..this one is for a certain Captain, toiling across those inland seas, and his wife~ wishing you safe seas and following winds… ~nilla~
He strode across the main deck. The wind whipped his sandy hair into his eyes, and he pushed it off his forehead impatiently. The Lake was a prime bitch some days, but for now, she was just kicking up a bit. Waves tossed as the bow slid through the water, as smooth as a hot knife passed through butter.
He nodded at his crew as he passed, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Rounding the front of the navigation deck, he slid neatly down the port railing to land on the main deck. He headed astern.
He checked all the tie-downs, holding the cargo boxes tightly in place. There might be a bit of weather before they made port later today. Looking down where the containers sat tightly packed to each other, he smiled. Somehow, they always seemed to remind him of Laura’s folds. The deep dark clefts, the hidden valleys, the salty tang of her flesh, all mirrored here on The Crescent Moon. Yet, thinking of her here was not to his benefit. He had a long day ahead; walking around a ship with a hard-on wouldn’t help him get any work done at all. He pushed thoughts of his wife’s warm, wet, welcoming folds out of his head, and continued his morning rounds of the ship.
Rounds finally completed, he headed back inside, the crisp air brushing his cheeks with the ruddy color known to seaman around the world. Sitting at his desk he checked his email. Ah, there it was, the expected note from his beloved bride. They’d been together for years, but been apart for long stretches as he’d plied his craft across the waters of this great Lake.
He always enjoyed coming in to port, not the least of which was the internet access he couldn’t get when he was mid-lake. Eagerly he opened her email.
The smile crossed his face slowly as he saw the pic she had sent. He fucking loved her tits. And hadn’t she displayed them so prettily for him? The black lace of the shelf bra only served to highlight the pale flesh of her breasts. The bra lifted them in offering, and his mouth filled with the need to taste those succulent nipples. His cock stiffened in his pants and he shifted in his chair. The knock at his door broke his reverie.
“Yes?” he replied, keeping his tone light, though he hated the interruption.
“Cap’n?” His first mate leaned inside the room. He looked up, a bit glassy eyed.
“Looks like the storm is boiling up. We should be able to get through the southern end of it and make port as it breaks full-on.”
“Good. Let’s take ‘er home, and let the crew have the night to fuck around in port.”
His mate smiled and saluted as he turned smartly out onto the deck. Nothing would spur the crew on more than the thought of lovely warm bodies after this last lousy week away from home. Even now he could hear the wind beginning to sing through the radio tower, and along the long booms that were used to load and unload freight.
He read the rest of her note quickly. Shifting in his seat again, he closed the program. If all went well, his cock would be moving between those sweet titties by nightfall.
*** *** ***
They made port with the wind howling and the waves crashing. The ocean couldn’t have been any fiercer than the Lake was this evening. Through the gloaming, the wind-driven sleet slicking the decks, he piloted the ship into its berth. It pushed up against the dock, the deck rising and falling with the waves.
Men scurried about the decks like ants, hunkered against the wind, cautious where overspilling waves froze into ice on the decks and gunwales. Eventually the ship was secured, and the Captain ordered his crew ashore.
He’d emailed her that he couldn’t leave. His ship needed him aboard, and she understood. She was a good girl that way.
Alone in the Nav. Deck, he watched the wind set the flags to flapping along the dockside. The howl and scream of it reminded him of stories of Furies. Sleet periodically pelted the glass windows that gave him a magnificent, almost 360 degree view of the dock, and the Lake.
Cupping his pipe in one hand, he glanced down at the ordersheet on the clipboard. On the top was the weather report. It seemed the storm would abate by late tomorrow. That mean that the dock personnel would return, and he could get offloaded the following day.
Thirty-six hours was not an unusual turn-around time, but this time, for this last voyage of the winter, it seemed a lifetime.
He looked out the window, scowling at the angry wind.
He took a long draw on his pipe, but something caught his eye. He looked through the side-blown snow. Yes, there was someone on the docks. He’d seen the bobble of a flashlight. From up here, it was a tiny thing. But he’d best make his way down to find out what the fuck was going on. Some stupid jerk out prowling the docks on a night not fit for anyone to be there.
