Tangled Passions Pt. 03 Ch. 35-37

Jenn's own explosive climax coincided precisely with his, peaking again and again in short, sharp shock-waves, as he splashed his hot spunk against the back of her throat, running like a river into her gullet. Hips and head thrust in feverish counterpoint; Jenn's own hips rocked spasmodically on her mount as her neck muscles tightened tetanically around his pounding shaft. She couldn't get enough. Her orgasm went on and on until she felt herself slipping out of reach of reality. She was only barely aware of him falling limply from her mouth, and came to scarcely long enough to return his slow, passionate kisses as he lifted her face to his. Like marathon finishers, they were drained, depleted. They'd hardly the strength to hold their eyes open.

Unseen hands supported them as through the haze, handlers unbuckled and raised them from their mounts. Both needed support to stand and walk. Only just conscious, Jenn held out her hand to Matt and fixed his eyes, as glazed as her own, with her gaze. They exchanged stunned smiles and found that words were neither necessary nor possible. Jenn believed, at that moment, that they had experienced something hitherto unknown. The sex was just a vehicle for something else – but what a vehicle. She felt such a love for Matt, such a shared state of being that it was almost a religious experience. They had produced an intensity of mutuality, of oneness, of catalytic spiritualism, that she felt she needed nothing else – absolutely nothing else. Her fingers trailed through Matt's, staying in contact until the very last moment when they were led finally to exits at opposite ends of the room, through the strangely hushed guests, murmuring congratulations, and watching them leave.

XXXVII.

Almost insidiously, both Matt and Jenn realized the order of events during the journey could no longer be specified in weeks or months, just earlier or later. As the trip aboard theCelestial Concubineprogressed, the only time that had meaning was sequence – before, during and after; they might remember what happened before, they perceived what was happening now, and they would find out what was to happen later only when it happened. The days, if days they were, came and went, without number or name. Time simply passed, 'flowing like a river' – usually occupied, sometimes idle. But conventional time had no meaning in their new universe – a universe wherein, for the vassals at least, its measure had ceased to exist. With so much else to deal with, so many other new truths to internalize, the lack of real time was easily overlooked, and 'what time' or 'how long' became meaningless concepts.

While situations and scenarios no longer always surprised Jenn – she was still occasionally flummoxed by this requirement or that – they often intrigued her and usually excited her. She was always very curious about what it would be like – and her curiosity manifested itself in an almost childlike, tingling, adrenaline excitement. She often experienced "Oh, I can hardly wait" or "Oh, I can't stand it" anticipatory jitters, along with "Will I be able to stand it?" doubts and worries, all coloured with a raw, base sort of shame-tinged glee. She loved the double-edged stimulus of anticipatory apprehension – apprehensive anticipation.

As her training progressed and her experience broadened, Jenn spent nights bound, on a cot, to some other vassal – sometimes in her cell, sometimes not. The first time, she had been in the freedom of her cell – that is, untied. Sitting on her bed, she was leafing throughBeauty's Punishment once again, idly running fingers through her thatch, when the door opened suddenly and a trainer entered, accompanied by a handler, escorting a naked and bewildered young woman. The girl looked, Jenn thought, sort of like a younger version of herself. Taking the book from her hand, the trainer ordered Jenn to lie down. Without another word, he propelled the other forward, and positioned her atop Jenn. Ordered to hug, their wrist cuffs were fastened, then they were lashed together, with straps at their ankles, thighs, waists, chests and heads. Nipples to nipples, cunt to cunt, their lips crushed against one another. "No noise," the trainer snapped, as the frightened young woman, uttered a low groan of despair. The two men left, shutting out the light, closing the door with an ominous finality.

