We’re sailing near the Chinese “research” station in Antarctica. The crew is being very quiet. We’re sailing, no engines, and no lights. No power.
My feeling is that something dodgy is going on. Others in the crew claim not to know, though. I believe most of them. I don’t think it’s any sort of espionage. Crime is a safer bet. I’ve scheduled this post to appear in eight hour’s time so it doesn’t interfere with whatever’s going on.
I’m still in the frozen south. We’re sailing off the coast of Antarctica, though we’ve rowed in to a few places and walked about. I’d like to go to the hot water beach at Deception Island, but it may not be possible.
For technological reasons I can’t post pictures at the moment, and for personal reasons (I don’t fancy anyone on the crew) there seems to be nothing very sexual about the Antarctic environment.
This isn’t disenchantment. This is one of the wildest places on earth, and the most beautiful, in an unearthly way. The white cliffs, twisted out of frozen water, against greyer skies and grey-white water, are eldritch, weird. I love it here.
I should be telling you ghost stories, with banshees, sirens and other such dangerous mythical women. But those myths aren’t from here, and there are no people here to create their own myths. So those personages don’t belong.
I’m in Antarctica, on the yacht Rollit, which used to belong to the son of a corrupt South Pacific politician. (His father was his country’s Minister of Education.) Years ago I helped the son load it with sacks of Buddha sticks, under the watchful bribed eyes of Customs officials. Then it sailed to South Africa. Where it competed with Durban Poison, the local product.
Now I’m on the same yacht, which is under new ownership and management, and has no particular unlawful purpose. Or none I’m aware of.
Anyway, there’s more to be said about Antarctica, but when I finally managed to get a connection for my Internet dongle thing, I started getting messages telling me that hot women in Antarctica are dying to meet me. “Hi,” says Sarah, who sends a naked pic of herself though I never asked for one, and who lives a few miles from me (which means she’s in the mid-Southern Ocean), “wanna chat?”
I don’t think I do. I suspect that guys who’ve been here for longer than I have, though, would would not only want to chat to a female bot program, they’d be prepared to dig up a dead penguin and bum it.
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I
put the hand holding the belt on the small of her back and pushed her forward, so she bent a little, expectant. She arched back to meet my other hand, which stroked its way between her buttocks, slipping two fingertips up into her cunt. Diane was a wet girl, still, and the things that she expected to happen now were keeping her wet.
But that wasn’t what the belt was for. Not then. I pulled her flapping shirt tails back into place, so her spine was still visible but her bottom mostly covered, and put the belt round her waist. “Breathe out,” I said, and Diane exhaled shakily, then sucked in her tummy. I tightened the belt hard enough to allow her to breath, but leaving her uncomfortable.
She might pass, to a casual glance, as a girl who was fashionably under-dressed, but still dressed. I said, “Okay?”
Diane said, “Would you kiss me, sir?”
I stepped in front of her, and gathered her in, her bundles of switches between our bellies. There’d been tears in her eyes, though they hadn’t spilled. She was smiling. I kissed her eyes, then the end of her nose, then her mouth. The kiss stayed, and stuck. Diane pulled the switches out from between us and put her arms round me.
Eventually we separated. I stepped back at looked at her. “You look beeautiful,” I said. “And absolutely debauched. Absolutely … beyond hot. Depraved.”
“Oh, I’m the pervert?”
“I can take that shirt off you, you know.” But I took her free hand, and led her out of the park.
A woman who was about to be whipped with the switches she was carrying, and then fucked while she bled, strolled home with the man who was going to pleasure her in that way, and while they walked they talked silliness about developing a sitcom in which Girls Aloud move in with Metallica and Metallica’s evil Norwegian housekeeper, which tells you roughly the year when all this happened.
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I made Diane walk ahead of me, partly for her safety, and partly to remind her that her back was essentially naked, from just below her neck all the way down to her shoes. She knew that I was watching her walk, and that any other person who came along that path would have the same view as I had.
She looked around nervously once she’d passed through the first lit area. There was no-one around, but I didn’t want her to be certain of that. I smacked her thigh, hard but without ceremony, and told her to keep her eyes forward.
Diane only nodded in response, and kept walking. I considered punishing for not acknowledging the order. But that would distract her attention from her humiliation. Anyway, she obeyed me, looking straight ahead, her ripped shirt billowing behind her as she carried her bundle of switches to the place they would be used on her.
I could sense her tension rising as each step took her closer to the edge of the park and the more brightly-lit streets. We were in one of the darker areas on the path out of the park, approaching the last of the park’s lights before we reached the street. I said, “Stop.”
Diane stopped. She said nothing, and didn’t turn around. I said, “Feet apart, Diane,” and as she moved her feet I took my belt off.
It’s a thick belt, slightly too heavy to be worn with a suit. But I always have it with me, just as I always have condoms in my wallet. So Diane could hear the leather sliding through the hoops of my suit pants.
There’s a sort of sinister sussurus, leather against wool, speeding up as the leather is freed from the last couple of loops. She hadn’t heard that sound before, but she knew what it was.
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Diane looked at the shirt, and at me. She said, “I can’t wear that. There’s nothing to wear.”.
I said, “put it on.”
So Diane did. I let her do up the bottom button. It still gave her very little cover. I smacked her bottom, which was bare, for all relevant purposes. She made no protest, or reaction. We were past that. I gave her her bundle of switches.
“You carry those. When we get home I’m going to whip you with them.”
Diane took the switches, and said nothing. I said, “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
I smacked her bottom again. “What do you understand?”
“I carry these. And when we get home, you’re going to whip me with them. Um, sir.”
“Good. That’s better. Let’s go.”
And we walked out of the little copse, where so much had happened and changed, and onto the path, under the lights.
