by Clayton Stillwater
Lewis didnít get many visitors because he lived in a rural part of Manatee County, Florida, at the tail end of a dirt road alongside a creek. Lewis didnít mind. He was a writer who liked solitude. His idea of a good conversation was reading a book by a great historian.
Still, even a sage gets lonely, so when the doorbell rang he responded.
His caller was a young woman holding a clipboard. Short black hair. Jiggly boobs. Wide hips. Cuban, probably, judging from the high-frequency personal intensity that Cubans radiated even when they were standing still. Cubans made him feel inadequate. They were so intense. So vital!
"Hello," she smiled, a little shy. "My name is Sierra Velazquez. Iím with the Public Interest Research Group at USF Sarasota. Weíre collecting signatures for a petition against building a nuclear power plant on Calypso Key. You donít want to see the bay polluted with radioactive waste, do you?"
She rattled on, blasting him with scary propaganda. Her alarmist spiel turned Lewis off. God, what heíd give for an intelligent argument. To get rid of her, he grabbed her clipboard and signed her stupid petition. Impishly he signed the pseudonym he used on his novels: Mandark Steele.
She smiled as he signed. Then she glanced down and read what heíd written, and her eyes narrowed. "Very funny," she huffed. "You know, the assholes in Tallahassee are itching for an excuse to void our petitions. If you donít want to sign, you could just say so, instead of using a fake name."
"I beg your pardon."
"I need real names? Mandark Steele is the pen name of a sexist science-fiction author. We studied him in our Construction of Gender class."
"Iím honored," Lewis said, making an exaggerated bow.
Her mouth fell open in shock. "No way."
"Which one of my books did you read?"
"None of them. We read plot summaries prepared by the professor. That was nauseating enough, you sexist pig."
"Donít you think you should know something first-hand before you condemn it? Have a fact or two to base your judgement on?"
She inched back, as if he might attack her at any moment.
"Just a minute."
Lewis had plenty of extra copies of his novels. He selected one from the bookshelf in the living room and handed it to Sierra. She took it gingerly, and her lip curled in scorn. Warrior of Finisterra was his second novel. The cover showed a voluptuous woman, nude except for a loincloth, bound hand and foot. She lay at the feet of a warrior wielding a sword the size of an ironing board. His muscles bulged as if someone had packed his skin with avocados.
"Try this one. Read it with an open mind, and consider the subtext. You feminists are big on deconstruction, right? Rip through the silly surface and expose the meta-narrative."
Sierra Velazquez grimaced, but she kept the book. She stomped back to her little Neon. Lewis savored the view of her big ass going boom-boom, boom-boom, down the walk. Then he shut the door and returned to staring at his computer.
* * *
The next time the doorbell rang, three days later, Lewis had already forgotten about the petitioner. But there she was again, perched on his doorstep, chewing her lip contritely.
"I wanted to return your book." She held it out with both hands, her face as solemn as a Jehovahís Witness presenting a tract. Missionaries, however, didnít wear short white shorts that exposed their delectable legs, and tight red halter tops that barely restrained their big boobs. No bra. He had to struggle to keep his eyes on her face.
"Uh, thanks. Thatís very kind of you. You didnít have to go to all this trouble." He fumbled the book, distracted by her aggressive skin and big hoop earrings. "You could have mailed it back."
Having returned the book, Sierra should have left. But she just stood there. Her mouth worked as if struggling with something difficult. Finally she said, "It was very ... interesting."
"Surely a college student can come up with a better word than that."
Sierra shrugged, pursed her lips, blushed. Still no sign of departure.
"Would you like to come in?" Lewis wondered.
She entered gingerly, and peered around. Being in a room with her made Lewis nervous too, so he led her out back, to the patio overlooking the creek. He fetched two beers and they settled into lanai chairs in the shade of a water oak. Lewis had laid the stones of the patio himself. The pattern echoed the design on the floor of a Minoan temple heíd visited on Crete. There was little chance Sierra would realize that. As they clinked bottles, he grumpily estimated that he was 25 years older than the coed and probably three times smarter. Which meant shit, given her youth, looks, vitality. She was so hot it hurt to glance in her direction.
"Why do you write that stuff?" she burst out.
"To change the world," he replied.
