Finisterra · Part 2

Finisterra · Part 2 (2/2)
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ts of practice faking it.

It was fascinating to see the real thing. Talk about submissive! She’d included her phone number, so he called her immediately.

"This is good stuff," he burst out.

"Shouldn’t a professional writer have a better vocabulary than that?"

"Very good stuff. I think you have a talent for this."

"Well, I’ve been learning from the master. I dreamed a scene from one of your books last night. It was so hot I couldn’t get back to sleep."

Lewis found himself grinning at the telephone receiver.

"Sierra, I have a crazy idea. Why don’t you come over and we’ll act out your story?"

"Act out?"

"You pretend to an explorer who crashes here. In Finisterra. I’ll be the Grande who captures you. We’ll play the roles and… see where it goes."

"Why?"

"You said you liked my books. Wouldn’t you like to help me create one?"

"Isn’t that your job?"

"To be honest, I’m blocked on my next novel. I need some new ideas.

Maybe this will get my mind working again. Please. You can help me create a new Finisterra story."

"Sounds like Mr. Smarty Pants wants to copy my homework. What do I get out of it?"

"You’re a drama major. Think of it as collaborating with a playwright on a new play. You can shape what happens."

Silence on the line as she considered this. Lewis wondered if he’d read too much into her story. Maybe she was only taunting him.

Then she said, "How about this weekend?" and his spirits soared.

The thrift stores in St. Pete must have had quite a workout, because when Sierra showed up on Friday she was dressed for the part. White pants so tight that they seemed to be painted on. Over them she wore a vaguely

Prussian tunic (cut from the top of a marching band uniform?) that came down to just below her crotch. Knee-high black boots. A wide leather belt.

She’d even found an old leather aviator’s cap, complete with goggles, and a long white-silk flier’s scarf. Sierra laughed at the expression on his face and struck a pose.

"This is incredible," Lewis said, ushering her in. "You look like a

World War I fighter pilot. I’m surprised you didn’t rent a dirigible."

"I thought about it, but the deposit was too high." She sashayed around the living room, letting him admire the costume from all sides. She looked like a soldier in an army whose mission was sexual conquest.

Finally she faced him and stood at attention and snapped a salute. "Captain

Sondra Rojas, Explorer for the Duchy of Greater Avila. I was on a scouting expedition, and my dirigible crashed in Finisterra. I require assistance."

Since he didn’t have a costume, Lewis put on a Dolphins cap. "I am the

Grande here," he proclaimed. "You are my prisoner."

He had her extend her arms and drape them over a six-foot pole, and tied her wrists to each end. He used rope. Lewis liked rope because a little piece of it didn’t look like much, but properly applied and carefully knotted it could reduce a strong adult woman to helplessness. As he tied the rope he slid it over her arms, like a caress.

When she was yoked, her marched her out to the patio. The pose raised her shoulders and pulled her tunic up in back, exposing her ass. Through the thin material of her leggings he could see her underwear. Sierra was wearing a thong panty that left her big buttocks exposed under the thin white material. Yummy!

On the patio he settled into a chair and made her kneel before him.

"Why have you invaded Finisterra?" he demanded.

"I am an explorer. I was flying my airship to Cuba and a hurricane blew me off course."

"Where is your airship?"

"I crashed just off the coast and swam ashore."

"I don’t think there is an airship. I think you’re a spy. You are working for the Indios who besiege us from the north."

"No, honest. I’m just an explorer."

"Silence, spy."

Lewis released her from the yoke and ordered her to take off her tunic.

Sierra obeyed without protest, looking at the ground shyly as she became bare from the waist up. Given their grandeur when clothed, the sagginess of her unfettered boobs cheered him. The cookie-brown nipples were surrounded by crinkled flesh, and pointed in different directions.

He tied her hands together in front and threw the end of the rope over a branch of the water oak. He pulled the rope until her arms were raised over her head.

To make things more interesting, he brought the free end of the rope down behind her back to her big ass and threaded it forward between her legs. He brought the end up in front, ran it once around her waist, and tied it off. Presto! Sierra was suspended on a crotchrope. When she tried to lower her arms, she tightened the pressure on her own cunt.

"This is diabolical!" she hissed, tugging on the rope. It sank into the white fabric of her pants.

"This is how we treat spies in Finisterra."

Her bare boobs were his to play with, but he decided to save that treat for later. Instead, Lewis used a spreader pole, a yard long, with metal eyelets screwed into both ends. He tied it between her ankles, forcing her legs apart. This made her pelvis sink lower and tightened the crotchrope.

"Ohh," she gasped. Her head flopped forward as she stared down at herself.

Checking to see if the rope was cutting her in half? Lewis stroked her pussy, making sure the rope was bisecting her. It certainly was sinking in. He fondled her pussy and ran his hand along her vagina until she moaned.

He gagged her with the white scarf. Even after looping it through her mouth and around her head twice, the long white ends hung down. He arranged them down her brown back. Her skin felt like warm velvet. The fluttering ends of the scarf reminded him of the ribbons on a girl’s summer hat.

Lewis returned to the house, leaving her dangling in just her white pants and black boots.

