Free Sex Slave at Sea by Aphrodite Hunt

 
SEX SLAVE AT SEA
     
    1
     
    I’m terrified.
    Or maybe that’s too mild a word.
    I’m in-over-my-head, ‘the zombies are coming
to eat me up’ petrified. My limbs are frozen and I swear I can feel
my bones rattling within their casings of flesh. My throat is
parched and my palms feel drier than a potato chip in the midst of
a scorching desert.
    Oh yes, my knuckles are white and I can’t
stop chewing on them.
    Alice is coming.
    Yes, that Alice – the one who is so
not from Wonderland.
    It’s like waiting on a hospital gurney to be
wheeled into surgery – one that will be performed on you without
anesthesia.
    The trouble with Alice is that she is such
an unknown and unknowable factor. Yes, I know she can be cruel.
There’s that malicious streak in her eyes, and I know she’s
contemplating Guillotine murder whenever she casts her gleaming
gaze upon me. But she has not been physically cruel to me so far.
She has tormented and berated me and made me feel like a squished
worm under her soles.
    In many ways, I’d rather she just punch me
in the mouth and get it over with.
    This waiting – of not knowing what she can
be like – is much, much worse.
    We are in Heather’s room, and I’m
hyperventilating. The luxury yacht is cruising along at a moderate
speed, going to goodness knows where. I didn’t ask, and they didn’t
hazard to tell me. After all, I have no rights. I am merely a
contracted sex slave to the Devlin family and whomever they want me
to open my legs and mouth for.
    Heather is preparing me for Alice.
    I am kneeling on the floor, and Heather has
left the black leather collar around my neck. Because the collar is
a tight choker that straddles the entire length of my neck – with a
metal ring in the middle – I have to keep my head and neck up, like
a debutante learning manners in a Victorian house. The only
movement it allows me is to tilt my head slightly – in all angles –
but I am certainly unable to bend my neck.
    She has finished fucking me no less than
twenty minutes ago, and so Heather has left my nipple clamps
intact. A thin metal chain is threaded through the ring in the
collar. Both its free ends are connected to my nipple clamps – so
that my poor teats are pulled upward mercilessly and my areolas are
very, very taut.
    My entire nipple and areola areas are
majorly numb by now.
    “I like you trussed up,” Heather confesses.
She’s very pretty in an athletic, boyish way. When she smiles, her
mouth curls up in two dimples.
    She is behind me, tying up my elbows and
wrists very securely with black leather straps. In this position,
my chest and ribcage are pulled back and I find it difficult to
take deep breaths. I have to breathe in what I call staccato bursts
– filling my lungs with shallow gulps of air when I am able to. And
this, to me, is more restrictive and indicativeof my slave status
than any of my bonds and chains can ever be.
    Footsteps sound outside the door. My heart
begins to pound.
    Alice is here.
    Oh shit, shit, shit.
    Suddenly, I’m more terrified than I had
thought possible. My breath catches in my throat and wedges itself
in there and simply refuses to budge. My vision begins to swim, and
I feel a cluster of panic attacks coming along in succession.
    It is all I can do to stop peeing on the
floor.
    The door swings open. Alice does not
knock.
    I find myself staring up at her beautiful
face at the doorway. She wears a voluminous silk kaftan that
billows around her with the breeze sweeping down the yacht’s
central corridor. With her gleaming eyes – every bit as predatory
and malicious as I imagined them to be – she resembles a sorceress
from the ninth pit of hell.
    I have to suppress a scream. If Alice knows
how frightened I am, she will torture the terror out of me all the
more. She’s a magnificent cougar, and she senses fear in her
prey.
    Greg is behind her, his body blocked
partially by her caftan. He wears a loose-fitting shirt over his
tight green swimming