* * *
Lewisí novels were marketed as science fiction because they took place in an "alternative history" in which the European colonization of North America had failed. In his novels, Florida was the site of Finisterra, a small nation founded by a rag-tag band of refugee Spaniards, Dutchmen, and Englishmen driven south by the fierce Iroquois Confederacy. In this world an industrial revolution had not occurred, so battles were fought with swords, longbows, pikes, and the occasional catapult. Finisterra depended on the marital prowess of its males to hold off the numerically superior native cultures to the north and west.
Despite the genre trappings, Lewisí approach was intellectually rigorous as the history teacher he had once been. He had worked out the sociology and demographics of Finisterra, building it from the ground up instead of recycling barbarian cliches from Robert Howard and L. Sprague de Camp. He had even written spreadsheets to help him understand the Finisterran economy. A reader couldnít help absorbing a searing critique of the Industrial Revolution, as well as sly commentary on issues such as increasing income stratification in America.
Or so he hoped. To be honest, Lewis understood that his novels were published while those of other political philosophers were rejected because he wrote vivid depictions of female slavery. Women in Finisterra were commodities to be bought, sold, stolen, collected, etc. While he drew the line at spilling blood, Lewis devoted a substantial percentage of the words in each novel to describing elaborate bondage scenarios and humiliating slave training. Since these were fetishes he enjoyed thinking about, he didnít feel he was selling out. On the other hand, it was embarrassing to have to take the low road. Every time he planned a new Finisterra novel he tried to think of an alternative, but he couldnít come up with a better way to get his political ideas into circulation. And circulate they did. Though serious reviewers ignored them, each novel sold hundreds of thousands of copies. People even went to SF conventions dressed as his characters.
Sierra was skeptical of his approach.
"I noticed the lectures," she sniffed. "I skipped them to get to the good stuff. Are you serious about trying to influence public opinion?"
"Absolutely. I know most people buy my books for the sex, but I hope that a few of them will think about social issues."
"So Joe Jack-off is supposed to read one of your books, slap himself on the forehead, and say, ĎMy god, the Industrial Revolution was a mistake!í?"
"Well, a few people might reexamine their political views."
She shook her head. "You should get out more, Lewis. Talk to some real human beings instead of your navel."
He glowered at her. "Can you suggest a better course of action?"
"You used to be a professor, right?"
"Couldnít you use your connections to publish some serious stuff?"
"I have. Monographs in serious academic journals. At first I was thrilled. Gradually I realized that the only subscribers to those journals were a few hundred scholars like myself. What was the point? I was pouring my soul down ratholes."
She shrugged and sipped her beer. At close range he could see a bit of dark fuzz on her upper lip. Otherwise, her face was childlike. Unwrinkled skin, big forehead, little eyes. The boobs and hips made her seem mature, but in other ways she was young. When she wanted to seem serious she used a deeper voice, but when she relaxed her control and spoke spontaneously, her voice became high-pitched and girlish. Gloomily he lowered his estimate of her age, widening the gulf between them.
Sierra slipped her feet out of her sandals and curled her short legs under her delectable ass. "You seem to be big on analytical stuff. Did you ever study psychology?"
"My professor says men buy into that slave stuff because they canít handle real women. They need submissive women in fantasy because we wonít do that in reality any more."
"She has a point," Lewis conceded amiably. "Women can be very intimidating."
"So what? I believe in my ideas. If I have to use sex to get them out, Iíll use sex."
"And you just happened to select bondage to spice up the story?"
"You have no interest in it yourself?"
"So what if I do? Itís a free country."
"Just trying to clarify some stuff. Does your girlfriend let you tie her up?"
"Iím between girlfriends at the moment," he said with dignity.
"Yeah. Way between I bet."
Arguing with Sierra, Lewis was annoyed to find himself stuttering. He wasnít inarticulate. He had lectured to classrooms where everyone had a combined SAT of 1600 and held them spellbound. It was just that he was out of practice in talking to live human beings. He wasnít sure how much was getting through, but it was pleasant to have a pretty girl listening. Gauging her intelligence was difficult. Her diction and vocabulary were abysmal. Was there any noun that could not be replaced with the ubiquitous "stuff"? Still, at least she had ideas, no matter how inarticulately she expressed them.
