L.A. Pirates' Party: tease a Mast

TITLE: L.A. Pirates' Party: tease a Mast

DESCRIPTION: Hubby & Wife invited by a rich pretty friend of her

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##### An entry for the Halloween Story Contest 2022.

This tale includes some light bondage, exposed nakedness, and a touch of Reluctant consent (as in the Pirates' tradition, since... forever).

There will be no cheating, no cuckolding, and no violence. Perhaps some characters might "show" that they are a little afraid, but nothing is too scary.

However, if a husband/Admiral chained by his faithful wife/Duchess to the wooden Mast of a fake corsair ship in a Los Angeles Party may disturb you, please look at many other good tales here.

The first five short chapters serve to build up the situation, anyone interested in the more explicit sexual scenes may skip them to the sixth, and the sex.

The reader is asked to remember that on Halloween night, appearances are deceiving. Everything that happens although seemingly frightening or selfish, in the end maybe it will prove to be consensual and loving: "nothing IS as it SEEMS". Please forgive the mistakes, English is not my native language. #####

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Chapter 1. A Man Chained to the Mast of a Corsair Vessel.

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I stood chained to the huge Mast of a Corsair Vessel.

My lavish Halloween Admiral costume had been torn. Now my jacket was open and my shirt unbuttoned: my soft leather boots were still on, but my pants had literally been ripped away, and my cock was pointing straight ahead.

In front of me, a silver rapier was pointed at me: not at my face, but at my cock, as if the swordfighter wanted to engage in a duel between the two stiff blades. Epic Époque.

With a mischievous grin, my tormentress lifted her wide-brimmed hat over her mane of long hair, and made a broad bow, then she said to me in a wry voice: "Your wife, my best friend, she confessed to me that she is very saddened because of your... let's say... poor performances, Mr. Admiral, Sir."

She darted me a contempt-filled glance, before going on: "You have been a... disappointing husband to her. And today you are about to receive your long-deserved punishment. Are you ready?"

Without waiting for my response, our Mansion Owner turned around. She placed the rapier with the metal filigree hilt on a metal-slatted trunk, opened a large drawer, and pulled out a whip. Not one of those toys you buy in sex shops: a real, menacing cattle whip.

The left corner of her mouth bent into a grimace. "Are you afraid, Admiral?"

"No, no ... it's just a Halloween party, it's all a game ... right?"

She advanced toward me. She had laid down the crimson doublet, and the tulle blouse was widely unbuttoned: one dark nipple protruded from the white cotton, and the other was clearly visible in transparency. Each nipple was pierced to accommodate a large gold ring. She was still wearing the crimson leggings that matched the doublet, snug to the point that I could recognize that her camel toe was completely shaved: on top, a purple and violet silk scarf tightened the shirt that otherwise would have fluttered freely.

As she walked, she stomped the wide heels of her leather boots that reached halfway up her thigh: an expert would have criticized her for being more distinctive than the Musketeers (who rode through brambles and forests) and uncomfortable aboard a real ship, but since she was the Owner of the Mansion, no one contradicted her. And I had less desire to contradict her than anyone else since she was brandishing a whip a few steps away from my exposed cock.

She brought her chin closer to my nose. She was a tall woman, and the wide musketeer heels gave her that slight edge. Also, I had my wrists chained to the mast, and my legs spread apart in a diagonal line, which lowered my stature.

I was restrained with real metal chains, not toys from the supermarket. I wasn't uncomfortable and I wasn't in pain, however, the chains pulled my wrists down and my shoulders felt a constant tension.

"You've got dangerous eyes-I like that. How I would like to eat you alive, Admiral...at least one Bite!" The teeth clicked as if to bite the air in front of my nose looked like Columbia in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Her breath smelled like Rum. A lot. She smelled a lot, from a lot of Rum. And to think I had told my wife I didn't like Rum!

Some corner of my brain tried to stop my big mouth, but I don't know why, I heard my voice speaking without me ruling it, "I don't like Rum, I don't like your Rum breath, and most of all, I don't like you... she-captain Jackie Swallow!"

I thought she was going to whip me to death, but instead, she burst out laughing uncontrollably.

"Ha, ha, how funny you are, Admiral! And you say such silly things... you're going to crack me up if I don't stop you first. And because of that..."