They – two females, joined as one – just lay still, for a time, in the dark. Intrigued, Jenn could feel the silent horror, or shame, or confusion, emanating from her young doppelganger. She waited. Soon enough, she felt the tension ease slowly from the body tied above her. Slowly, tentatively, she whispered, “Relax,” into the still trembling mouth, eliciting a confused, frightened, “Okay.” Then, exchanging names they would soon forget, they slowly, quietly shared secrets. Their entwining tongues ignited arousal, and their stiffening nipples pressed into the soft sponginess of their breasts. Their bodies were well matched, “...by coincidence or design?” Jenn wondered. The soft wiriness of their muffs brushed together at the slightest wriggle. With slowly building intensity, Jenn pressed her hips forward to increase the pressure. Her partner soon reciprocated, and several times during the night, between periods of emotionally exhausted sleep, their writhing hips brought on delicious, mutual orgasms. In the morning – their morning – when they were released, Jenn's nocturnal companion was hustled out of her cell so fast, that Jenn didn't think she would even recognize the girl again – only that she looked like herself in her youth.

During subsequent sleep intervals Jenn was sometimes tied to male vassals as well – penetrated front to front, or sodomized in a spoon configuration. She was bound in sapphic sixty-nine, or hetero soixante-neuf, her mouth filled for the duration. Especially during those times, there was very little whispering between the prisoners. Sometimes the binding was completed wholly in the dark, making the constrained participants much more mysterious.

Although neither could have known it at first, the same training regimen was being exercised on Matt. One night, coupled head to crotch in the dark and ordered not to speak, they began a night together. Gradually they recognized each other by their scents and feelings, by the electricity that seemed to pass between them. Late – very late in the night they managed to converse – quietly, their exchange muffled by pubic hair and genitals. They briefly compared recent experiences and reconfirmed their mutual love. The night was, at once, long and short; satisfying and frustrating; happy and sad, humiliating and erotic.

As there hadn't been much video apparent onboard, Jenn was mildly surprised when she found, one evening – the brief tropical dusk a vivid gold outside the windows – the patrons of the main dining lounge viewing a video on an impressively large screen. She was among a covey of vassals, including Matt, who had been escorted into the hall. Each of them was presented to their evening's possessor. Jenn, like most others, was simply greeted with an appraising nod. A casual gesture indicated a spot on the carpeted floor beside the chair, where she demurely knelt and waited.

As the attention of the dinner guests was captured by the brightly projected video, Jenn took the opportunity to briefly glance around. The people and routines of the ship had become comfortably familiar. Jenn recognized many of her fellow vassals, although she knew only a few by name. She saw Matt drop to his knees at a chair near the further end of the table. His face was blank, his eyes vacant. He had already retreated for the wait. If patience is a learned and practised skill, Matt had surely mastered it.

Once all was settled, a hush descended over the table. Only an indistinct blanket of background noise emanated from the video. The hand of her current lord fell from the chair beside her and brushed across her arm to clamp onto her breast. Fingers and thumb idly manipulated her nipple. Jenn glanced at it impassively, ignoring, for the moment, the tiny jolts of energy that shot back into her chest from her twisted and pinched bud. She raised her eyes to the screen and saw a rather familiar scenario – a three on one. The kneeling woman was entertaining two figures behind her and one in her face. Jenn thought, with amazing nonchalance, "Been there. Done that." Then the camera swung around and zoomed in on a massive cock sawing rapidly in and out of the subject’s mouth. Virtually nothing surprised her any more. "I remember that," she said to herself as she recognized the face that almost smiled into the camera around the pumping penis as her own. Perhaps she had already, sub-consciously, recognized the active figures before the camera had moved. She had a good idea who they'd be. Pulling away, the camera once again revealed the action behind her. A large, hairy fellow – she couldn't recall his name – was pounding himself into her backside while Lisa – yes, it was Lisa – Jenn felt just a slight flutter in her core at that realization – while Lisa jammed a huge wooden dildo in and out of her cunt, manipulating her clit with the other hand. The Jenn on screen was just reaching orgasm – her body trembling, head bobbing, hips thrusting; her mewing muffled by the pounding cock, indistinctly penetrated the melee to seep from the big-screen video into the floating brothel that was the present. The vassal Jenn, kneeling passively beside her master's chair, felt a sudden wet warmth flood her quim. She couldn't pull her eyes away from the screen while her video image whimpered and moaned with, as she recalled, yet another orgasm, forcing herself back, harder upon the phallus wielded by Lisa. “Good old Billy-cock,” she reminisced. The camera shot moved from her quaking denouement, scanning the orgy to focus on another group. Jenn's thoughts wandered away from the screen and the cruise and the ship.

