Argonaut in an Age of Discovery

Argonaut in an Age of Discovery

Chapter 1: Gathering Clouds

The Argo, there it was in its berth in the marina in Baltimore Harbor, a sailing yacht, pale blue-grey, a humble vessel with a presumptuous name.  Compared to the nearby gleaming white yachts, it looked old, dingy, and perhaps small for accommodating six people.

Carrying my heavy bag down the dock, I saw April on the deck, at the same time as she saw me.  She called out, and I waved.  April was the friend who had invited me on this trip.  She’s a tall, buxom, hazel blond, with an earthy manner that disguises her intelligence.  She’s been in many of my high school classes, and like me, just graduated.

Actually, I had been invited on this yacht trip only as a last-minute replacement for my good friend Diana, who had canceled just two days before departure.  She had just been offered a job as a summer intern with a local law firm, an opportunity she had no wish to decline.

I, on the other hand, was spending my summer writing for a twelve-page, free, alternative-viewpoint, “independent media” newspaper called the New Columbia Free Press, where “Columbia” refers to the U.S. capitol district.  Published twice monthly using a grant from a foundation, it accepted no advertisements and thus could not pay its staff, all spare-time volunteers.  While the work experience was exceptional, with a steep learning curve, I was happy to take time off for a trip on a sailing yacht, something totally new to me.  I imagined it being very romantic.

A man standing on the dock beside the boat addressed me, “So you’re Jenny.  I’m Roscoe, the skipper of this boat.”

Eeyew...  I could smell the alcohol on his breath.  And the way he looked me over.  It felt like he was taking my clothes off with his eyes.  Was this loathsome creature going to accompany us on this voyage?

Unfortunately, the answer was yes.  It was his boat.  A distant relative of April, he was a sun-wrinkled man with grey hair.  Although he was lean, his posture was often somewhat hunched, as if decadent living and too much booze had taken a toll.

On board, I met the third girl, Ivy.  She’s a second-cousin of April and three years older than us.  Goes to George Washington University.  Extremely pretty and poised, she’s of medium height, a little taller than me.  Slender, but nicely rounded in the right places.  Light brown hair, with blond accents.  During the voyage, she spent a lot of time in front of the mirror grooming herself.  I guess it pays off; she is striking.

A half hour later, with a large baggage cart overloaded with food supplies April and Roscoe had ordered, came James, a big, tall, hairy macho-man in his mid-twenties.  He is the kind of guy who has a five-o’clock shadow even after he shaves.  After our initial greeting, he rarely spoke to me.  But then, I guess I had little to say to him either.  I don’t follow sports, which is about all he talked about.  James took an immediate interest in trying to make it with April.

Last came Rafiq.  Age 24, half Lebanese Sunni, half French, spent his early childhood in both Paris and Beirut, and his adolescence mostly in London, went to college in New York City, and was now working as an economist at the World Bank headquarters in Washington.  He struck me as a true world citizen, his perspective not constrained by any one region.

Rafiq was well read and knowledgeable, yet appreciative of different points of view.  His quiet seriousness was punctuated with an irreverent humor.  I liked being around him.

And he seemed to enjoy talking to me.  But I had no romantic designs on him; he was Ivy’s boy friend.  I simply thought of Rafiq and Ivy as a couple, and I as a younger friend.   Yet in those first two days of the voyage, I felt such a rapport with him that I almost felt like we could be cousins.

The peculiar thing about him working for the World Bank was that together with an older mentor I had just written an article in the New Columbia Free Press about the heavy-handed tactics that the DC police chief had employed that year against World Bank protestors.

I was excited to meet someone who actually worked for the World Bank.  And Rafiq was interested in my summer work at the New Columbia Free Press.  He knew of the newspaper, even though it is only distributed though certain bookstores and coffeehouses.  But he had not seen the most recent issue with my article in it.  I remedied that by bringing out a copy that I “just happened to have” in my luggage.  Obviously I was delighted that he was interested in what I had written.

I was surprised how sympathetic Rafiq was with the demonstrators against the World Bank.  He was not the least bit defensive about criticism of his organization.  And yet, as I think back on it, although he sometimes poked fun at the World Bank, not once did he acknowledge the validity of the demonstrators’ criticisms.  In his quiet manner, he walked me through the complexities of some of the issues with Third World economies, as well as the entrenched inequities between rich and poor nations.