Sierra was a drama major at USF Sarasota. Her father (a Cuban refugee, of course) was a pharmacist. Her mother made wreaths for a florist in Bradenton. One brother was in the Marines. Another died in a drag-race on State Road 64. He questioned her about them and her life at the university. Lewis had no social life (unless you counted Internet chat rooms) so he was fascinated with her tales. He hoped he didnít seem nosy.
The conversation lagged. They lolled in their chairs, nursing a pleasant buzz, silently enjoying the sight of a heron picking its way through the slough. Lewis kept waiting for her to make an excuse and bolt, but the coed seemed content to enjoy the hospitality of his patio. Was she waiting for him to make a move? Lord.
Sierraís boldness and self-confidence reminded him of Gloria, the heroine of Raiders of Finisterra. Gloria was kidnapped by Indios, who tied her hand and foot with rawhide straps, gagged her with her own clothing, slung her from a pole like a deer, and bore her across the border. The raiding party found a meadow and staked her out. Subjected to outlandish heathen sexual torture, nice-girl Gloria discovered she liked it. She egged them on, challenging them to bind her tighter, fuck her rougher. One by one she drained the raiders, until the leader was so impressed he took her as his personal slave. Sierra had that kind of dare-you-to-fuck-me body. Lots of flesh, loose on her bones, that could absorb a pounding. If he could have her tied to his bed for an hour heíd go to his grave a happy man.
And for some inexplicable reason Sierra seemed interested in him. It had been a long while since a woman flirted with him, but the rhythm of her patter was unforgettable. Since she couldnít be attracted by his looks or social status or money, he became suspicious. Three days ago she hated his work. He knew he was a good writer, but could one novel truly turn her around? Perhaps this was a plot schemed up by his enemies. Perhaps those feminists who tried to get his publisher to cancel the Finisterra series were baiting a trap.
He glanced at his watch ostentatiously. "This has been fun, but I have to get back to work," he announced.
"I thought writers set their own hours," she pouted.
"Well, this writer has a deadline to meet." He stood.
Sierra reluctantly rose. "Do you have any more books I could borrow?" she asked, eyelashes fluttering.
Despite his paranoia, Lewis was flattered. He led her to the living room. As he stood at the bookshelf, selecting a title, she stood so close her hip brushed his. She smelled like a tropical greenhouse. Even when she selected a book she lingered, shifting her weight from leg to leg, rocking her hips like a woman slowly dancing. When he finally coaxed her out the door his heart was pounding and his nerves completely shot. So tempting! So dangerous!!
* * *
His statement about being on a deadline wasnít a lie. His contract required him to submit a 60,000-word manuscript to his publisher by August 30. Since he typically knocked them out in three months, that was time aplenty. If he worked five days a week, all he had to produce was 1,000 words a day. Just four double-spaced pages! But he was blocked.
The problem wasnít the political and economic plot. He knew what issues he wanted to address. The holdup was the sexual plot they were woven into. Every idea he came up with was one heíd done before. He couldnít think of anything new, and the old material bored him. He dared not repeat himself; heíd done that in the spring, and the publisher had reamed him out. It was humiliating to admit that he couldnít think of a new excuse to tie up a goddamn woman and fuck her, but that was the sorry truth.
The words wouldnít come. Each day that passed increased the number of words he had to write in the remaining days, and increased the pressure, so the task became harder. He used the old writerís trick of retyping things heíd written before, to get the juices flowing, but he just couldnít get going.
In his darker moods, Lewis wondered if Finisterra was over. It had been an interesting experiment, but as far as he could tell he his readers were becoming wankers, not revolutionaries. Maybe he should call it quits. What heíd do next he had no idea. The future was too scary. Paralyzed, he frittered away time by reading histories of the Sellucid dynasty and birdwatching.
Sierra returned in two days. "It was awesome," she pronounced, returning his novel. "Where do you get your ideas?"
"The muses sometimes favor me."
Lewis winced. "Thanks for dropping this off. It was good to see you again."
She made an adorable pouty face. "Arenít you going to invite me in?"
"Iíd love to, but Iím really busy today."
Sierra looked at him appraisingly. "You donít trust me, do you?"
"No! Donít be silly. Itís just that Iím really busy."
"Look, Iím sorry I dissed your writing when we met. It was stupid of me. I was just repeating what my professor said. Actually, even the summaries we read in class were pretty good. They turned me on. I couldnít admit that. She would have flunked me in a second."
