Without a word, He reaches out His hand for them and I hasten to obey. Quickly, I gather them into a tight ball and hurry toward the side of the car to place them in His outstretched palm. Have I done well this time...have I finally pleased Him? I watch as He reaches into the car and removes my purse, stuffing my undergarments into it with disdain.
"You won't be wearing them anymore," He says abruptly. "But I won't litter the highway with them either."
Again, His eyes take my measure, but this time He reaches for me and presses my hips against the right, front fender, bending me backwards like some sacrificial offering, all stripped and ready for sacrifice.
It's His hands now that lift my skirt, His hands that slide roughly over my pale, vulnerable flesh.
"Open your legs," He demands, His fingers already probing where only one man has been before. "You've been around, haven't you?" He questions thrusting his rough, thick fingers inside of me. "How many men have you fucked?"
I begin to shake...His touch...His touch. He smiles. "You like this, don't you, Bleu? You like me inside of you like this. Answer me!"
"O-One, Sir," I stutter. "Only one...just one time."
"And you like this..."
"Y-Yes, Sir," I lie...or am I lying? My fantasies come crashing around me, and I no longer know.
He probes me once more...hard...rough and I cry out. Again, he smiles, and I watch wide-eyed as He reaches into his pocket. What appears now brings me no consolation, for in his fist I see a knife, ivory handled, scrimshawed and large. A folding knife with a heavy blade...customized? It snickers open in the darkness, and I feel my bladder threaten to betray me. He hears me whimper, and it appeals to Him.
Then, with a sadistic smile, He strokes the flat of the blade along my inner thigh until I can feel a tiny trickle of urine escape along my quivering flesh.
He likes that too. He runs his fingers through it in satisfaction and smears it up and down my thighs. Tears well up in my eyes, I can't control them, but still my tormentor escalates His abuse. This time He cuts the buttons from the bodice of my dress, exposing the pale pink film of my lacey bra, stretched over my taut nipples.
"Nice," He mutters raising the knife upward along my body. Then, with a quick thrust He slides the knife against the tiny bridge of satin between my breasts and snips it cleanly in two.
I cry out in alarm, my voice lost in the vast emptiness of the desert. Then I hear a sound...far away, coming closer along the lonely desert track. A car. Has the cavalry arrived? He has to stop now, I think...doesn't He? But He doesn't. His eyes never waiver, never shift for a second as the car nears, draws parallel, then passes in the night. He knew...He knew. No one would dare stop Him...not The Captain.
Again the blade flashes, and again...and now I feel the straps give way and my breasts freed beneath His gaze. Then, brusquely He takes his left hand...tugs, and the bra comes free from its hiding place. I watch as He deposits it unceremoniously atop the car.
He takes my wrists, and pinning them far above my head along the cooling metal of the hood, He mutters "Stay," as if commanding His dog.
And I do.
I am at His disposal now, and He touches me, curling his fingers between my thighs, thrusting them deep into my belly. And then I feel it, the handle of His knife insinuating itself roughly into my vagina, and I gush once more. I'm wet, so wet...humiliatingly wet...and He knows it.
He smiles, a crooked smile that doesn't reach His eyes, then closes His mouth over my distended nipple. He bites...hard...harder, and I whimper. I'm on the edge of an orgasm so complete, so earthshaking that I can't control myself. Then my dignity shatters, and I fall with a shudder, whimpering, into a swirling abyss that I can no longer hold at bay.
Suddenly, I hear His zipper sliding softly in the silence, opening Him, freeing His sex. Then, with a lunge He grabs my hair and I am at once on my knees beside the tire, between His thighs.
"Open your mouth, Bleu. Do it!" He orders, thrusting His hips against my face. I feel His massive knob press unrelentingly against my lips until I obey. Then, once inside He plunges deep into my throat, engorging me with his monstrous tool, capturing me between His jutting frame and the ebony fender.
I gag...I choke, too much...too much, but yet He continues. I try to hold Him off with my hands, but He grabs my wrists and pins them to the metal behind me. He grunts...low and guttural...harder...faster until I can feel Him quiver deep in my throat. Another brutal thrust, and He fills me with His hot flesh...His molten seed until I gasp for air and feel the earth begin to swim about me.
Then He stops. He stares at me kneeling in the dust as he wipes His sex with my ruined undergarment.
