her momentum making her feet shoot out in front of her, her body tumbling backwards until her tailbone crashes into the ground, the impact bruising her spine, her scalp aching and burning. She staggers back up, her lower back and sides covered in dirt and fallen leaves, and twists as much as she can to see behind her. A bolt has pinned her ponytail to the trunk of the large eucalyptus tree she was passing.

“Got ya!” crypto-guy crows. Sticks snap and leaves rustle as the men rise from their hide in the bush about 50 yards away and start towards her.

She turns back to the tree trunk and tugs frantically, first at the bolt, then her hair, trying to free it. Somewhere in the analytical part of her brain, she realizes the men must have anticipated her destination and simply gone around the hill to intercept her rather than climb it. But the thought vanishes a moment later when the imprisoned strands of hair start to stretch, then with another determined heave, give way.

With a whoop of triumph, leaving a handful of reddish-gold strands of hair hanging down the tree trunk, she spins around to dart off -- and gets two steps before a second bolt slams into the muscles of her left thigh. She stumbles and stops, looking down at it in surprise for a moment, feeling nothing, shock masking the pain. Then blood wells up around the wooden shaft and the agony hits her. She doubles over and falls, reflexively grabbing at the bolt as the men, chatting and laughing, excited by their success, approach. Watching them come, exhaustion and hopelessness wash over her, erasing the panic: her head sinks to the ground, her hands fall from the wound, and she lies motionless, waiting, hating the satisfaction in the men's eyes.

To her surprise, they don't mock her. Instead, crypto-guy simply ties her wrists behind her back and her ankles together while Eloy removes the crossbow bolt, cuts the yellow top off her, and uses it to bind the wound. Then he lifts her, throws her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, smacks her ass with his free hand, and sets off down the hill, with crypto-guy striding along beside him, whistling as, over the ocean, the sun sinks towards the horizon.

—-

She shivers in the evening breeze, her nipples hard from the chill. Except for the blood-stained yellow t-shirt tied around the puncture in her thigh, she's fully naked now, spreadeagled on the ground -- an unoriginal position, but it's served the men well. To one side, she can see patches of white in the undergrowth: her shoes lying where they were tossed. Tears roll down her cheeks at the thought of that shred of normality being so close but so impossible to reach -- and also from the pounding pains in her hands, head, and pussy.

To secure her, the men had yanked her arms out to the sides, placed her hands against thick tree roots, pressed the tips of their crossbows against her palms, and shot bolts through them into the wood beneath, pinning her like a butterfly. Then, chuckling at her screams, their eyes shining in the flickering firelight, they’d each grabbed a leg and wrenched them so far apart she thought she'd split, the tendons and muscles of her pelvis stretched to the tearing point. They’d fired more bolts into the ground on either side of her ankles and roped her feet to them to keep her there. Finally, they’d stood back and stared down at their prize, her hair rose-gold, her skin gilded, her little trimmed patch of pubic hair copper in the firelight.

Eloy grinned, his teeth gleaming white against his shadowed face, and knelt to run a hand up her stomach to her breasts, squeezing them, tweaking her nipples as a bulge grew under the material at his crotch.

“You’re the guest; you go first,” crypto-guy says, magnanimously waving him forward. “She’s fine. You’ll see.”

“I'm sure,” Eloy agrees, “but first, she’s going to suck my balls dry. And despite her sharp teeth, she’s not going to bite — are you, pretty thing? — or snip, snip, snip, we’ll cut off all your toes, one by one, and then your fingers, and feed them to you instead of my cock. Now open wide.”

“A moment,” crypto-guy interjects. “This one's feisty. She'll need additional incentives to be good.”

While Eloy undresses, his thick bronze-coloured cock springing up eagerly once freed from his camouflage pants, crypto-guy gets his quiver of crossbow bolts, a roll of twine from his small knapsack, and a couple of small sturdy twigs from a nearby tree. Eloy crouches next to her head, knees apart, his shaft bobbing slightly in rhythm with his pulse, the tip of his foreskin glistening with clear pre-cum as he grabs her chin and turns her head towards him. Then he waits as crypto-guy parts her labia at the top of her slit and strokes her clit, the unwanted touch in that sensitive place making her fret and twitch. When her pleasure nub is peeking out from under its hood, he places a crossbow bolt along each side of it, trapping the delicate flesh between them, then ties the bolts tightly together at their tops and bottoms with the twine, threading the sticks through the knots.

