tagHumor & SatireWhale of a Tale

Whale of a Tale


Martin woke up and assumed that he was in Heaven. At least, he hoped it was Heaven and not the alternative. Dying had been a disappointment, not at all what he had expected. No tunnel of light, no welcoming messenger, no flashback to events of this life or any former ones. Just the shock of the southern ocean, the impact of the rogue wave that had swept him overboard, his last sight the screaming face of his wife as she had reached to save him, tried to grab him, and perhaps had joined him in the icy depths.

They had been so close, so close. The evil Japanese whaling ship had been no more than ten feet away, close enough to smell it, close enough that he could hear the curses of the sailors, even over the roar of the waves. Of course, boarding it would have been problematic even with cooperation, in those heavy seas. The side of the larger ship was moving up and down at least twenty feet, in a cycle that lasted not more than five or six seconds. Still, he had been reaching out with the grappling hook, trying to make contact. On the other ship they had been brandishing big poles, trying to push him away. And Bob, from BBC, had been faithfully recording it all -- he'd even been on satellite phone, live back to London, commenting on Martin's heroic, foolhardy attempt to turn back the whaling fleet.

He probably had not saved a single whale, but he had managed to kill himself in the process. And his wife, what had happened to her? He had the sick realization that she might have been clinging to him as he had hit the water. After that -- nothing. Either he had passed out, or his mind had simply stopped recording, or the memory had been lost. Well, perhaps it was for the best. There are some things best left unknown.

We all die some time, somehow. Why not do it in a heroic, foolish way? Better than the way his parents had died, his mother so much younger than his father, dying first, unexpectedly, of cancer, her mind perfectly lucid to the end, while her body disintegrated into a mass of pain, or his father, body perfectly healthy, mind completely absent. Both had withered slowly into points, not slowly enough, outliving any reason to prolong their existence. Twenty-seven, he was going to be thirty soon, middle age was setting in. Wasn't there more and more hair in his comb each time? Little love handles, a layer of thick skin obscuring the stippled beauty of his abs? And his wife, all she was talking about was having a baby, how it was time to settle down, get a job, buy a house, an SUV, a dog. His life was over, in any case. He had talked her into this one last, great adventure, three months to save the whales, before he settled into the long slow glide to damnation.

And now he'd gone and killed himself. His wife too, most likely. So, it was time to find out what happened next. So far, Heaven was not what he had expected. It was very dark. It wasn't very warm. He was lying on his stomach on a rather hard mattress, a thin sheet or blanket on his back not doing much to ward off the cold. He thought that he was naked, but when he tried to feel his body, he found that his hands were bound somehow, up above his head. Feet bound too, when he tried to shift them. There was something covering his eyes and ears -- a sleeping mask, perhaps. He could not see anything, hear anything. He wasn't going anywhere. Someone had made very sure he wasn't leaving the bed, or whatever it was.

His muscles were moving, all on their own. He felt as if he were swimming. Images of the ocean depths flooded with brain. He was a penguin, flying effortlessly through the icy waters. Maybe he wasn't dead. Maybe what he was seeing was real. Perhaps, he was spurting under sea. He had suffered a sea change. He was a merman, a marine Marty. Then, something told him that he was a mermaid, with cute little breasts just budding, and he tried to feel them, but he had no hands, only flippers. Mercifully, the nightmare ended and he sank once more into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke again. Something was pressing at his lips. A feeding tube! He remembered with despair how both his parents, at the end, had fought off the feeding tubes. God! He wasn't dead! Not yet! But he was not going to live that way! He tried to clamp his jaw shut, and discovered that he could not. Something was holding it open. He was forced to swallow whatever was being injected into his mouth. He managed to taste a bit of it on the way down --- sweet, tangy, not too bad.