*** *** ***
It was cold, colder than she had imagined. Many times she had made her way here, to greet him on his homecoming. But never in a blizzard. And never wearing next to nothing under her ski pants and parka. The wind tore at her hood, the hard-flung pellets of ice stinging into her cheeks. If she hadn’t been so presumptuous, she’d be home in bed, alone, but not frozen!
The ship lay, coated in ice. It looked like it was in the grip of icy teeth, the way the icicles grabbed and hung onto every rail, every surface. Even from here she could see the slick shine of ice coating the hull.
She reached the gangplank. The ropes were coated with ice. The steps were coated with ice. This was going to be more of a challenge than she thought. Her gloved hands closed on the rope rails. She stepped to the first crossbuck. Her feet slid on the ramp until her heels rested against the stop.
Ice broke under her grip, but still she felt like she was slithering up the incline. One step, another, until she was half-way there. She looked down at the black water churning under her. An inch of wood and ice was all that kept her from plunging into that roiling cauldron.
She shivered. The wind gusted hard, driven to extreme force as it pressed between the dock and the side of the ship. The bite of it was intensely cold, and the force of it pushed her to the edge of the ramp. She screamed a little bit as her feet slid. Her hands gripped the rope as she leaned forward, praying.
He could not believe some stupid idiot was climbing the gangplank in the middle of this raging Norther. What the fuck? He stamped down the inner stairwell and came out on the main deck. The crampons he wore bit into the deck, and he leaned into the wind. As he reached the top of the plank, he heard the scream.
The dumb fuck was gonna be blown into the bay. He grabbed a chipper and slammed it onto the first step, the second, the third. He eased his way down until he could reach the hood of the idiot.
“Get the fuck up here, you fucking idiot moron,” he screamed. The wind snatched at his words, but they were heard. A gloved hand, now wearing its own coating of ice, grabbed for his.
With a hard tug, he pulled the idiot up, and up. On deck, he grabbed the dumbass by the back of the hood, propelling him into the safety of the stairwell.
The warmth hit them both. She shook off the fear, the abject terror. The cessation of wind was as much a relief as the warmth that drifted against them.
“Upstairs, you idiot.”
The grip on the back of her hood was unrelenting, and she knew she was dealing with the Captain and not her husband and Master.
In the Navigation Room, his fragile hold on his temper broke. He spun the kid around, tugging off his hood.
“You fucking idiot, you could have gotten us both killed….”
His voice faltered when a wealth of chestnut hair fell out of the hood, and a pair of tear-reddened eyes stared up at him.
The fucking idiot was his wife.
“You’re kidding me.”
The Captain stared down at his wife. Two intersecting circles formed a figure 8 around them as sleet and rain dripped off of their anoraks. Hard to say, looking at her, whether most of the wet on her face was from the storm, or the tears that were coursing slowly down her cheeks.
He shook his head, totally at a loss. What the fuck had she been thinking?
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
The words burst from his mouth almost as fast as they came into his head. His hands were on her shoulders, gripping her through the heavy coat.
The jury was still out whether He would shake the snot out of her, or hug her close.
“i wasn’t thinking,” she began, only to be interrupted by a harsh bark of laughter.
“Well, ain’t that the truth?”
She looked up at him, hurt beyond measure. First, he’d called her an idiot. Now he was calling her stupid. How could she explain to him, thick-headed control freak that he was, how excruciating it was to sit at home knowing he was right there at port a few miles away?
To be so near, and yet so far was the poetic device of the ages. Walt Whitman had used it, and Ella Fitzgerald had sung of it. But here and now, she had been living it. Her heart throbbed with longing, her fears of the storm driven away by the fear of missing even one more night away from Him.
Why couldn’t He understand how she ached for him?
And yet, according to so many of those blogs she read, submissives all had the same issues, a visceral craving for the one who Mastered them. A craving that was never fully sated, never fully appeased, never fully gone.
It was that craving, that drove her from the house to the docks. That had flogged her down the long walkway to where his ship tossed at anchor in the frothing Lake. And those same craven needs that had drawn her, step after shaking step, up the long gangplank to be with him.