Lewis wanted to believe her. Still, the risk! He glanced up and down the road, to see if anyone was hiding there, taking pictures with a telephoto lens. He ran his hand through what remained of his hair and sighed.
"Youíre right. I donít trust you."
She looked sad. And mad.
"However, there is a way you can convince me."
Sierra perked up.
"Iím going to give you some homework," he announced.
She arched her black eyebrows skeptically. He wished she didnít wear so much makeup.
"Iím going to give you another novel. I want you to read it, absorb the worldview, and then write a story set in Finisterra. Write from the point of view of a young woman. Two thousand words should suffice."
"Itís summer, Lewis. Have you ever heard of a concept called vacation?"
"Think of it as an extra credit assignment."
"Iím not a professional writer."
"It doesnít have to be polished. Just write up your ideas. It doesnít even have to be 2,000 words. Just write me a little scene, OK? Any length will do."
Skeptical, she finally took the book and left.
* * *
Days passed. Lewis fretted. Had he been too harsh? Yes, he was an idiot. He didnít even have her phone number! He looked in the phone book and found dozens of Velazquezes. None that said Sierra or S. He supposed he could call everyone until he located her parents, but then what? He could imagine the conversation. Hola, Senor Velazquez. Iím sexually obsessed with your daughter. Could you give her phone number, por favor? Theyíd probably send the Marine brother to shoot him.
He wasted three days trying to outline a novel about a prissy schoolteacher, a glasses-and-long-skirt type, who was kidnapped by slavers. It was so puerile, so derivative, that even he was bored.
A few days later his mailbox yielded a 9x12 yellow envelope from Sierra, addressed with a blue magic marker. He opened it with trembling hands.
It was a story. The tale of Sondra Rojas, an explorer from Europa, whose dirigible was blown off course by a hurricane and crashed in Finisterra. She survived the wreck only to be captured by a Grande and trained as a pleasure slave. Grammar came and went, and her grasp of punctuation left much to be desired, but the sex scene she imagined made him hard. She described being sold at auction, bought by a supercilious intellectual (Lewis winced at the resemblance), lashed to his bed, and forced to give head. Since he often wrote from a female POV, Lewis had lots of practice faking it. It was fascinating to see the real thing. Talk about submissive! Sheíd included her phone number, so he called her immediately.
"This is good stuff," he burst out.
"Shouldnít a professional writer have a better vocabulary than that?"
"Very good stuff. I think you have a talent for this."
"Well, Iíve been learning from the master. I dreamed a scene from one of your books last night. It was so hot I couldnít get back to sleep."
Lewis found himself grinning at the telephone receiver.
"Sierra, I have a crazy idea. Why donít you come over and weíll act out your story?"
"You pretend to an explorer who crashes here. In Finisterra. Iíll be the Grande who captures you. Weíll play the roles and ... see where it goes."
"You said you liked my books. Wouldnít you like to help me create one?"
"Isnít that your job?"
"To be honest, Iím blocked on my next novel. I need some new ideas. Maybe this will get my mind working again. Please. You can help me create a new Finisterra story."
"Sounds like Mr. Smarty Pants wants to copy my homework. What do I get out of it?"
"Youíre a drama major. Think of it as collaborating with a playwright on a new play. You can shape what happens."
Silence on the line as she considered this. Lewis wondered if heíd read too much into her story. Maybe she was only taunting him.
Then she said, "How about this weekend?" and his spirits soared.
* * *
The thrift stores in St. Pete must have had quite a workout, because when Sierra showed up on Friday she was dressed for the part. White pants so tight that they seemed to be painted on. Over them she wore a vaguely Prussian tunic (cut from the top of a marching band uniform?) that came down to just below her crotch. Knee-high black boots. A wide leather belt. Sheíd even found an old leather aviatorís cap, complete with goggles, and a long white-silk flierís scarf. Sierra laughed at the expression on his face and struck a pose.
"This is incredible," Lewis said, ushering her in. "You look like a World War I fighter pilot. Iím surprised you didnít rent a dirigible."
"I thought about it, but the deposit was too high." She sashayed around the living room, letting him admire the costume from all sides. She looked like a soldier in an army whose mission was sexual conquest.
Finally she faced him and stood at attention and snapped a salute. "Captain Sondra Rojas, Explorer for the Duchy of Greater Avila. I was on a scouting expedition, and my dirigible crashed in Finisterra. I require assistance."