The blanket slid away, letting a cold draft hit his bare skin. The mattress shifted with the weight of another body, and he felt hands on his shoulders, kneading sore muscles -- strong hands, expert hands that knew how to work out the knots. The hands worked lower, down his back, then further onto the back of his legs. Above the hands, lips were kissing his cheeks, teeth were giving him little nibbles. Oh, he did this to his wife, just to torment her, just to make her squirm at the thought of where the next nibble, the next kiss, might be planted. But it never happened. She would lock her legs together and roll over to make sure it landed somewhere more appropriate,

But now, he didn't have that option. He realized how wide apart his legs were spread, but he could do nothing to draw them together. The hands moved higher, rubbing his ass, spreading the cheeks wider still, and the kisses worked their way inexorably downward and inward. He was moaning, in protest or pleasure. The kisses moved down, past the danger zone, to the back of his balls, and he almost relaxed. Then there was a lick, right on his asshole, fingers urging it open. He gasped as he felt a tongue attempt to invade him. It tickled. The fingers were scratching him, trying to pull him open, to make room for the tongue. The chin behind it was chafing him, giving him beard burn.

He gave a little whimper of discontent, the best he could do through the gag, and the tongue withdrew. He felt the warm pressure of another body on his back, kisses now on his neck, then a sharp bony finger where the tongue had been before. He squirmed a little in protest, but the finger kept shoving in, rubbing, probing, just like at the doctor's. His wife would try that sometimes, when she was giving him a blow job, but he had never really enjoyed it. Usually it was a sign that she was getting really impatient, and it was time to move on to something more interesting. The finger withdrew, and softer, thicker flesh pushed into its place. He had no doubt that it was a penis, a real one, not a dildo. He could feel it pressing, pressing, straining against him, then, suddenly, forcing its way through the barrier of his inner ring in a burst of pain. He groaned, and the flesh within him froze, letting him twitch around it. There were more kisses on his neck, hands stroking his lower back. Slowly, he relaxed. The twitching stopped. The pain began to subside.

He felt the body above him moving, pressing down on him. The flesh within his bowels was sliding back and forth. He realized dimly that he was being fucked.

Certainly, it had to be a rape. He was blindfolded, bound and gagged, completely helpless. Even if he had been able to move, he was so weak from his ordeal, so disoriented, that he would have been defenseless. A rape, no doubt about it. He would never have consented to such a thing. His wife had seen some stuff on pegging on the internet, and she had been teasing him about going after him with a strapon. She'd even said once she'd do anal if he would. But even that hadn't been enough to entice him. There was no way. Her finger was enough to make him squirm. And now he had an actual penis up his butt. He was being brutally raped.

The only thing was, it wasn't all that brutal. It was slow, gentle, cuddly. He liked it. He liked the feeling of that other body rubbing against his back. His wife would do that sometimes, caressing him with her breasts, but it always wound up with him turning around. There was nothing much more she could do behind him like that. But now there was something, a very interesting something, a terrifying, exhilarating something. He had always wondered what it was like to be fucked, what his wife was feeling, on the other end, as he was driving himself into her. Now he knew. He was starting to like it. He wanted more. He squirmed a little, but only to push his butt up, to try to open himself wider. He could feel bone against him now. There wasn't going to be any more. The body behind him began to move a little faster, pulling almost all the way out, beyond the inner ring, letting it close, then forcing its way back through. It hurt each time, but in an interesting way. He was starting to look forward to that little burst of pain, that scratch for an itch he had never known he had. Then it stopped hurting.

Then it stopped completely. All that was left was a dull ache, like blue balls only deeper, and sweat, maybe not his own sweat, on his back.

He felt a pin prick on his shoulder. He was very drowsy again. The blankets were on his back once more. That was the last thing he remembered.

* * * *

"How are you feeling?"

She had expected to see the doctor, that skinny little French faggot, but instead it was Bob. Blonde, beautiful Bob with the big fluffy beard, and the little bald spot like a skull cap.

Feeling, how was she feeling? She tested her limbs. They were stiff, but all moving. Fingers, toes, wrists, ankles, knees, hips, shoulders -- they were all intact as far as she could tell. "A little stiff. Cold."

"Monsieur Le Doc says nothing broken. Yes, you will be cold. You took a little ocean dip."

"I did? Oh, my God! Marty!" It all came back to her in a rush.

"Gone, my dear."

"Gone?" She tried to fathom it. "Gone," she repeated. "How long?"

"Two days."

"Two days? I've been asleep for two days?" She felt bionic. There were little tubes sticking up into her nostrils, presumably delivering oxygen. Her left arm was swathed in tape, anchoring a long tube attached to an IV drip bag. Something was taped to her left index finger. A wire led over to a monitor, a green line that jumped into a squiggle each time her heart beat. A cuff on her bicep contracted painfully, and another monitor reported her blood pressure, presumably, in metric units that meant nothing to her. She was wearing some sort of band around her head also. Brain waves, they were checking to see if she had brain waves. Judging by that screen, apparently not.

