Chaos in Paradise Read online

  “I’ve heard worse, and you obviously want to tell me. Am I supposed to absolve you?”

  “What I’ve done is a crime,” I say.

  “Only if you think it is. I debauch my bitch every night. I don’t blast her ass with my belt, but I should if it would make her more docile.”

  “It’s a man’s right,” I sarcastically remind him what the ancients would say.

  “We were taught to believe that. Funny that you’re the one with the conscience and you love it. I’m the one with none and I haven’t found the guts, or maybe even the real desire to lay a heavy hand on my brat.”

  My turn to laugh. “So you do see my problem?” I wonder aloud.

  “I see you’re in love, man. And you’d better make her your wife before you blow apart.”

  He groans as he rises to his feet like the muscles in his massive thighs are aching. He doesn’t need to say more, so he ambles away.

  ***

  We have a date on the beach at five. She likes the sun at that hour. I like the shadows. The cove and caves are cool now. Since it’s been a scorching day, we’ll be glad we’re here, not in her sweltering house—even if her bed is awfully soft and she’s soft inside those wind-dried sheets.

  I get to the cove before her. When she arrives with a bolt of hemp, I can see she wants to be tied.

  “You do it,” I tell her, sitting on my rock.

  I don’t let her know how much I’m looking forward to her lips on me. She trembles perhaps thinking I’m mad at her, but the cold mood is just for her pleasure. I know she wants me cold and distant now. When she wants to be cuddled, she’s close and coy, her body coming on to me like a snake. When she wants domination she stares at me terrified. I’ve seen that expression before and have to shake myself back to reality to remember that this woman has a recognized desire to be punished, and it is her choice.

  Letting her dress fall to her feet, my eyes sting seeing that first view of her. When she turns around, I see two spots on her ass where bruises remain from the last time I whipped her two days ago.

  “Make it tight, let it burn through your crotch,” I tell her.

  That’s exactly the order she’s waiting for, but it makes her frightened. She’s hot even in the cave’s cool shadows, a line of sweat on her upper lip and some running down her neck. I’d like to lick it off with my mouth.

  She unwinds the hemp, the center of the rope going behind her neck, crossing between her breasts in front. Around her waist, the two ends meet in front again and cross to anchor them. She draws one down through her pubis, parting her labia as it passes along the edge of her clitoris. She’s wet.

  “Tight, Teagan,” I remind her as she pulls it up the back and loops it at the waist. “Pull it hard.”

  She strains, face wincing, while I watch the hemp cut into her flesh. The second end is drawn upward—a longer end, it loops about at her heart, and she wraps it several times around her chest, accomplishing a figure eight with her tits. They stick out unnaturally, the flesh grossly strained. The way the rope cuts her looks cruel.

  “Come here,” I order her.

  She does and I turn her around. Seizing the pubis rope from behind I jerk her hard and hear her gasp, a little, “ah noooooo.” Her voice is hardly audible. I gather up what’s slack behind her chest and clenching it, I find at least three inches of extra to tighten down the bondage. I secure her wrists behind her with a rope that attaches to her waist, and then turning her around, push her to the ground.

  Her body’s taut, slightly arched, her breasts thrusting toward my face. She submissively gazes down to the wet beach where the sand grinds into her knees.

  “Look at me,” I order.

  She alters her vision and there are tears in her eyes, but they can’t mask her excitement. In bondage her body has a different fascination. Her nipples can’t be erect with the rope jutting the breast flesh at odd angles. I like them when they’re smooth, just small ripples on the liquid surface, and the pink is pale, more innocent than nipples erect. Her erect chest thrusts out even more, like she’s pushing them at me. I run a finger across from one tit to the other, and notice how they hardly move constrained as they are.

  I have a three finger thong in my pocket. She dreads it, and starts to say “no” when I dangle it in front of her. Oh, how she winces. Her eyes start to tear. It’s easy for me to disregard her fear now. She asked for this, and it’s part of my job to see she doesn’t woo me away with her pitiful eyes.