Since he didnít have a costume, Lewis put on a Dolphins cap. "I am the Grande here," he proclaimed. "You are my prisoner."
He had her extend her arms and drape them over a six-foot pole, and tied her wrists to each end. He used rope. Lewis liked rope because a little piece of it didnít look like much, but properly applied and carefully knotted it could reduce a strong adult woman to helplessness. As he tied the rope he slid it over her arms, like a caress.
When she was yoked, her marched her out to the patio. The pose raised her shoulders and pulled her tunic up in back, exposing her ass. Through the thin material of her leggings he could see her underwear. Sierra was wearing a thong panty that left her big buttocks exposed under the thin white material. Yummy!
On the patio he settled into a chair and made her kneel before him.
"Why have you invaded Finisterra?" he demanded.
"I am an explorer. I was flying my airship to Cuba and a hurricane blew me off course."
"Where is your airship?"
"I crashed just off the coast and swam ashore."
"I donít think there is an airship. I think youíre a spy. You are working for the Indios who besiege us from the north."
"No, honest. Iím just an explorer."
Lewis released her from the yoke and ordered her to take off her tunic. Sierra obeyed without protest, looking at the ground shyly as she became bare from the waist up. Given their grandeur when clothed, the sagginess of her unfettered boobs cheered him. The cookie-brown nipples were surrounded by crinkled flesh, and pointed in different directions.
He tied her hands together in front and threw the end of the rope over a branch of the water oak. He pulled the rope until her arms were raised over her head.
To make things more interesting, he brought the free end of the rope down behind her back to her big ass and threaded it forward between her legs. He brought the end up in front, ran it once around her waist, and tied it off. Presto! Sierra was suspended on a crotchrope. When she tried to lower her arms, she tightened the pressure on her own cunt.
"This is diabolical!" she hissed, tugging on the rope. It sank into the white fabric of her pants.
"This is how we treat spies in Finisterra."
Her bare boobs were his to play with, but he decided to save that treat for later. Instead, Lewis used a spreader pole, a yard long, with metal eyelets screwed into both ends. He tied it between her ankles, forcing her legs apart. This made her pelvis sink lower and tightened the crotchrope.
"Ohh," she gasped. Her head flopped forward as she stared down at herself. Checking to see if the rope was cutting her in half? Lewis stroked her pussy, making sure the rope was bisecting her. It certainly was sinking in. He fondled her pussy and ran his hand along her vagina until she moaned.
He gagged her with the white scarf. Even after looping it through her mouth and around her head twice, the long white ends hung down. He arranged them down her brown back. Her skin felt like warm velvet. The fluttering ends of the scarf reminded him of the ribbons on a girlís summer hat.
Lewis returned to the house, leaving her dangling in just her white pants and black boots.
Things were going splendidly, but just to make sure, he checked the contents of her purse. He was delighted to see a toothbrush. So the coed had planned to spend the night. Excellent! He had lots of time to play with his captive.
His study had a view of the patio, so he sat down at his computer and typed in a few notes. Not many. Who could put words on paper when a beautiful woman was tied up half-naked nearby? Only a fool would look for metaphors instead of looking at her.
Concealed in the house, Lewis used his birding binoculars to observe her struggles. She looked up at her bound hands, down at her pussy. Her teeth chewed on the cleave gag and her chest heaved, making her boobs jiggle. She worked her shoulders futilely and took tiny steps with her spreader-bound legs. Her mop of black hair thrashed in frustration as she surveyed the patio and creek and woods. Looking for a rescuer? Not out here, mi corazon. He loved the way she rippled when she struggled, as if her flesh were a size too big for her bones.
Her bound hands began to rise and fall in a rhythmic way. The bitch was masturbating herself with her crotch rope! Better change the position before she came. He reversed the Dolphins cap and walked outside.
"I am Julian, the stablemaster. The Grande ordered me to train you."
Sierraís eyes went wide. She shook her head no.
"The Grande said you are European, so I must be especially severe with you, to teach you our ways." He took a breast in each hand and kneaded them. She must have sensitive nipples; she gasped and struggled. He squeezed her nipples between his knuckles, making her squirm and thrash, enjoying his power over her. She panted through her nose and moaned.