And he called her an idiot, the idiot!
His eyes bored into hers, and she felt the first spark of anger tingle inside of her.
“You were gone long this time. I missed you. And that’s not all.”
Again she was interrupted. He was really starting to annoy the shit out of her!
“You couldn’t wait until fucking morning? When the storm will have passed over and the crew returns and things are calmer? You had to climb a fucking ice-sheet of a gangplank to get up here and almost fall into the fucking lake? Do you understand that the Lake is a fucking bitch when this weather hits, and her fucking Norther will suck you down into the water, and freeze you to death in minutes? And that’s if she doesn’t decide to mash you to death by slapping the boat against the pier.”
As if to add a lesson to his words, the ship lurched and she tumbled against him. Oh, gods he smelled so good! He, naturally, balanced and rolled with the pitch of the ship. Beads of moisture rolled from their feet, across the decking.
Grabbing a fistful of her chestnut mane, he growled a terse “c’mon” and headed below decks to his quarters.
She was turned on by his rough handling of her person, yet there was a huge element of nerves. She’d been on the ship before, of course, but never when there were no other crewmen aboard. And never when He’d consider that she’d done something as foolhardy as coming aboard during a storm.
The sound of the wind howling through the rigging carried through the entire ship. The vibrations caused all manner of groans and moans through walls and floors. The waves pounded against the port side of the ship. On the fore, aft, and starboard sides, thick hawsers attached to the pier. The large bollards held the hawsers. The triangle arrangement of the hawser lines and bollards kept the ship steady, yet the action of wind and waves tugged and heaved at the lines. It was a bit like being on a ride at the amusement park, being tugged a few inches in this direction, then a moment later, a few in the opposite. She staggered as the prow dipped a bit as she stepped, making her pitch forward, again.
The tug of his hand, wrapped tightly in her hair, drew fresh tears and a quick scramble of feet to keep up with him.
“You don’t have any idea how angry I am with you, do you?” His hand shook her head as they came to stand in front of his quarters. Most of the ship was about transport, but as captain, his berth was larger than most. He opened the door and shoved her inside his ‘Ready Room’. Beyond that small area was another door. He pressed her against the wall as he keyed in his personal code. In a second the door opened, and he pulled her off the wall and into the room.
It was warm in here, and she sighed deeply with the pleasure that gave her.
“Take off your fucking coat, hang it up, and bend over the bed.”
He stared at her, his mind made up. She was going to get the whooping of a lifetime. And then he was going to fuck the hell out of her.
She had to smile a little bit at the look on his face as she opened her coat and let it fall to the floor. There she stood, naked but for her boots.
“Dear God,” he thought, utterly shocked.
She was stupider than he thought.
She stood, naked but for her boots.
She was glowing now, filled with the conviction that she had been right to come; judging by the look of shock on His face, he was glad she had, too.
He loved her chest, she knew. She took a surreptitious breath, pulling in her round belly and lifting them higher. She tried to not be too obvious about leaning just a bit from the waist, presenting him with an eyeful of tit.
He stared in amazement. If she was throwing her tits out to him in an attempt to avoid punishment, it wouldn’t work. He didn’t mind the vision of her tits, hanging like ripe fruit ready to be plucked. But they too would see their fair share of the beating her wayward ass was promised.
“I believe I told you to turn around and put your face on the bed. Present your unbelievably stupid ass to me, slut.”
Her mouth opened in a shocked O. She’d been so certain that it was pleasure on his face.
“Oh, make no mistake, I’ll have my share of fun with those,” and he flicked a finger against the nearest nipple. “But not now. Not until you receive your punishment. That was …” He stopped. He hated repeating himself.
He still shuddered inside with the potential for disaster that had been avoided here tonight. He walked across his cabin and opened the door to his wardrobe. On the inside, against the back wall were special hooks that held two long poles. One was a fishing pole. The other was a whippy rod that she absolutely loathed. To the casual eye it looked like an unfitted fishing rod. But it wasn’t. It was the primary tool he used as a punishment rod; it offered a stinging whap that left a lovely welt and a thin strip of bruise that lingered for days. He kept one on board, and one at home.