She-Captain Swallow untied the knot of the scarf that wrapped around her waist, involuntarily opening her blouse, and with a mocking smile she said to me in a flat voice, "Do you consent to my gagging you, dear?"

I nodded and opened my mouth. She pressed her erect nipples against my chest as she knotted the scarf: it was tight but not too tight and impregnated with her perfume. A drop of precum gushed involuntarily from my cock, leaving a stain on her camel toe.

"Uh, so many reasons to punish you tonight, Admiral!" chuckled Jackie Swallow. "A mouth too big, and a cock too fast. But it's not my turn now: I'll discipline you later. Don't get cocky: I'll be back!"

Stomping the wide heels, he walked to the cabin door, opened it, and ordered, "Quick! Let Mr. Sponge-Smee in!"

From the door, someone pushed in a staggering person wearing a dirty brown smudged tunic and pants with wide vertical, white, and blue stripes. An aesthetically horrible combination. That person must have been completely drunk because I could smell the stench of Rum from afar. The drunk tried to lift off by leaning against a wooden chest, but the arms were not firm enough. Advancing toward she-captain Jackie Swallow, the person raised an index finger as if to threaten her, and in a hoarse voice gurgled, "You don't give orders inside my cabin!" Swallow laughed boisterously.

Who was that person? I couldn't tell if I was looking at a man or a woman with a hoarse voice. The tunic was too shapeless and the pants too baggy: the head was covered by a crooked wig. But two thin feet peeked out from under the fabric, and they were so pretty, with nails painted with emerald green nail polish...

By all the hurricanes in the Caribbean! I recognized those feet!

As I stood petrified staring at the little feet, the drunk turned toward me, getting down on one knee and removing the toes from my eyes. With one hand she shrugged a tuft of hair from her forehead, showed me the heart-shaped lips I knew so well, and said, "Don't you want a kiss, my love, darling-Admiral? HICCUP! A kiss from your She-Sponge-Smee, drunk as a chicken soaked in Madeira? Huh? Or - HICCUP! - perhaps you would prefer - HICCUP! - That I kiss the head of this insolent cock of yours?"

I closed my eyes so as not to look at my wife reduced to that state. No! It was not possible, there had to be an explanation!

But how had we ended up in such a humiliating predicament?

I tried to remember when this Halloween nightmare had started. It had all started with an invitation card, which my wife had received from her best friend, Jackie.

Chapter 2. A luxurious invitation

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The gorgeous Jackie was my wife Susan's best friend when they were in college. Roommates by chance, friends by choice: they were different but complementary.

Today, Jackie was a famous actress and a very rich woman. With a pharaonic wedding, she married a prominent Hollywood producer, John Jefferson Jameson III (30 years older than she is), who later died in a car accident, leaving her rich and alone. Rumors attributed dozens of casual lovers and young toyboys to her.

My wife Susan had chosen a different career, and if we disregarded brief teenage affairs, I had been the only man she had ever had sex with. Vanilla sex, perhaps boring but always affectionate, gentle (or so I thought). She taught Movie History and was happy, or at least, I thought she was happy until that day.

We lived in a small town in the Midwest. The distance to Los Angeles was measured not in miles but centuries. It was my wife's hometown, and she often said she would never change her residence for anything in the world. It was kind of like those little towns you see in the Christmas Hallmark Movies, you know, those little towns where everybody knows each other and Santa Claus also resides here.

I knew that she had always kept in touch with her BFF (they called each other "My Biff," like a sort of teenage nickname) and a year ago, when her husband had died, she had visited and stayed at her friend's house in Los Angeles all of December, returning home only after Christmas.

After that long visit, my wife returned but seemed somehow changed. On the couch watching TV, or while we were having dinner together, it was evident that the wheels were turning: she would respond to me minutes late as if her brain was thinking about something else.

I tried to confide in some of my buddies in the office or at the bar, but you know how males are... everyone was telling me "she' s cheating on you."

"No, impossible," I replied, "I'm sure she doesn't have a man, I would have noticed!"

One day a friend of mine, who is gay, contradicted my answer in a disorienting way:

"I said that in my opinion, she is cheating on you with a human being, dear-I never said she is cheating on you with a male!"