Lewis played with her until he judged she was on the verge of coming. Canít have that. Not yet, mi amor. He undid the spreader bar at her ankles and made her bring her legs together and relieve the pressure on her cunt. She looked at him reproachfully.
He extracted the crotch rope (which was soggy from spelunking inside her) and tied it to the tree, keeping her arms over her head, although a bit lower than before. This left him free to remove her boots and peel off her pants. He had to pull the little thong panty out of her snatch. It looked especially pale and delicate against her dark Cuban skin. He was glad to see sheíd trimmed her pubic hair; he hated the yeti look. Embarrassed by his scrutiny, she tried to cross her legs, a reflex of modesty that was risible under the circumstances.
Lewis lowered her from the tree and untied her wrists. He let her shake them around, to get the circulation going again, then handcuffed her wrists behind her back. Steel! To increase the slave feeling, he showed her manacles for her ankles. Heavy steel rings connected by about 18 inches of chain. He was hoping sheíd make a break for it before the manacles went on. He dearly wanted to chase her around the patio, watching her bottom bounce as she awkwardly trotted along with her hands fastened behind her back. But Sierra stood passively, meekly submitting to his handling, breathing heavily and occasionally whimpering through her gag.
When she was chained and hobbled, he looped a rope around her neck and dragged her toward the house like an animal on a leash. She shuffled across the patio, the steel links of her manacles dragging on the stone tiles.
At the door she planted her legs and resisted. Perhaps she realized that once she was inside his house, bound and gagged, she was completely in his power.
"Come," he said, tugging at her leash.
She shook her head and grunted defiantly.
"Afraid to enter my dungeon? Hmm?"
She nodded solemnly. Her dark eyes looked scared.
Lewis eyed the chained girl. All that luscious island skin. She was short, so he put his hand on her head and turned her to face the slough.
"See that creek?"
Sierra nodded mutely.
"Know what happens at sunset?"
She shook her head.
"Mosquitoes. They swarm."
His hand was still on her head. Her stiff hair. He felt her flinch. She tried to turn; he dug his fingers into her scalp and kept her facing the creek.
"Millions and millions of mosquitoes."
She moaned and looked at him urgently.
"I could leave you out here."
Wide-eyed, she shook her head no, no.
"Or I could take you inside, to my comfortable, air-conditioned, screened-in dungeon."
Thatís better," he smiled. When he pulled on the leash, she trotted along obediently.
* * *
Lewis led his captive to the living room. He took off his shorts and underwear and plopped down in his favorite chair, where he liked to sit with a beer and a yellow legal tablet, watching the History Channel and jotting down ideas for his books. He seldom learned anything from TV. Compared to books by professional historians, watching TV was like reading a comic. But the glimpses of daily life in the ancient world sometimes gave him ideas. He was big on authenticating details. Put the reader in the scene.
He made Sierra kneel before him. She bowed her head, hair falling over her face, and he untied and removed her gag. Extracting the scarf from her wet mouth was as exciting as opening a Christmas present. "Letís see what you can do, slave." Obediently she inched forward on her knees and took his penis into her mouth. He settled back contentedly. To be honest, blow jobs were not his thing, but he enjoyed seeing an arrogant female mouth plugged with his piss-stick. She worked hard, licking and sucking rhythmically, moaning to show her enthusiasm.
"You may be a stupid European, but I see you know your cocksucking," he commented.
She gave him a quick fluttery lick and pulled back so she could speak. "Discipline at the Avila Flight Academy was very strict. Any time I made a mistake, I had to service my commanding officer."
"Was that routine?"
"Of course. Each cadet was assigned to an officer. Colonel Silvia was very strict. I spent many hours tied to a rack in his quarters while he whipped or fucked me."
"You must have made many mistakes."
"Perhaps I made them deliberately," she said, dreamily nuzzling his scrotum. "The Colonel was inventive. He liked to bind me with leather straps and suspend me upside down, naked, in his office while he worked. I had to wear a ring gag, and if he needed stimulus he would come over and stick his cock in my mouth and make me service him. He never spoke to me when I was hanging there; he treated me like a pencil sharpener for his cock. Sometimes when he had a visitor he would allow the visitor to use me too. Since I was hanging in mid-air he called it flight training."
Lewis liked the image. Yes, he could use that. Hell, the term "flight school" conjured up a whole subplot all by itself. You didnít need advanced technology to make a hot-air balloon. Up, up, and away with the Finisterran Air Force! Guys in balloons shooting flaming arrows at each other! Female fliers captured and tortured!