"We weren't sure you were ever going to wake up. We had to warm you back up very slowly."

She realized that she had bags packed all around her, bags of water. Not particularly warm water, at that. Bob had his tiny little digital camera out. He was taking a video of her. He pulled back the blankets to get a better shot of the bags. She squirmed, as she realized she was naked. He shifted a couple of bags to cover her nipples and her crotch, and resumed filming.

"You can't put that on the air, can you?"

"Possibly. Someone will edit out the nasty bits." He gave her a predatory smile.

"Nasty bits?" She sat up to retrieve the blanket. It had somehow fallen completely off the bottom of the bed, down onto the floor, out of reach. Of course, that meant that the bags that had covered her breasts were dislodged.

"Well, of course, I don't think they're nasty at all." He was openly leering at her now. She probably wasn't looking her best, mummified with tape and tubes. After two weeks at sea though, any woman probably looked pretty tasty. Weren't there stories about sailors fantasizing that seals and dolphins were women -- wasn't that where mermaids had come from?

She had not realized what she was getting into. It was a mixed crew, Marty had assured her, there would be other women on board. Nothing to worry about, just like a cruise. But it wasn't like a cruise, not at all. A cruise lasted a week, with thousands of people aboard. There were only ten of them, and they had been together for two weeks now, on this tiny little ship where there was really no privacy, no way to escape constantly bumping into the same people all the time. And there was only one other woman, part of an older married couple. The two of them had felt as if they were under siege, from the first day they had stepped on board.

She reached down over the edge of the bed for the blanket, but it was too far away. The various things she had tied to her were holding her back. All that accomplished was the dislodgment of the bag that had been covering her pussy. She lay back in exasperation. She could have closed her legs, covered her breasts with her hands. She probably should have done those things, but she didn't. Instead, she pouted. "You could be a gentleman and hand me the blanket."

"There are better ways to keep you warm, my dear." He was pulling off that thick fisherman's sweater. Funny, she had never seen him without it. The torso beneath it was surprisingly scrawny. It reminded her of the time her cat had fallen into the toilet. He was wearing a tee shirt beneath. He didn't bother with that. He just casually pulled off his pants, boxers along with them, and stepped out of them as they hit the floor. There was one part of him that wasn't skinny at all.

"Bob, wait, I'm ..."

"You're what?" He had crawled beside her, half on top of her, kissing her breasts, but he kissed her on the mouth to stop her protests. "You're what? Married? You are not married any more, my dear."

"Bob, please ..."

"Please what? This has been coming for a long time. You know it. I know it. We both know it."

"No!" She felt him half heartedly attempting to penetrate her, and she squirmed away. Bob's bravado seemed to be terminating at his waist. He wasn't exactly going to batter his way in. No, just like poor dead Marty, he was going to need a little help -- a nice blowjob, and she would have to be loose and ready for him.

"No, what? Sharon, you are not married any longer. There is no reason to deny yourself, any longer."

"It's not that. I can't do it, not like this."

"Yes you can. See." Somehow, he had stiffened, somehow, he had managed to penetrate her, after all. How long had it been since anyone but Marty had fucked her? How long, for that matter, had it been since Marty had done it? Too long. He started to move, and it seemed completely normal. He was, perhaps, a tad bigger than Marty. She felt him stretching her, pushing down into places Marty had never reached. He was all the way to the bottom, pressing at her cervix, ready to part it, ready to shoot his seed directly into her womb.

Then, too late perhaps, she woke up. "No!" She kicked him, pushed him away from her. "Stop! Not like this!"

"What's the matter!? Bob's face was a mask of horror. "Sharon, for the sake of God, you can't leave me like this!" He would have thrust back into her, but she had rolled herself into a ball, legs pressed tight together.

"You're not wearing a rubber."

"My dear." Bob had recovered enough that his tone was sardonic. "I assure you that I am quite free of nasty little diseases. Even were I not, we have already been quite thoroughly exposed to each other."

"You don't understand!"