Although there had always been someone who would actually fuck her, she remembered that often when she 'assumed the position' atCelebration, she would be serviced with that large billy-stick sized dildo. It was an impressively polished twelve, maybe fourteen inch phallus, almost two inches in diameter, with a sculpted truncheon style handle. Sometimes the heavy-duty dildo would be rammed in and out of her cunt for a while, then left protruding for the next person to pound away until her twat was weeping and swollen. Often, if she were positioned on all fours, she would be buggered repetitively, kneeling there for long periods, with it protruding invitingly from her butt. And rather than the abject humility such an ordeal should have awakened, she had always experienced a pure – in a way, virginal – arousal – a consummate and objective stimulation, without any of the complication of personality.

The film stopped bringing Jenn back abruptly. One of the trainers, standing at the side and acting as MC, said, "I believe we have one of the stars of that effort among us." He paused and looked around the room before continuing. "Stand up, Jenn, wherever you are, and take a bow for the folks." Momentarily taken unaware, Jenn's eyes popped open and blinked for a moment before she quietly stood and modestly nodded to the guests. As they gave a lively round of applause, she swung her eyes over to where Matt was. He had surfaced at the mention of her name – it never failed to make him start. Her name, her face, somehow always set bells ringing. Like bellows at a brazier, she caused his fires to flare. He stole a glance in her direction and held it a moment. Their eyes met for an instant, and he let just the slightest trace of a smile grace his face before dropping his eyes once again, assuming his waiting look of utter indifference – which belied his palpitating heart. As the applause died, Jenn glanced at the MC, who gave her a brief nod, indicating that she should resume her position. Descending softly to her knees once again, Jenn felt nothing really. Matt was unreachable; Lisa was history; the guests had already forgotten her, their attentions taken up with new conversations. The evening would go on as usual; nothing was different, nothing had changed.

Still, Jenn smiled. She would be satisfied, as always; and yet 'satisfied' hardly seemed a satisfactory word. She would be excited, climaxed, exploded; her psyche ripped asunder, again and again. Her passion was continually enriched by her evolving lust, and the more she did, the more she loved it. She was, she knew, obsessed. She felt her body begin to quiver in anticipation. This life of hers – of theirs – it was almost too much; but how had they ever managed before – before all this. Their lives had become an erotic fiction. Nothing was real anymore; nothing was of any consequence outside the story line; for nothing outside the story line involved them. Almost imperceptibly she shook her head, her smile still twinkling secretly at the corners of her lips and in her eyes. She felt an orgasm building, even as she knelt motionless.

On more than one occasion, in a rather twisted fulfillment of the Andersons’ request for occasional contact, Jenn was made to stand holding Matt's hands while he was being whipped. Brought to the punishment lounge – the first time – with her wrists fastened to the front of her waist, Jenn was initially horrified; yet she found that her fear or apprehension quickly evaporated, for Matt obviously felt none. It was rather reminiscent of some time past – in a far-off penthouse – their positions reversed. Once she tried to exchange a few soft words with Matt but was sharply reprimanded; after that, she was always gagged before being brought to him. Still the contact was, indeed, comforting, and she guessed Matt felt the same. He seemed to be glad she was there – not happy but glad. Those times together were silent save for the crack of the whip and the gasped intake of Matt's breath.

In Matt's world, the importance of physical discipline was still growing unchecked. Matt took his punishment stoically. His eyes gazed into Jenn’s, or whomever’s – not imploringly, just resignedly. Matt considered the thrashings just one more inevitability he must endure. He didn't think them pleasant, nor unpleasant. It was just something that took place, one more thing that happened. And it seemed plain to him that it was surely another ordeal he deserved. Furthermore, if, in the grand scheme of things, he deserved it, then he could and would endure it. So he did. He'd often sing the old Pink Floyd song to himself, repeating over and over, "All in all it's just another brick in the wall." That was basically it. Every ordeal, every experience was just that – another brick in the wall. Sometimes he would take the analogy further, for he realized that brick by brick, one by one he was building his own prison – a prison he felt he more than deserved. The abject humility and necessary loss of freedom he allowed to be imposed on himself were only atonement for what he perceived as his many shortcomings. He surrendered his liberty and his pride; indeed, in surrendering himself he had surrendered his self. His ego had disintegrated into powder and blown away in the wind.