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Diane picked up her discarded shirt, shook it free of pine needles and leaves, and made to put it on.
I said, “No.”
“No?”
“Di-ane.” She heard the exasperation in my voice, and quickly took the shirt off her shoulders. “I said to bring it here.”
Diane folded the shirt. She walked towards me, holding it before her in both hands.
She stood in front of me, regarding me gravely. She was trying to be good, or look as if she was. I still had some righteous anger. But I didn’t want to whip her again, or lecture her.
I took the shirt. It was a man’s shirt, old, threadbare, a legacy of a former lover or a gift from a cheap current one. I could give her the shirt I was wearing, later that night. My shirt was better.
Diane suddenly understood how she was going to walk home with me. She said, “SIR!” She was shocked, but I was still Sir. I tore the shirt up the back, from the bottom hem all the way to the yoke.
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Afterwards Diane rested against me, both feet on the ground and her bottom pressed hard against my crotch. The woollen material of my suit both hurt and comforted her. She was still panting, trying to get her breath back. “Oh, sir,” she murmured, and then again, “oh, sir.” Calling a lover “sir,” was a novelty. She liked it, and there was a little catch, a kind of chuckle in her breath, after she said it. It wasn’t a laugh of humour, just pleasure.
I had my arms round her, under her breasts, my hands clasped at her stomach, half supporting her. I kissed her ear and whispered, “Come on, girl. We’re going home.”
Diane looked down. She saw what I saw, what anyone would see if they walked through the park and turned off into this grove. A naked girl, the tops of her thighs darkly welted and streaked where I had switched her. “Like this?” She sounded amused.
“You don’t want to walk back naked? It’d serve you right if I made you. So everyone can see you had to be whipped.” It occurred to me to add, “then your neighbours would know what a slut you are:” That seemed a hot thing to say, but some girls like the word ‘slut’ and some don’t. I wasn’t sure, with Diane, so I left it.
“I didn’t have to be whipped.”
“Yes, you did. I told you to bring me your shirt, and you threw it away. Was that obedient?”
“No, sir.”
“So did you deserve to be whipped?”
There was a short pause while she considered this. “Ahm, that sounds credible, though it shouldn’t. But I suppose so. Yes, sir. I did.” She was surprised to hear herself say that.
I wasn’t. “That’s right, you did. And if I have to whip you again, Diane, it’ll be harder.” Her stomach fluttered a little under my hands, when that was said. Though that must have been something she knew. “Now. This time, go and get that shirt, and bring it to me.” I left go of her stomach, and smacked her bottom, hard.
Diane started forward.
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Diane leaned back against me, still stroking her cunt, hard and fast, with finality. She lifted her thigh to be whipped, as I’d commanded, but though I’d told her she couldn’t come yet, that had been overreach on my part. There was nothing that she or I could do, at least nothing that would be any fun, to stop that orgasm in its tracks. Or even delay it much.
So I whipped the switch down on her inner thigh, hard enough to raise a welt, but the cry she made was pure, wild pleasure. So was the second cry when I switched her again, about fifteen seconds later. There was no time for a longer gap between strokes. Once she’d given her pain song again, with that second stroke, Diane couldn’t stay quiet any longer. She sang, “nnnnnerrrrr eeeerrrrrnnnn”, in my ear, the sound wavering as if she were riding a horse in full gallop.
A little later Diane’s whole body stiffened and she fell silent because she’d stopped breathing, I whipped her inner thigh again, as close to her cunt as I could get without the switch hitting the back of her hand. Diane cried out just once with the pain, her body braced hard against mine, and then her orgasm took her. Though she looked as though she was screaming, she came in silence, mouth working, staring up at the moon-bright sky.
Afterwards I whispered, “good girl, yes, good girl, darling”, while she gasped and fought for control. When she seemed to have almost caught her breath, I squeezed her breasts again, pinching her nipples as hard and painfully as I could, and a second wave of orgasm took her.
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But the next lash landed near that first stroke, on the softer flesh of her thigh. I would whip Diane’s cunt one day, but not now, not here. To compensate for what she might think of as mercy, I made this stroke harder, and her whole body shuddered when the switch bit home. I had to put my arm round her belly, holding on to her while she shook and fought to steady herself, still grinding her ass against me while the pain sunk in. She sang that low, “ooooooooo” again, and looked at me, her eyes shining with tears under the moon.
I smiled at her. “You’re beautiful.” It was true. Submission, when it comes, is so profoundly right and satisfying. It’s beautiful and moving. She’d found her way to the sex of this, and to part of herself that answered part of me. Her thigh must have been burning but her hand still worked, stroking herself. I kissed one tear away from her cheek, tasting the salt of my girl’s pain, but I let the others run their glistening moonlit trails.
Diane’s hips still shook, her movements forced by the grip of the pain, but eventually she was able to relax. She leaned back, her left leg still bent and raised, letting me take her weight.
She took a breath, and then another before she could speak. “Oh, you’re cruel. You’re a cruel man. How can you be so cruel?”
I said, “You can put your foot down now.” She obeyed carefully, standing with her legs apart, not letting her thighs touch. I put my hand back on her hand, which still stroked busily in her cunt. Her inner thighs were wet. I patted my sopping girl, affectionately, then took her left breast and squeezed the nipple. She made a version of her pain song, but it was not pain. She liked having her nipples hurt.
So I pulled that nipple, then turned it a little, and squeezed it again, even harder. Diane had closed her eyes, and her breathing was fast and shallow. Her hand still worked at her cunt, and she was close to coming. I said, “cruel to be kind. Cruel because you need a cruel man. Don’t you?”
“Yes. Oh fuck yes.”
“That’s right. Now, don’t come until I’ve finished whipping you, Diane. That’s an order. Now get your right knee up. Quickly.”
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