“All right, Sara: you’re not going to give Eloy any problems, are you?” he asks with a smirk and twists the sticks. They act like the windlass of a tourniquet, pulling the bolts together, closing the space between them to crush her pussy pearl. He twists the sticks further and her groan changes to a whine, then again, and she shrieks and bucks.

“StopStopSTOP!! I’ll do it! Take it off! I’ll do it!”

“It stays on ‘till you’re done. Get started,” he says, and gives the sticks a final twist, grinning at her wail and the frantic thrumming of her good leg on the ground. As an afterthought, crypto-guy slides a crossbow bolt point-first deep into her silken passage, then a second.

“Every 15 seconds, I’m going to push another of these up your cunt,” he says conversationally. “In three minutes or so, you’ll be full; in four, you’ll be bursting. After that, who knows how many more you’ll be able to take before that poor tight passage starts to tear and split? So you better be fast as well as good.”

“Enough talk,” Eloy says, and grabs and twists her right nipple, his dark eyes fixed on her hazel ones. “Start sucking.”

He presses his thick cock against her lips and reluctantly, she opens her mouth and gives it a long, slow lick from base to tip. It’s smooth against her tongue, salty and musky. She purses her lips around his shaft and starts to take him in, but his hips thrust forward before she can relax her throat and she gags as he slides in deeper than she's ready for. Her every instinct is to pull back and bite, but — squeezing her eyes shut as another bolt enters and stretches her vagina that little bit more — she mentally grits her teeth, opens her eyes again to glare up at him, and obeys.

Her head bobs up and down rhythmically, ginger-blonde hair flying back and forth, her speed slowly increasing despite the awkwardness of being on her back instead of her knees, taking Eloy’s cock as deep as her position will allow on the way down and sucking hard as she pulls her mouth slowly back to the head before plunging down again, cradling his dick with her tongue and lips as she moves. Eloy's eyes close in pleasure, but it’s still too long before she feels the pressure building in his cock, the trembling as she works to suck the cum from his balls. She's lost count of how many crossbow bolts crypto-guy has pushed into her, but the pain is unbearable, and as he squeezes yet another in, she spasms and involuntarily tries to reach down to her crotch to stop him. The movement reignites the forgotten agony in her pinned palms: she shriek around Eloy’s cock, and the vibration in her throat pushes him over the edge. His back arches, a hand on the back of her head shoves her nose and lips hard against his groin, his erupting cock thrusts down her throat, and his thick semen pumps into her, making her choke and heave as she struggles to swallow instead of inhale it.

After a few gulps, the jets stop and his dick starts to subside. She catches a breath and, ever mindful of the need to appear to behave, milks the last few drops from his dick. Eloy stays where he is for a long moment, enjoying the sight of her splayed out beneath him, reduced from cracking his skull with a clever trap to unresistingly holding his drained, softening cock in her mouth, helpless and humiliated. He gives her nipples a final tug, then rises to pour himself a drink from a canteen resting between some stones near the fire.

“Very nice,” he says. “Your turn until I’m ready again. Don’t wear her out.”

With a single motion, Crypto-guy pulls the bolts from her passage, then rises to a crouch to remove the makeshift clamp from her clit. Then, eyes sparkling, he lowers himself onto her.

Online_Ratt · Jun 15, 2023

Sailing Ch. 4b

The dark hours drag past. She lies exhausted, hands throbbing, breasts sore from being squeezed and pinched, thighs and vulva bruised and aching from the ferocity of the men’s thrusts as they bulled into her, punishing her with their cocks, grinning down at her as they pumped, enjoying their conquest, extracting payment for her evasions from her clenching flesh and hot sucking mouth, her grunts and wails music to their ears, leaving her holes dripping warm cum between bouts.

And then there were the torments. Just before he mounted her for the first time, crypto-guy ran a rope around her neck, up over a branch, and back down to a root near her head. He tensioned it just enough to make her breath rattle in her throat, then shot a crossbow bolt through it into the wood to secure it in place. He positioned it so that each time he returned to sink his cock into her again, he could grasp the rope with a hand and pull it tight as he pumped, stopping her breath as his groin mashed against hers, luxuriating in the fluttering of her chest against his, the spasming of her clasping depths as she struggled for air, leaving her head pounding and her throat with a raw, burning ring around it when he finally relaxed his grip to let her cough and gasp.