Jenn, on the other hand, came to regard those occasional sessions with Matt as soothing time-outs. She felt neither fear nor sympathy for him, only a vast, unquashable love. His hands in hers, squeezing tightly as the lash came down, relaxing in between strokes, transmitted a beautiful but sad emotional energy. It calmed Jenn. Indeed, it seemed to counteract the raw and erotic excitement that consumed most of her existence. "Somewhere," she often thought, "there is meaning to all this. My pain, his pain, maybe one day it will all be clear." But her search for significance slowly waned day by day. Understanding was less important than simply experiencing – appreciating.

Only a rare few times, while anchored in ports, were visitors entertained aboard theCelestial Concubine. But as they left Madras, the ship's company – the passengers and the administration – began to prepare for a special event. Puzzled by the silent flow of fellow serfs, Matt followed, a handler directing them into a parlour. "Stand still and listen," he snapped. Matt executed his usual surreptitious survey of the room but didn't see Jenn. A well dressed gentleman – obviously an administrator stepped to a podium and secured the attention of the waiting mass of nakedness with a single clap.

"In one week's time," he began, his powerful voice commanding absolutely, "we, of the ...Concubine will be hosting a grand fête, in honour of our dear friend Asim. We," his gaze swept to encompass the whole attentive audience, "will provide quality entertainment and diversion for him and his court, for two or three days." Everyone would be assigned shifts to work among the various scenarios. Matt listened impassively as the production was briefly described. Basically, there would be sex-shows, a 'flesh gallery', a 'meat market', and a feast; the details of each would be revealed as necessary. Matt could wait. He looked forward to nothing and everything – anything. In the meantime, the tribulations that currently filled his life would continue to sweep him along. Jenn received the same basic outline at a later assembly. With her curiosity piqued, she fell before a mild preoccupation, wondering, predicting what her part in it would be.

The whole ships' focus turned, for the week, from simple hedonism to rigorous training and practice for the coming event. There were numerous tryouts, punctuated with a physical discipline reminiscent of Victorian erotica, "Bend over for your ten lashes. Now let's see if we can get it right this time." Successful auditions were followed by grueling rehearsals. Pressure to have the whole surrealistic show together in time was felt right from the top. For some of the vassals, the regimen was onerous, for others, natural. But Matt had already come to expect whipping as an almost daily occurrence; he would take whatever was given. Life went on.

The most difficult exercise was posing motionless for the tableaus of the 'flesh gallery', as if in the midst of some lascivious activity. Matt's role, in one of the scenes, was that of whippee. He lay draped over a seat back to rest with a whip lying suggestively across his striped rear. Of course, for every session, he had first to endure a genuine thrashing just to "colour his bum,” as it were. Although she was given tryouts for the gallery – in scenes of felatio and copulation – the director said Jenn was much too vivacious for static display.

Successful in her audition, Jenn practised as the shameless mother in the choreographed stage show. It was odd to work in clothing; indeed, it felt odd to wear clothing. Her part was fairly straight forward. She was to catch a tutor fondling her daughter and, after sending the daughter away, suck him off. She would unfortunately be caught in the act of felatio by the daughter's boyfriend, who would seize the opportunity and sodomize her while the tutor came in her mouth. Her husband would then catch her with her skirt up and give her a sound spanking before fucking her himself. The challenge for Jenn was to time a real climax as the entrance cue for the husband.

Languishing in the afterglow of a successful rehearsal, her bottom glowing red, her orifices dripping with spend, Jenn wondered what Matt's part in the whole thing would be. "It would have been nice if he could have played the husband," she thought, with a touch of sadness, "But I guess he's not nearly aggressive enough any more." She was warned that she would do a shift in the dining room as well, though she was not given details, and everyone would spend some time at the 'market'.