  The first lash to her chest leaves three small lines on the left side of her left breast. With a second strike, there’s a matching three on her right. She bites down, clenches her teeth, strains to alter her position, avoiding a direct hit to the nipples. She loses the fight. The pale complexion looks like skin scratched with fingernails, though this bites deeper with the threat of breaking the skin. I stop short of that. I rather leave wounds like that on her ass than anywhere else—though I’ve never been that cruel to her.

  I watch as the lively haughtiness of her spirit dwindles away, making her face vacant and accepting. Her lids lower so I can just barely make out the sex-look pouring from them. Her lips are wet when she unconsciously licks them, like she’s savoring the sensation of sexual thirst and hunger. Is she satisfied?

  “Bow,” I finally order, seeing that she is about to teeter in a faint from holding the awkward position.

  Is that relief I see in her eyes? Taking the focus from her breasts that can hardly bear a beating, I retreat to the stout ass that’s used to being abused.

  I stalk her cowing body and delight in her from every angle. She presses her face into the beach, sand clinging to her sweat. If she licks her lips she’ll feel that grit between her teeth.

  Her arms must ache drawn so tightly behind her. Her ass flares open and exposed. I’m happy just to watch her grow more anxious, seeing her anticipation mount along with mine. Flicking the thong along my leg, we hear the snap of leather to leather, sounding a lot like leather on skin. I squat down, noting that there are more tears forming in her eyes. Wiping them gently, I am in awe of the utter meekness of spirit she portrays. Though I almost decide not to hurt her, she would be unhappy if I simply left her with this. Standing again, I take the position to best thrash her behind and then begin.

  The cracks go astray from the start. Novel thing, this thong. I can glide it seductively over her silky surface, or make it bite like a cat. I watch it as it climbs between the cheeks of her ass, hits head on and then curls nastily around her hips. She shrieks every time it stings her skin.

  “Oh, my gawd, no more,” she screams.

  I aim purposefully for her pubis, and the cries echo through the caves and back again, when one aimless piece nips the sliver of engorged skin at her vagina’s door.

  I think I’m as lost as she is, as taken with the task and happy to be seeing this woman of no virtue suffer. But still I am in love and that love moves me.

  Dropping the thong by her face, I drop to the sand and roll her to her back. The look in her eyes is somewhere between desperation and surrender. Then, while she lies uncomfortably on her bound hands, I fuck her. She drifts under me so I’m aware that she is only half with me. Still, she whispers “I love you.” I love her back, kissing her as my cum drives inside the feminine flower. I feel the shuddering orgasm in her start small, then mount in fervor. Suddenly, she arches into my chest and thrashes against my groin and utters love talk nonsense unthinkingly. Feeling the tight squeeze against my wilting erection, I know her cum is strong.

  Sand is a messy place to screw. We’re covered in it and laughing as we roll top to bottom, and then land side to side. There must be sand in her cunt since there’s plenty scratching my cock.

  “Keven, you’re not going to end this, are you?” she asks me timidly as I undo the ropes. She’s rarely timid.

  “End? End what? We have to stop sometime, don’t you think? I suppose I have obligations and so do you.”

  “Not today, silly, but you and
me? We won’t go on forever.” She’s obviously serious.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I know it’s true, that’s why. I’m scared to love anyone. Every time I have in the past I lose it.”

  “I see no reason why we should stop loving each other,” I answer her with a lie.

  “But sometimes your eyes look at me so sadly. I think you’re saying good-bye.”

  “Maybe we have a lot in common concerning love,” I suggest. “And maybe we should forget about endings and just pretend we’ll go on forever.

  She smiles, wedging herself against my side, her head pressed into my chest. I still feel her crotch heat on my leg. We’ll have to take a dip in the ocean to get clean again, and maybe move indoors for the remainder of the night.