He placed the rod beside her on the bed. She closed her eyes and let a soft nooooo escape her lips. He went to the dresser. Every drawer was fitted with an anti-slide device, which he toggled to open.
The top drawer contained His toiletries, each with its own place to prevent rolling when they were out on the Lake. Nothing worse than coming back to the cabin at the end of a long shift and discovering that your aftershave had fallen over, glass broken, and your room reeking of it. He’d had this cabinet specially fitted to avoid that. Reaching inside, he retrieved her second most hated object, the hairbrush.
A wave of lust tingled through him, although he didn’t confuse punishment with sexplay. Still, her round, pale bottom waited for His touch, and to deny that excitement would also be false. He’d waited until He calmed a bit. Hitting your wife/slut in anger didn’t teach a thing.
Calmer, he crossed to her. Lifting her head by her hair, he twirled the brush in his palm.
“I wonder,” he mused aloud, “which side of the brush should be used tonight.”
She whimpered. A satisfactory response.
“You could have been killed out there, Jenna. I can’t have you putting yourself in such dire circumstances because you missed me. I’d miss you a hell of a lot more if my boat turned you into goo.”
She had the grace to blanch, then flush.
“I’m sorry, Master.”
Progress, at least. She knew enough to apologize without making any more reasons for her choice.
He spun the brush, and sitting fully upright, applied a solid smack to the center of her ass. She hated when he hit her along the crack, she always bruised wonderfully deeply here. His hand held her neck to the bed, His leg went over hers to lock her in place, as he set to work tenderizing her bottom.
She was doing more than whimpering when he was through. The last 5 strokes, he reversed the brush and smacked, spines side down, on her glowing posterior.
“Cheer up, slut. The punishment is more than half-over now.”
She half raised, then slumped down.
He lifted the rod to her face.
Oh, no, she would not. She turned her head away. “I hate it” she mumbled through sealed lips.
“KISS IT” he growled at her. Again she refused, and before she knew it, He’d flipped her onto her back and slapped her tits with it.
“I’m gonna hit the girls until you kiss it, and tell it that you’re sorry.”
Each blow hit both tits nearly simultaneously. She writhed. She moaned. When he hit both nipples, she shrieked again.
“OKAY YOU WIN…!! ”
Another scream came as he hit the same spot again. She knew she’d best do her part or he’d hit that spot again. And three whaps with the whip on her nipples was more than she thought she could bear. They burned and throbbed as if they’d been bitten.
“I”M SORRRRYYY AND I WANT TO KISS IT.”
He hit her nipples again, and she cried out, almost retching with the pain in her tits. She was afraid to look down, certain that she’d see her nipples bleeding.
He lifted the rod to her lips and she kissed.
“Again, I think.”
Her eyes rose to his, water-y blue lakes of misery. Yet she kissed it again. Looking down she could see criss-crosses, like cross-stitches, along her tits. Her nipples were erect and painfully red, but there was no blood. He knew how to hit, that was the truth.
In seconds she was on her belly, her abused tits rubbing against the wool of his bunkcover. She heard the sound of it in the air and yet was unprepared for the pain of the blows as they fell across her already red and painful ass.
Her tears wet the blanket as she succumbed to his punishment.
She would never make this mistake again.
He heard her sniffling snuffles, but it didn’t soften him. The chastisement was necessary. She had to understand that he would not tolerate her harming herself, and not be so fucking impetuous!
Yet his hand smoothed over the hot skin of her bottom. Rather than the smooth canvas it had started as, it was welted now, ridged and swollen from his spanking.
It was red as sunset after a storm, and there were lines of bruises already forming.
He pinched her along her crack with his fingernails, making her arch up.
“See? You still have feeling back here,” He said to her.
“Bastard” she said, her voice muffled by his mattress.
“I am a Bastard. But I’m your Bastard, you lucky slut. Now, roll over here. I’m wanting to fuck my slut since she went to so much effort to bring her cunt to me.”
She shivered at the changed timbre of his voice.
Perhaps it was worth the brutal punishment after all.