Things were going splendidly, but just to make sure, he checked the contents of her purse. He was delighted to see a toothbrush. So the coed had planned to spend the night. Excellent! He had lots of time to play with his captive.

His study had a view of the patio, so he sat down at his computer and typed in a few notes. Not many. Who could put words on paper when a beautiful woman was tied up half-naked nearby? Only a fool would look for metaphors instead of looking at her.

Concealed in the house, Lewis used his birding binoculars to observe her struggles. She looked up at her bound hands, down at her pussy. Her teeth chewed on the cleave gag and her chest heaved, making her boobs jiggle.

She worked her shoulders futilely and took tiny steps with her spreader-bound legs. Her mop of black hair thrashed in frustration as she surveyed the patio and creek and woods. Looking for a rescuer? Not out here, mi corazon.

He loved the way she rippled when she struggled, as if her flesh were a size too big for her bones.

Her bound hands began to rise and fall in a rhythmic way. The bitch was masturbating herself with her crotch rope! Better change the position before she came. He reversed the Dolphins cap and walked outside.

"I am Julian, the stablemaster. The Grande ordered me to train you."

Sierra’s eyes went wide. She shook her head no.

"The Grande said you are European, so I must be especially severe with you, to teach you our ways." He took a breast in each hand and kneaded them. She must have sensitive nipples; she gasped and struggled. He squeezed her nipples between his knuckles, making her squirm and thrash, enjoying his power over her. She panted through her nose and moaned.

Lewis played with her until he judged she was on the verge of coming.

Can’t have that. Not yet, mi amor. He undid the spreader bar at her ankles and made her bring her legs together and relieve the pressure on her cunt.

She looked at him reproachfully.

He extracted the crotch rope (which was soggy from spelunking inside her) and tied it to the tree, keeping her arms over her head, although a bit lower than before. This left him free to remove her boots and peel off her pants. He had to pull the little thong panty out of her snatch.

It looked especially pale and delicate against her dark Cuban skin. He was glad to see she’d trimmed her pubic hair; he hated the yeti look. Embarrassed by his scrutiny, she tried to cross her legs, a reflex of modesty that was risible under the circumstances.

Lewis lowered her from the tree and untied her wrists. He let her shake them around, to get the circulation going again, then handcuffed her wrists behind her back. Steel! To increase the slave feeling, he showed her manacles for her ankles. Heavy steel rings connected by about 18 inches of chain.

He was hoping she’d make a break for it before the manacles went on. He dearly wanted to chase her around the patio, watching her bottom bounce as she awkwardly trotted along with her hands fastened behind her back.

But Sierra stood passively, meekly submitting to his handling, breathing heavily and occasionally whimpering through her gag.

When she was chained and hobbled, he looped a rope around her neck and dragged her toward the house like an animal on a leash. She shuffled across the patio, the steel links of her manacles dragging on the stone tiles.

At the door she planted her legs and resisted. Perhaps she realized that once she was inside his house, bound and gagged, she was completely in his power.

"Come," he said, tugging at her leash.

She shook her head and grunted defiantly.

"Afraid to enter my dungeon? Hmm?"

She nodded solemnly. Her dark eyes looked scared.

Lewis eyed the chained girl. All that luscious island skin. She was short, so he put his hand on her head and turned her to face the slough.

"See that creek?"

Sierra nodded mutely.

"Know what happens at sunset?"

She shook her head.

"Mosquitoes. They swarm."

His hand was still on her head. Her stiff hair. He felt her flinch.

She tried to turn; he dug his fingers into her scalp and kept her facing the creek.

"Millions and millions of mosquitoes."

She moaned and looked at him urgently.

"I could leave you out here."

Wide-eyed, she shook her head no, no.

"Or I could take you inside, to my comfortable, air-conditioned, screened-in dungeon."

Yes, yes!

That’s better," he smiled. When he pulled on the leash, she trotted along obediently.

Lewis led his captive to the living room. He took off his shorts and underwear and plopped down in his favorite chair, where he liked to sit with a beer and a yellow legal tablet, watching the History Channel and jotting down ideas for his books. He seldom learned anything from TV. Compared to books by professional historians, watching TV was like reading a comic.

But the glimpses of daily life in the ancient world sometimes gave him ideas. He was big on authenticating details. Put the reader in the scene.

He made Sierra kneel before him. She bowed her head, hair falling over her face, and he untied and removed her gag. Extracting the scarf from her wet mouth was as exciting as opening a Christmas present. "Let’s see what you can do, slave." Obediently she inched forward on her knees and took his penis into her mouth. He settled back contentedly. To be honest, blow jobs were not his thing, but he enjoyed seeing an arrogant female mouth plugged with his piss-stick. She worked hard, licking and sucking rhythmically, moaning to show her enthusiasm.

"You may be a stupid European, but I see you know your cocksucking,"

he commented.

She gave him a quick fluttery lick and pulled back so she could speak.

"Discipline at the Avila Flight Academy was very strict. Any time I made a mistake, I had to service my commanding officer."

"Was that routine?"