  Chapter Five

  When I look in his eyes, his compassionate affection greets me, but a severity resides in there too as if he believes, as much as I do, that I deserve to be made penitent and humble. I suppose this would be recompense in the Utopian North. I should ask him, but I rather like not knowing how this world works. I figure I’m only borrowing it until I find I don’t fit here anymore.

  When he whips me, I hate the pain, but the physical satisfaction at the end prevents my stopping him. Then too, sometimes the pain becomes the sweetest pleasure. I cum now because I love him. There’s a gentle man behind the harsh lashings and he never leaves me cold. I wonder if he’s ever angry. Such calm. He displays the serenity of a god, the compassion of a doting mother and the wisdom of a great sage.

  “Tell me about you,” I ask him very late one night.

  “I cut wood and I love you. What more do you need to know?”

  “You’re hiding something.”

  “Then probably some things are best kept hidden.”

  “I won’t hate you if you tell me the truth.” I promise him.

  “Perhaps not, but I’m not taking any chances,” he laughs. “Tell me about you.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. You keep mum, so will I.”

  “And maybe we’ll both like each other better this way,” he says. Though I’ve skirted the lascivious details, I’ve already told him so much about myself that I know we have an unfair balance. I assume he figures the worst, since he seems to have a reasonable understanding of how things are different where I used to live.

  “You’re not afraid of being found out?” I ask.

  “No one here cares if woodcutters fuck women from the South.”

  “I thought all sex was criminal outside of marriage?”

  “Not when the Provincial Lord is screwing a mistress.”

  “He’s not married?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “What a strange place.”

  “But it is a peaceful one.”

  “That it is.” I can curl my toes about his feet and let my wet pussy massage his thigh all night long. I don’t long for anything being inside his atmosphere where I feel him alive around me. And while I’m sure this will end someday, I won’t think about it now.

  ***

  When I see Mariel coming down the road, I recoil a little inside. She worries me. She walks with a sexual elegance I wish I had. But it is her winsome expression of detachment that concerns me, that expression that floats like the wispy locks of hair around her face. She’d be torn apart in the South, but I’m afraid her fate will be worse here.

  She holds me as she hugs me, her tenderness disappearing into mine, until I’m afraid we’ll simply drop to the bed and make love without saying a word. I pull away and she looks at me disappointedly, but I say nothing.

  “What’s the best/best sex you’ve ever had?” she asks while she sits stirring honey into chamomile tea with a small silver spoon. Dipping a slim finger into the steamy liquid, she brings it to her small mouth to taste. Opening her lips, that finger slides slowly down her tongue as she starts to smile, her eyes sweet as the honey she tastes on her skin.

  “It’s happening now.”

  “But I want to know about before. Was Cabot the very best?”

  “Cabot was brutal. I don’t think he had a soul. Despite the way I love brutality, I don’t like men who give me nothing but savagery.”

  “Was there another?” she wonders.

  “There was Monsieur.”

  “Monsieur who?”

  “Monsieur Boudin.” I feel a strange whimsy cavorting in my crotch just saying his name.

  “Did he tie you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And beat you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Oooo,” I can feel her titter elatedly hearing that. Her eyes become more mellow. “Tell me.” Her hand returns to her crotch, it seems to be her favorite place to put it.

  “Monsieur Boudin took me in when I fled Cabot. He was much older than me. Graying and uninspiring by his look. He let me rest for several weeks, but then declared that he couldn’t afford to feed me—unless, of course, I was willing to give him some sexual reward for his kindness.”

  “I think I’d walk away from that,” Mariel says, drawing her hand from her crotch as though she’s disgusted with the man already.

  “But I was attracted to him. He was amazingly sexual and I’d been waiting for two weeks for him to make a sexual move. I was relieved when he finally did, but then was surprised by his request. He wanted me to pose for him naked, so he could take pictures with an old camera. He found a way to develop the photographs on handmade paper he created himself. The shots of me were blurred images, though there was a quality about them that made them pleasingly lurid. Each time I posed, I did so for an hour or two. He was quite focused in his work, and had a thousand pictures in his mind for me. I suppose it was foreplay because when he finished, his penis was erect and we’d make love. I was as aroused as he was.”