The living room was decorated with beautiful objects heíd collected in his travels. One of them was a low Japanese lacquer table. He removed Sierraís handcuffs and manacles and ordered her to lie on it. She planted her big bottom daintily, and reclined. He roped her wrists and ankles to its legs, spreading her face up, like a four-armed starfish.
The panty was in his way, so he cut it off. Sierraís chest heaved, but she didnít protest.
Kneeling between her legs, he contemplated her cunt. It looked back at him like a big squinty eye. He put his tongue in, made her writhe. Mmm, that taste! Her cries became high-pitched and girlish as she lost her composure.
"Everyone in Finisterra must work," he said, between licks. "We have no airships here. Do you have any useful skills, spy?"
"I am an aristocrat," she confessed. "I am trained to command servants."
He snorted in derision. "This is the frontier, woman."
"I can suck cock."
"All Finisterran females have this skill."
"What do you suggest?"
Gazing down on her, he mused on the slang term "box." Her big square hips were rather boxy, with the opening of her cunt providing access to the interior. "Given your lack of real skills, I think you would make a good secured courier," he announced.
"In your country, when a person of importance has to send a message, how is it transmitted?"
"We use couriers. Confidential messengers."
"How do you keep the courier from reading the message?"
"They swear an oath not to do so. They are very trustworthy people."
"But suppose someone offered them money? Or they turned traitor?"
"Well, thereís always that possibility."
"We have solved that problem. To send a confidential message, we use what we call a secured courier. She is stripped naked. The message is sealed in a rubber capsule and inserted in her cunt. Then sheís bound in a tight ball and placed in a sturdy box, which is locked. The box is then transported to the recipient of the message. The recipient breaks open the box and extracts the message."
"So the courier canít read the message."
"Yes. The message is guaranteed to be confidential because the woman carrying it canít read it herself. And if the box is intact, the recipient knows it hasnít been tampered with." He licked her slit.
"Could I really do that?"
"You have a big cunt. Youíll do fine."
"What if Iím claustrophobic?"
"Doesnít matter. A gag will stifle your screams."
As he nuzzled her pussy, smearing her intoxicating cunt juices all over his mouth and chin, Lewis basked in the afterglow of a successful brainstorm. A secured courier. What a fabulous idea. Worth a novel all by itself. The readers who wanted sex would get a naked woman, tied up and gagged in a box, being shipping around like a piece of cargo. The position itself was humiliating, and she could be captured by bandits or hijacked by enemy agents. The men who were sending messages by this route would naturally be thinking about politics and high-level social issues; their thoughts and conversations would carry the intellectual payload. It was perfect. Between the Finisterran Air Force and secured couriers, Sierra had just annihilated his writerís block.
Lewis kissed her, devouring her mouth, making her head roll back and forth. Then he broke away and stuffed her mouth with a smooth wooden ball. It was the kind of gag the Aztecs used on prisoners awaiting sacrifice; heíd seen one at the National Museum of Archeology in Mexico City. Sierra, poor child, didnít appreciate being gagged with a replica of a historical artifact. She shook her head and gurgled in protest, but with her wrists and ankles tied to the table she was helpless to resist as he tightened the strap until he was sure she couldnít push it out with her clever tongue. She subsided, moaning in frustration.
She moved her knees in and out, tempting him with her snatch. Smart girl! But she had many hours of bondage to endure before he fucked her and gave her that orgasm she craved.
He patted her flat warm belly. Her plumpness reminded him of the female fertility figures archeologists recovered from Neolithic sites. He wanted to emphasize her meatiness by roping her so tightly the cords sank into her flesh, so her flesh seemed to be bursting out on all sides. Tie her up so she couldnít even roll, lock her in a trunk, bring her gauzy fantasies of submission into ropey reality. He wondered how long he could keep her bound. It was summer. Her teachers wouldnít miss her for months. The family might be a problem. But if he could coax her to make up a cover story that would explain dropping out of sight for two months, why, who knew how many more ideas he could extract from her.
Smiling, Lewis patted her cunt and headed to his study to write, leaving her bound to the table, mewing plaintively.
Copyright© 2003 by Clayton Stillwater. All rights reserved. I welcome your comments. Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org