"Clean yourself up," He orders, tossing me the flimsy shambles of my bra. "Then stuff it in your purse. We need to be going."
Soiled and tattered, I do as He says until I feel I have made myself presentable once more. The front of my dress will have to remain open, I have no choice, and my nipples brush shamefully against the loose fabric. I slip into the seat next to my Master, wondering if I've passed the test, if I've pleased Him.
"Don't sit on your skirt, Bleu. You're to sit directly on the seat. You need to get used to the feel of leather on your body now." He says. "And open your thighs. Always open...parted...never crossed unless you're told to...and your palms on the seat beside you. Upraised. Understand?"
Quietly I nod, sliding my skirt from beneath me and opening my body as I've been directed. I feel so vulnerable, so helpless...so curiously erotic. Will I soil the fine leather seat? I hope not, but in my condition, how can I help it?
We drive onward now, past the skeletons of saguaros, the scrambling disarray of Joshua trees until a sign appears in the gloom.
"Bahia la Cholla" it reads. Cholla Bay? I know that place. It's a remote suburb of Puerto Penasco, a small congregation of American expatriates convened on the distant edge of the Sea of Cortez in a remote bay along the coastline. But this isn't the way I remember. That road was graded, even paved in places. This one is crude, little used. It bears the traces of shifting sand and occasional flooding. Is this where He lives, I wonder? It must be, why else would we be here?
Time fades, and we travel through an electronic gateway until I spy the welcoming glow of a house in the distance. No...not a house, a hacienda. A huge, rambling affair standing alone against the black backdrop of the sea. It's old, if I'm any judge...almost ancient...something from another era. Its adobe walls and curved archways blend harmoniously with the heavily tiled roof, a dwelling made to last for many lifetimes, many centuries
As we make our approach, tiny lights begin to fill the window frames...soft, muted lights that do little to spoil the ambiance of the place. They push back the darkness as we enter the courtyard, pulling alongside the massively carved staircase that abuts the heavy oaken doorway.
Immediately He approaches the passenger side, my suitcase in hand, opening my door this time and waiting until I rise to join Him. Then, gesturing toward the portal, He follows me up the stairs to my fate.
The door opens, and a young woman, perhaps 18, dressed only from the waist down in white, bleached muslin pantaloons greets us. She's beautiful, I think to myself, accessing her proud breasts and slim waist. She's of Asian ancestry, possibly... but perhaps not. It's hard to tell.
Softly, she steps away to allow us entry, then motions toward another doorway, set into the far wall.
My Master nods silently, and leads me across the white, marble tiles, past the small trickling fountain that adorns the center of the room, and outward once more through a set of wide French doors into a private courtyard secreted in the center of the ancient complex.
Here I find a pool, luminous in the dark and shifting night, surrounded by a myriad of twinkling tiki lights, all flickering in the soft breeze. He motions now to a chaise lounge, low and sturdy, sitting by a companion piece upon which I surmise He will settle himself as well.
But no. Instead He turns, and in a whisper I hear his voice.
"Say nothing. Be careful," He growls softly. "You don't want me for an enemy." Then, wordlessly, He leaves me to my own devices, alone beneath the starry sky. And so I sit, wondering what to do now, where to go...what is expected of me.
Minutes pass...how long I have no idea. Finally, I see a woman break free of the shadows on the far side of the pool.
Did I say a woman? Well, a woman she is, but like none that I have ever seen before. If the one at the door could be considered a woman, then this must be a goddess. She's tall, this deity, perhaps 5'9", with a tiny waist and large green eyes that set off her full lips and heavily tanned complexion. Her hair is black, the glossy black of a raven's wing, woven into a heavy braid that hangs the length of her back and curls against her buttocks.
She's naked...and magnificent. Her full breasts and slender torso flash in the dim light as she curves her body in a graceful dive into the pool before me, barely disturbing the surface in her passing. I watch as she nears, slipping cleanly through the clear, transparent water until she once more surfaces at my feet.
Then, in one, silken movement she stands dripping before me, nipples erect, a single silver ring adorning her left breast...her body is perfect. She reaches for a gauzy pareau, one of those South Seas garments that adorn the hips of island princesses, and ties it loosely below her navel. She smiles, and crossing the distance between us, she settles upon the chaise beside me.
"Hello," she says simply, her voice softly caressing my mind.
"I'm the Captain. Welcome to my home."