  Mariel is engaged again with her hand returning to massage herself—the molten expression in her eyes inspires a tale I’m sure will be embellished beyond the facts.

  “After several days of agreeing to his desires, I could sense the sexual tension between us build the longer he worked. My juice would dampen my cunt hair and the pink folds of skin between. I can only imagine the shudders of desire that passed through him. When I caught a certain look in his eyes, I knew he was ready for me. But he’d wait to the bitter ends of anticipation, until we were both too ripe for another second’s delay.”

  Mariel’s hand becomes more eager, unconsciously lifting her skirt inch by inch. I watch as it slowly makes its way up her leg—that leg pink/white and lightly speckled with small dark beauty marks that point the way to her savory snatch at the apex of her thighs. I move on with my story wondering how far she’ll go this time.

  “My appetite for him grew—I’m sure it was the foreplay of photographs. He loved me being lewd, playing for the camera, though sometimes he demanded I be perfectly still for minutes on end which seemed almost impossible with his intent eyes so focused on my sex and thighs. He’d come to me putting a hot hand on my ass while I was on hands and knees, and gently move my ass or part my legs to the exact degree that suited him. It would be my wish to move into that simple tenderness, but he’d slap my behind if I so much as shuddered from his touch.

  “He said he’d have to restrain me if I didn’t behave. I loved him reprimanding me. But the jolt to my cunt would rock my ass again, so when he spanked me it would be hard enough to leave the red imprint of his hand.”

  “Tell me how he tied you,” Mariel purrs in kitten-soft whispers as she removes a breast from inside her dress and kisses it with her pale lips. The nipple is soft as she lifts the flesh to her face, but when she runs her tongue along the surface, the brown bud twitches slightly as though it will tighten.

  “Don’t rush me,” I scold her like Monsieur might scold me, because I’m enjoying the control my words have over her physical response. I think back to that odd time, actually wondering why I left the photographer. He gave me everything I wanted. “I remember well the day another man app
eared while Monsieur was taking pictures. He was a strapping young fruit farmer from the valleys. There was dirt clinging to his trousers and the sleeves of his crude shirt were rolled well above his elbows. His browned skin looked soft with a layer of sun-bleached hair. I stared at his hands wishing they were free to maul my flesh. The way they trembled, I know he had the same picture in mind that I did. ‘Go to her,’ Monsieur finally told him. And his camera kept focusing on the next photograph while the farmer and I made love.”

  I see Mariel’s fingers dart inside the slip of skin between her open thighs and bury deep, while one hand still rests on the dainty handle of the china teacup.

  “He roughed me up heartily. Those hands of his were uncommonly strong and he had little use for sensual foreplay. Diving into me crudely, he squeezed my ass until I screamed, tore at my breasts, taking my nipples between his fingers and pinching them until my eyes would fill with tears. Then he smirked with a pleasant scowl. He enjoyed writing pain along my body lines with his incisive pen. After one raucous ride on his hefty prick, he pulled out of my cunt and straddled my head, prodding the thing into my mouth until I was about to gag. Monsieur was hot too, and moved on us both, bringing his mouth to my cunt. With both ends of me engaged I was crazed, forced to let go as if I was drunk on liquor. I suppose we fucked for hours, but I’m not certain. The last thing I remember was being straddled atop the farmer, his prick pressed deeply into my cunt, and Monsieur at my behind, entering my ass. They fucked me simultaneously, jarring my insides like they’d tear me apart. All the while they fed the orgasm from within and without, in places I’ve never felt such sexual glee—and fear. When the farmer exploded, Monsieur followed and I could do nothing but joy in the vibrations of their endings, letting mine slowly join theirs until there was just one shuddering climax.”