Later, when both men took a respite from using her, Eloy lengthened her ankle ropes. With relief -- but no word of thanks -- she'd closed her legs as much as she could, and bent her knees up so she could put her feet flat on the jungle floor. Quick as a cobra, he’d grabbed her nipples and pulled her up shrieking until her back arched and her hips rose off the ground. He motioned to crypto-guy, who placed burning branches from the fire under her back and ass, forcing her to keep her pelvis and torso raised. Eloy released her nipples, then placed a flat fist-sized rocks on her pelvis, then another, then more, some sliding down the slope of her belly to drop off her shoulders or strike her chin. Her muscles, already exhausted from the day’s exertions, trembled, her hips dipping towards the flames, then tilting from side to side as she tried to shake the rocks off. With the skin of her back and butt now painfully hot, she crab-walked her feet from side to side as much as the slack ropes would allow, the men laughing at the sight as she appeared to offer her pussy to first one, then after a few shuffling steps to the other, then back to the first again. But there wasn’t enough play in her bindings to get far from the heat, and soon, her flesh was scorching and blistering.

Crypto-guy rose and moved to her head, opened his canteen, and began to pour splashes of water into her nose and mouth, pausing after each to listen to her spluttering, pleading, and weeping. Her thrashing to avoid the liquid yanked her hands against the bolts through her palms, sending waves of agony through her arms -- but the sudden adrenaline gave her the strength to force her hips back up into the air again and shake off the last of Eloy’s stones.

Eloy slid a couple of fingers into her bruised slit, his hand following her dancing, jerking pelvis, and chuckled. “Feels like she’s getting hot! How long shall we let her cook?” He inhaled deeply. “Mmm… smells like pork.”

“My dick says she’s nearly done — and it wants to check for itself. Let's take her off the heat,” crypto-guy said, and kicked her calves out from under her. Her body crashed to the ground and into the embers, and she screamed again and again, fighting frantically to get her legs back under her and lift her hips back up, her body bucking and wrenching from side to side, tears streaming down her face. As she regained her footing and her pelvis rose, crypto-guy helpfully doused the cinders and scattered pieces of wood below her. He didn’t, however, remove them, and when the smoke stopped, he and Eloy secured her legs wide apart once more and resumed their revels, their weight on her belly driving her burns agonizingly down onto the wood fragments under her, her howls and screeches punctuating their thrusts.

—-

Finally, the sun peeks over the horizon. The men, stiff from yesterday’s exercise and bleary from their long night of fun, splash some water on their faces and dress. Crypto-guy starts to pack up the small amount of gear they’d carried, but Eloy squats down next to Sara. She gazes murderously up at him but say nothing as he unties the blood-crusted shirt to check her wound.

“This needs a wash and a fresh bandage when we’re back on the boat, but it’s not looking too bad,” he comments. “Now I need a little something for my collection.”

“Not too much — we still need her,” crypto-guy warns, and Eloy waves a hand at him dismissively. He pulls his knife from its sheath, places its edge on her hip just below where the iliac crest rises up under her skin, kneels across her abdomen to keep her from moving, and starts to cut. She screams and shakes as he expertly slices off a thin strip of skin about 4” long and 1” wide — a shallow cut down her hip that, like a paper cut, is agonizing but damages nothing important underneath. Blood wells up from the wound, and he presses a clean part of her shirt against it to stanch it as she gasps and sobs. He repeats the procedure on her other hip, then places the twin strips of skin on a rock gently heated in the now-extinguished fire to dry a little. After a minute or so, he removes them, digs a small pouch out of his knapsack, and drops the strips into it.

“There: a nice memento of the day,” Eloy says. “I’ll write her name on them and tan them properly when we get back to the boat. You know, we should hunt again, with higher stakes — say, breast skin if we catch her within six hours. I know another island not far off our route that would do very well, and it’s only three or four days away — her thigh wound should be healing by then.”

“Interesting,” crypto-guy replies. He looks down at her speculatively and smiles. “I'm in no hurry."

“And there are coconuts there too,” Eloy continues. "If we cut some open with a machete and pour the coconut water over her breasts and torso… well, the ants love that.”

“Really!” crypto-guy enthuses, and, excited by the ideas the topic sparks, they chat animatedly as they break camp.

Soon, she's released from the ropes and crossbow bolts that pinned her to the ground and instead dangles disconsolately beneath an eight-foot branch, feet and bandaged hands tied around it, over the shoulders of the two men as they carry her down to the shore. Beyond, the yacht slowly rises and falls in the glistening surf, waiting for them.

Online_Ratt · Jun 17, 2023

@osouk1 FYI, a new chapter of Sailing has been posted.

John Delves Richardson · Jun 30, 2023

Amazing stuff, my dear friend. I'm in awe of your creativity!

Sailing Ch 1a

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