Chapter 3:
My name is La Dona Amora Isabella de Capitan. You may call me Amora if you wish. And you, my beautiful Bleu, do you still have a name when you turn off your monitor as well?" she jokes.
I find myself speechless. I don't know what to say. If this beautiful, exotic creature is the Captain, then who was my tormentor?
Jillian...Jillian Johnson," I murmur almost incoherently. "I...I...".
She sees my confusion, and hurries to fill the gap between us. "You weren't expecting to see a woman here, were you?" she smiles again, almost apologetically. There were times when I thought you knew...times when I was sure of it. Are you terribly disappointed?"
It's my turn to speak now, but the words refuse to form in my mouth...in my mind. Did I know? Deep down in my heart, had there been some remote sense of kinship, a feminine bond between us? I wasn't sure.
"But you acted...you spoke..."
"As a male, an "hombre", correct? I confess to encouraging that impression...a small luxury I extend to myself," she replied, her full lips curling against her pearly, white teeth. "I enjoy the company of women at times," she confessed. "I enjoy their intelligence, their sensitivity, their smooth, firm bodies. Are you shocked?"
I knew I should be! I'd been deceived, deluded into a terrifying rendezvous in the middle of the night by someone who had misrepresented her sex, her intentions.
"Then you're not a Master...not a Dom," I burble inanely. This has all been a hoax! I've been played for a fool! This woman has used me as an object of amusement!
She reaches for me then, her hand softly stroking my arm as she gazes intently between the open folds of my gaping bodice. "Not a Master, no...but one who appreciates the sensuous response of a beautiful woman, certainly. The guests in my home are not bound by force, but by an abiding passion that they share freely and earnestly. They are treated well, treasured, and when their time passes they may go as they have come, neither harmed nor diminished by what is said or done in this place.
"Are you shocked?" she asks once more. "Are you horrified?" Her finger now traces the curve of my lip, her shell-like nail etching a patter that makes me want to extend my tongue, to lick her wandering digit as it moves against my delicate flesh.
"Did you think that passion has a gender, Little One, that only a man can light the fire between a woman's thighs? Consider this, who better to know what kindles a woman's desires than another woman?"
Her voice becomes hushed now, a siren song that lures me deeper under her spell. "So beautiful," she murmurs, "So beautiful. Your skin is like porcelain, so fine...so pale, and your hair like the last scarlet flush of sunset. Close your eyes, Little One...close them and feel yourself drift away on the tide of my voice. There are places I can take you, my beautiful, beautiful Bleu...places that you've never been, places that will open your mind, your heart to another world."
I feel her finger travel downward now, along my collarbone, between the valley of my breasts as she teases the fabric to one side.
"Where have your buttons gone?" she whispers suspiciously, "Did you remove them for me? No matter. We have no need for such conventions here at the hacienda."
I hear the soft intake of her breath as she bares my flesh. I should stop her, I think...tell her that she's made a mistake.
But I don't.
Instead I wait, preening at the words of praise that blanket me, hungering for her approval as she cups her long, slender fingers beneath my breasts.
"Magnificent," she whispers huskily. "So perfect, so milky white...and the delicate pink of your nipples...you are angelic...angelic."
Her finger departs now, only to return wet...wet with what, I wonder behind closed lids? Then, gently she circles my aureole and I feel myself rise into the warmth of her palm.
This is a woman, I remind myself...a woman, not a man. Surely a woman has nothing to offer me...has she? And yet as I feel her tease my taut nipple in the moonlight, her voice stroking me, seducing me, it gives me pause.
Is she smiling now? I should open my eyes...stop her...but I can't. Could she be right? Is the true key to a woman's heart really another woman?
I feel her breath on my rigid flesh, the soft, pointed dart of her tongue as she flicks it back and forth against my nipple. Her hand slides upward along the inner curve of my thigh, raising my skirt, baring my pale flesh in the flickering light.
I gasp.
No misguided probe this, no perfunctory grope in the darkness. Instead I feel her warm fingers tracing the delicate folds of my labia, teasing them apart as she dips tantalizingly into the deep well of my sex.
Then, as quickly as it began, she pauses and I hear her moan of appreciation.
"Delicious, Little One. I knew you would be," she says, her words muffled by the finger between her lips. "Open your thighs for me, Sweetness. Let me see you...let me please you once more."