It was too much. I couldn't take it. I pretended that I had to take a phone call and rushed out. I went to check on the Internet: her widowed friend, in that week, had been photographed in Los Angeles in two different restaurants with two different men... and to check the grammar properly, the sentence means she had two different lovers each time! Jackie would not even have had time to form a relationship with my wife!

I was surprised to think that Jackie was a beautiful actress with the body of a model, while my wife was ... pretty. I mean, let's be clear: I was totally in love and for me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world, however, objectively, it had never happened that Sports Swimsuit contacted her for a Portfolio. Most human beings (myself included) are basic normal average people, only 1% (or even much less) are as beautiful as Hollywood actors, it is obvious.

Chapter 3. A very short Flashback: how two college girls had become friends

Even before that invitation, there was at the root of it all a school acting class. Jackie was beautiful in face and body, but she was slightly stammering; my wife had a beautiful voice, but physically she belonged in another league.

An old, bearded teacher on the first day tried to reject them both: "You're fucked, pretty: nobody wants a stuttering actress. You can be a model, but you can never act. And you, shorty, you can't model either: you're too short. Get out of my classroom!"

My wife could take any insult against herself-but no one could make her BFF cry, not even a drama teacher.

I was not there, but I have been told this story many times, each time inventing new details, and the final version would seem to be as follows.

Jackie began to cry. Susan quivered with rage with her fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles had turned purple. She jumped over the teacher's desk and yelled at him that he was incompetent.

At that insult, the bearded man grew shorter, while Susan grew taller.

At each insult, he grew shorter and she grew taller again.

In the end, he looked like the old Smurf, and Susan looked like Smaug (and, yes: her growl seemed voiced by Benedict Cumberbatch in his lowest moment).

They agreed that if Susan could get Jackie to improve her diction, Jackie would be accepted as an actress. And that Susan herself would take the course, even though she was only interested in Directing. Even after that, she would always avoid performing on a stage (even at our wedding she was so shy!).

Ever since Jackie has always referred to that day as "The Day In Which Little Susan Saved Me by Changing My Life," and she always said that sooner or later she would pay it back.

Chapter 4. A luxurious invitation: reprise.

In September we received a letter of invitation for a Halloween party.

Everything was paid for: travel, hotel accommodation for three days (Saturday, October 29, to Monday, October 31, 2022), and even costumes and items (even a spyglass, among other things). The title of the party was deliberately ridiculous: "Corsairs' Epic Époque."

I joked, "Ah, ah, Epik-epok, it sounds like the duels we used to have with wooden swords as kids-you know, like "lunge! parry! affondo! Ah, cursed! (sticks sword under the armpit) you hit me in the heart! I'm dying... listen to the last words of a dying man, he who is dying always tells the truth..."

Susan distractedly replied to me, "children's plays are always spontaneous...it's all fun and games, until a boring, bearded director full of conceit pretends to teach everyone "how" he, who is a Male, pretends that "you should" act...directors are all obnoxious overbearing little dictators..."

But already I wasn't listening to her. With pen in hand, I was already engaged in dueling in the most classic "dance fencing" in perfect Errol Flynn style: "En garde, buccaneer! Up the stairs! Down the balcony! Cut the rope, and the chandelier will take down twelve privateers in one blow!"

The font used for the envelope was very piratical.

Inside was a map (an ordinary copy of Stevenson's map, from the Treasure Island book), and a scroll with instructions for a minimum of basic roleplaying.

Personally, it was an element of Halloween that had never interested me. Sure, if a girl is wearing a Princess costume, she can draw on a vast repertoire of phrases and responses, but if her partner is dressed as Snow White's prince, and has two or three phrases in all, we don't even know if he hunts or is vegan. Worse yet, if a person was wearing a protagonist costume...it was likely that the character had many facets, from joy to sadness...but if I got an Imperial Guard costume or a generic Cowboy costume, what could I say? Did Solo pull out first?

But that scroll was a wonder. It was as if Jackie had guessed my every fantasy, even though she knew little about me.

My family was Puerto Rican: so from childhood I always spoke Spanish faster than Lin-Manuel Miranda or Gabriel Iglesias. People who knew me well said the accent could be heard: then, for fun, I would imitate my grandmother, with the particular R and S sound, and everyone would say "ah, okay, that's the real accent!"