"Of course. Each cadet was assigned to an officer. Colonel Silvia was very strict. I spent many hours tied to a rack in his quarters while he whipped or fucked me."

"You must have made many mistakes."

"Perhaps I made them deliberately," she said, dreamily nuzzling his scrotum. "The Colonel was inventive. He liked to bind me with leather straps and suspend me upside down, naked, in his office while he worked. I had to wear a ring gag, and if he needed stimulus he would come over and stick his cock in my mouth and make me service him. He never spoke to me when

I was hanging there; he treated me like a pencil sharpener for his cock.

Sometimes when he had a visitor he would allow the visitor to use me too.

Since I was hanging in mid-air he called it flight training."

Lewis liked the image. Yes, he could use that. Hell, the term "flight school" conjured up a whole subplot all by itself. You didn’t need advanced technology to make a hot-air balloon. Up, up, and away with the Finisterran

Air Force! Guys in balloons shooting flaming arrows at each other! Female fliers captured and tortured!

The living room was decorated with beautiful objects he’d collected in his travels. One of them was a low Japanese lacquer table. He removed

Sierra’s handcuffs and manacles and ordered her to lie on it. She planted her big bottom daintily, and reclined. He roped her wrists and ankles to its legs, spreading her face up, like a four-armed starfish.

The panty was in his way, so he cut it off. Sierra’s chest heaved, but she didn’t protest.

Kneeling between her legs, he contemplated her cunt. It looked back at him like a big squinty eye. He put his tongue in, made her writhe. Mmm, that taste! Her cries became high-pitched and girlish as she lost her composure.

"Everyone in Finisterra must work," he said, between licks. "We have no airships here. Do you have any useful skills, spy?"

"I am an aristocrat," she confessed. "I am trained to command servants."

He snorted in derision. "This is the frontier, woman."

"I can suck cock."

"All Finisterran females have this skill."

"What do you suggest?"

Gazing down on her, he mused on the slang term "box." Her big square hips were rather boxy, with the opening of her cunt providing access to the interior. "Given your lack of real skills, I think you would make a good secured courier," he announced.

"What’s that?"

"In your country, when a person of importance has to send a message, how is it transmitted?"

"We use couriers. Confidential messengers."

"How do you keep the courier from reading the message?"

"They swear an oath not to do so. They are very trustworthy people."

"But suppose someone offered them money? Or they turned traitor?"

"Well, there’s always that possibility."

"We have solved that problem. To send a confidential message, we use what we call a secured courier. She is stripped naked. The message is sealed in a rubber capsule and inserted in her cunt. Then she’s bound in a tight ball and placed in a sturdy box, which is locked. The box is then transported to the recipient of the message. The recipient breaks open the box and extracts the message."

"So the courier can’t read the message."

"Yes. The message is guaranteed to be confidential because the woman carrying it can’t read it herself. And if the box is intact, the recipient knows it hasn’t been tampered with." He licked her slit.

"Could I really do that?"

"You have a big cunt. You’ll do fine."

"What if I’m claustrophobic?"

"Doesn’t matter. A gag will stifle your screams."

As he nuzzled her pussy, smearing her intoxicating cunt juices all over his mouth and chin, Lewis basked in the afterglow of a successful brainstorm.

A secured courier. What a fabulous idea. Worth a novel all by itself. The readers who wanted sex would get a naked woman, tied up and gagged in a box, being shipping around like a piece of cargo. The position itself was humiliating, and she could be captured by bandits or hijacked by enemy agents. The men who were sending messages by this route would naturally be thinking about politics and high-level social issues; their thoughts and conversations would carry the intellectual payload. It was perfect.

Between the Finisterran Air Force and secured couriers, Sierra had just annihilated his writer’s block.

Lewis kissed her, devouring her mouth, making her head roll back and forth. Then he broke away and stuffed her mouth with a smooth wooden ball.

It was the kind of gag the Aztecs used on prisoners awaiting sacrifice; he’d seen one at the National Museum of Archeology in Mexico City. Sierra, poor child, didn’t appreciate being gagged with a replica of a historical artifact. She shook her head and gurgled in protest, but with her wrists and ankles tied to the table she was helpless to resist as he tightened the strap until he was sure she couldn’t push it out with her clever tongue.

She subsided, moaning in frustration.

She moved her knees in and out, tempting him with her snatch. Smart girl! But she had many hours of bondage to endure before he fucked her and gave her that orgasm she craved.

He patted her flat warm belly. Her plumpness reminded him of the female fertility figures archeologists recovered from Neolithic sites. He wanted to emphasize her meatiness by roping her so tightly the cords sank into her flesh, so her flesh seemed to be bursting out on all sides. Tie her up so she couldn’t even roll, lock her in a trunk, bring her gauzy fantasies of submission into ropey reality. He wondered how long he could keep her bound. It was summer. Her teachers wouldn’t miss her for months. The family might be a problem. But if he could coax her to make up a cover story that would explain dropping out of sight for two months, why, who knew how many more ideas he could extract from her.

Smiling, Lewis patted her cunt and headed to his study to write, leaving her bound to the table, mewing plaintively.

END

Finisterra · Part 2 (2/2)
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