Again I think I should stop her. Am I ready for this? Am I? And yet, when she calls me "Little One" I feel as though I am indeed hers, that I want her touching me, her delicate fingers caressing me, her warm mouth devouring my...
She moves against me now, her motions soft and silken as she parts my thighs and slips quietly between them. "Wider, my Sweet," she cajoles. "Wider."
My heels touch the cool stones of the pool deck now, my legs parted until they rest on either side of the chaise beneath me. My skirt is furled about my waist. I am open...exposed...and hungering. But I haven't long to wait.
Amora gazes appreciatively at my offering, her green eyes sliding across my quivering flesh like tiny fingers.
I blush.
Then, straddling the chaise she brings her hands upward, stroking my inner thighs until I quiver beneath her palms. She watches in satisfaction as a tiny trickle escapes from between my intimate folds and makes its way along the fissure of my sex in anticipation.
"Soon, Little One, soon" she murmurs. "Women have the luxury of time...all the time we need...all the time we want...a bonus, you'll find."
I feel her probing my trembling slit now, her thumbs pressing deeply within, parting my sex like some ripe fruit, juicy and waiting to be devoured.
She pauses to admire.
Again a puzzled expression crosses her features, and I see her eyes flash, a brief menacing look that passes almost as soon as it appears. "Has someone...? No. Lay back, my beautiful Bleu. Close your eyes once more and let me make love to you.
Instinctively my body tenses, but as I feel the warm, tantalizing touch of her tongue circling the hard bud of my sex, I can do nothing but submit. Warm waves of pleasure wash over me, and I drift on a sea of passion such as I have never known. Surely neither Jess, with his thermometer, nor the Hummvee man and his scrimshawed probe have ever elicited a response such as this.
I feel myself flowing against her tongue, copious floods of passion passing between her lips as she strokes me with her all-knowing fingertips. A butterfly flickers back and forth in my belly, chased by a mad stampede of thundering beasts that threatens to overtake me. I shudder, my thighs tightening, closing as it carries me away, my discordant cries of passion rending the stillness of the night.
Her forearms hold me now, pinning me in place as I writhe beneath her, my fingers diving into her thick, black braid. I moan...a guttural ovation that sounds alien and apart from me. Stop...stop a voice whispers in my mind. But no...she doesn't stop, and I'm glad. Relieved.
Finally it's over and she raises her lips, slick now with my offering, and smiles. "You'll be a pleasure to teach, my Little One. So responsive...so passionate! We'll do well together.
So saying, she raises her hand and the young woman in the muslin pantaloons approaches. Has she been watching all along, I wonder?
"This is Elizabete...Liza. She'll escort you to your rooms now. You must be exhausted. I'll be along shortly to tuck you in," she assures me, a twinkle in her eyes. "I have a brief matter that demands my attention before I retire tonight."
And with that she turns and glides across the patio through the French doors and vanishes from view, leaving me to the delicate ministrations of her serving girl.
Chapter 4
My "rooms" as my hostess calls them, are nothing short of magnificent. My small studio apartment would fit in the closet alone. All about me are the trappings of opulence...Tiffany, Chippendale, Irish linens and Belgian lace, a gently flowing collage of color and tasteful understatement.
The boudoir itself is dominated by a large four-poster bed, sturdy and with a coverlet of white hand-sewn candlewicking. The window to the west is no window at all, but a wall of sliding glass overlooking a well appointed balcony, and beyond that the sea. There are no curtains here to sully the view, for none are needed. No huts clutter the shore in this place, no condominiums. Not a living soul exists for miles around if the roadway by which we've arrived is any testimony. Beyond this place only sand and sea hold reign. We are alone.
Liza places my modest suitcase on an ancient chest at the foot of the bed, hand carved and polished to a warm glow. "Shall I draw you a bath?" she asks, her eyes sparkling at the prospect.
A rush of embarrassment rises upward along my collarbone, burning against my cheeks. She knows. She saw everything. What does this woman think of me?
I choose to remain calm, collected.
"Yes, please," I reply, forcing the squeak from my voice. "That would be wonderful."
Quickly Liza leaves by yet another door, through a sitting room of sorts that boasts in its heart of hearts an enormous, rough-hewn fireplace. The furniture here is of a different ilk...massive and designed for comfort, for sensual dalliance, perhaps an intimate rendezvous before the flickering flames. My skin prickles. Will I lay atop these fluffy throw rugs with my lover? Is this to be my classroom?
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