I was always proud of my family's last name: Alarcón. In the 16th century, Admiral Hernando de Alarcón explored Baja California (maybe; or maybe he made it all up from the comfort of his mansion). And as a child, I dreamed of being an explorer and discovering an island of my own, where I could live with my wife and children. It might have seemed like a silly dream, but I was a child: that remained my dream forever.

Alarcón was easy to pronounce even for Starbucks employees, not like some last names with so many consonants... my name, Lucas, was often understood as Luke, and if I tried to correct it by saying "But no, is Lucas, like the famous director," they would give me a glass that said "George L."... after a few years I gave up. Anyone could call me either Luke or Lucas, the important thing was that my wife always called me "Honey."

For fun or sport, in the school where I was enrolled, there was an older girl with her hair pulled back in a ponytail (always). She had been in the Olympic fencing selection. Fencing in Europe had a deep-rooted tradition, although it was considered less important in the States. Part-time, the school had given her a fencing class, and she was my teacher.

She was very passionate about fencing: and I was very passionate about her. She was so hot, all sweaty under her helmet, with the electrified breastplate tucked under her groin...her thighs always open, in the classic swordsman's stance...and that squeal of hers, every time she touched in a lunge, a mixture of suffering and exultation. Everyone talks about the moans of female tennis players, but oh boy, you'll have to listen first to how a girl moans while holding a rapier!

Every night, in my prayers, I always prayed that I could be turned into the lanyard under her legendary groin, drenched in sweat... That dream remained a dream forever: her senior year she changed cities and I never saw her again. I continued fencing, even after that, both because it is a very complete sport and so that my friends would not allow me to claim that I only participated to see the teacher. How many times did I skewer her, in training... and how many times did I masturbate thinking about skewering my sweet teacher with my meat sword...?

Most importantly, it said that I had to pretend to be lame from my left foot, which exempted me from dancing! You must know that if there was one thing in the world that separated my wife and me, it was participation in dance parties.

Susan, my Vanilla/Susan, was always shy on every occasion except in dance halls filled with moving people. She used to say "if everyone is busy dancing, no one can pay attention to my movements."

But I had never liked dancing and was always looking for excuses to get away. Instead, right on the invitation, it was printed in black and white that I was excused from dancing! Oh, boy, oh, boy, but this was a miracle!

I didn't remember the entire text of the letter of instruction, which was full of pirate expletives and winks at Blackbeard movies. I focused mostly on these four points, which described my character as if for a game of Dungeons and Dragons, or like Peralta when he invents false identities in "Brooklyn Ninety-Nine".

1) NAME. Your name is Lucas De Alarcón.

2) ARISTOCRATIC TITLE: Duke.

3) CAREER: Admiral of the Spanish Fleet in the Caribbean sector. A Hidalgo, born from a noble Madrid family. Strong Spanish accent (any expletives ad libitum allowed), but without boring exaggeration. Highest in rank among the Spanish officers present at the Party.

4) STATUS: married to the noble Dame Susanna De Alarcón y Córdoba [your wife: Susan], born in Maracaibo (Colombia).

5) WEAPONS: celebrated swordsman, known for his propensity to challenge to a duel anyone who disrespected his loyal wife, or the imperial flag of the Spanish Crown. He always wears a silver rapier on his belt, with an openwork filigree silver hilt.

6) STEMMA: Your coat of arms is an island stretching lonely in the middle of the sea, with a tower in the center of three hills, and a flag on the central tower: gold and red.

7) MOTTO: Your motto is "Decipit frons prima multos" which is the language of the ancient Romans, and it means..."

I exclaimed, loudly, "Hey, but I know what it means!"

Then I continued reading, and on the printed sheet of parchment, it read, "I know, that you know. It means that not everything is what it seems: appearances are deceiving. Literally: 'First appearances deceive many people.' But you will have to knowingly say a fake translation to those who ask you: it is a code for identifying spies. You will say, "I have defeated many enemies on the Frontline." When you meet someone who corrects you, that's the good spy who has to let you know an important secret, and so you have to go along with everything that character tells you."

"Wow, honey, this game is great, I'm even involved in a spy plot!"