"You have AIDS?" Bob was wilting rapidly at that thought.

"No, asshole, I do not have fucking AIDS." Sharon rolled out of fetal position, sat up to glare at him. "It's just that I'm not on any birth control."

"What?" That thought seem just as unsettling. "You and Marty were planning to have a child?"

"I was." She could not hide her bitterness. "We've been, I've been, tempting fate for quite a while now."

"Did he know?" Bob sat down on the bed next to her, put an arm around her.

She shook her head, and started to cry. "I'm sorry," she said, and caught herself. Sorry for what, that he couldn't finish raping her? What bullshit! But she was, genuinely, sorry. She'd been flirting with Bob for a while now. He was the only one that had any attraction at all for her. Not that it would have amounted to more than that. She never would have betrayed her marriage vows. But now she was a widow. A merry widow. Two days and she was already off and running. Really, about five minutes of consciousness. Somewhere in the great beyond, Marty was probably really, really pissed at her. She felt a brief spasm of guilt.

Then Bob took off his tee shirt, and she decided he really wasn't all that scrawny after all. He was wiry strong, each muscle fully defined, like an anatomy book. She reached over to touch his cock, slippery now with her desire. "I can give you a nice blow job," she offered.

"I can't come that way." He was turning her over onto her side, lying down behind her back.

"What are you doing?" Everything seemed dreamy, unreal. She realized, dimly, that there must be a sedative in that drip. She should have been freaking out completely. Well, hadn't she wanted to try it up the ass? She had dropped hints to Marty, which he had ignored completely. What was she supposed to do, blurt out "fuck me up my fucking asshole," like in the porn movies?

"Yes, my dear, if you put it like that. Of course, that is exactly what I intend to do."

She realized with horror that she had actually said it aloud. She started to explain that she hadn't really meant it, but her protests were lost in a gasp as she felt him invade her. Wasn't it supposed to hurt? It wasn't hurting much at all. It just felt -- strange. Stranger still as he pressed in deeper, filling her completely, pushing through the end of her rectum and on into her bowels. She could feel his thighs flat against her, as he lay there, almost motionless, just relishing how completely he had impaled her.

"Are you going to do something?" Men chose the strangest moments to decide to get cuddly. She was lying on her left arm, the one with the IV, and she could feel the needle biting into her. Her right leg was already starting to go to sleep. The tape attached to her finger had slipped off, and the pulse monitor had flat lined. God only knew what her brain waves were doing. Or her blood pressure. The dick up her ass was the least of her worries. Let's get on with it! But he was snuggling against her, running his hands around the base of his penis to confirm just how deeply he had plunged within her.

"Eventually, my dear." He wiggled in and out just a little, just enough to make her wonder how interesting it would be if he wiggled a bit harder. "It's been a long time getting here. I'm going to relish the moment."

"I'm getting cold."

"Oh, very well." And he withdrew completely, he got off the bed, retrieved the blanket, draped it over her, crawled in beside her, a stuck himself back up her asshole, as casually as if they had done it all a hundred times before. "Better?"

He was just lying there again, moving almost imperceptibly. "Bob, are you planning on fucking me any time soon?"

"I believe, my dear, that I am doing that at this very moment."

"Could, you like, pick up the pace?"

"Are you in a hurry? You are planning on going somewhere? Personally, I don't have much else planned for the afternoon, do you? I am going to slowly work myself up to a point where all my flesh is glowing, and just hold it there. You should try it, my dear. It's a wonderful way to pass the time."

So she did. She tried to concentrate on each little thrust, the way it felt as his flesh slid through the valves at the end of her rectum, the way it was pressing against the sweet spot in her vagina. After a while, she gave up on that and reached down with her free hand to bring herself off, as if she were by herself, the way she did some nights with Marty snoring beside her. Then she dozed off.

* * * *

He reached a point of awareness again. He could not be sure, really, if he was awake. What was happening to him? He tried to work through the possibilities. He was dead. This was his near death experience. Beyond that, this was his afterlife, some eternal limbo where he would drift alone, gradually giving up the remnants of his sanity. He wasn't dead yet. He was still in the icy waters of the southern ocean, waiting to die. Hypothermia had put him into a dream state. Well, this was one hell of a dream. If this was a repressed fantasy, it had been pretty well repressed.

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