Yet he was in no way condescending about my comparative ignorance.  Rather he seemed appreciative of my interest.  Our general social-political orientations matched.

*********

In the beginning the girls and guys slept in separate compartments.  Ours was a little bedroom.  The guys’ was the common room, basically a small living room for everyone.  Everything was very compact.

On the first night at sea, April, Ivy, and I arranged the narrow mattresses on the floor so that we could all cuddle together.  I had recently enjoyed sexual relations with my close friend Diana (who I’ve mentioned in previous stories), and was pleased to find that neither April nor Ivy had reservations about bisexuality.  During that first night it seemed that we were going to have a great time together during the voyage.

On the following night, Ivy suggested that we shave each other’s pubic hair.  At first a bit reluctant, I ended up agreeing to it.  Ivy shaved both April and me.  April, after some coaxing, shaved Ivy.

It feels a little strange at first to be completely smooth in places where you have become used to having hair.  On the other hand, it was nice to kiss and caress each other’s smoothness.  That second night we again enjoyed each others bodies.  We slept cuddled together, April in the middle, Ivy and I on either side.

That idyllic atmosphere was not to last.  Late in the morning the next day I was again chatting with Rafiq.  We talked about a book we had both read, Dark Continent, an interpretative history of Europe’s twentieth-century.

From Europe’s cataclysmic difficulties in accommodating its minorities in the first half of the twentieth century, our conversation turned to the close-to-home intolerance of nonconformity in what seemed at that time (a few years ago) to be an incipient devolution into a Christian theocracy.  Later Rafiq turned the conversation to Islam, and finally to Hinduism, about which I didn’t know much.  But I mentioned that I had been taking yoga classes.  Rafiq was interested and I started showing him how to do some of the postures.

I felt a bit self conscious at times the way he was watching me.  When I was showing him the “Salute to the Sun”, I thought he had seen down my top, but at the time I attributed that to my not managing my clothes appropriately rather than any intentionality on his part.

It seemed to be making Ivy uptight for me to click so well with her boyfriend.  She often hovered nearby, but not directly engaged with us.  Then she would disappear below for a while, only to reappear some time later acting restless.  At such times Rafiq’s face would cloud just a bit, but mostly he did not acknowledge her concern.

I thought she was acting awfully possessive - hardly the poised and confident demeanor I had previously associated with her.  Yet I thought she ought to be able to deal with me talking to her boyfriend.  After all, I had no romantic designs on him.  I recognized that he was a catch, but he was Ivy’s catch, not mine.  It had not even occurred to me to think of him as a potential boyfriend.  In retrospect I think that is why I was so natural and spontaneous with him.

Unlike the previous day, which was cloudy and cool, today was sunny, and as the sun hit its zenith, distinctly hot.  Everyone shared a light lunch.

April and Ivy were wearing bikinis.  At this point I preferred keeping my shorts on, albeit short ones.  Outside the context of the pool or beach, a bikini bottom feels like less clothes than I prefer to have on.  And I had on a halter top.  It’s comfortable in the heat, leaving my back bare except for the tie, and covering my bust with airy cotton.

Not surprisingly, in the heat the guys had dispensed with shirts.  But I was a little surprised when April and Ivy pealed off their bikini tops.  April has a classic womanly figure with an ample bust.  Going topless drew James to her like a magnet.  He never took his eyes off her.

At this point, the Skipper, drink in hand, hailed me, “Hey, Jenny.  When are you going to take your top off?  It’s time to get comfortable.”  He passed his hand down my back, giving the tie of my halter top a little tug as he did so.

I dodged quickly away, murmuring, “I’m feeling comfortable enough now with what I have on.  But thank you anyway.”

At this point I withdrew to the bow with a tube of sun screen and a spiritual philosophy book by Krishnamurti, There is No Thinker, Only Thought, loaned to me by my mentor at the New Columbia Free Press.  With my back toward the rest of the group in the stern, I tried to read, but was actually turning over in my mind my feelings about needing to be clothed.

I don’t think I’m a prude.  And there is nothing that bad about my body; I weigh the least of the three girls.  ...Well, of course Ivy is genuinely striking fully clothed or not.  But I’m not envious of her.  I’m more or less okay with how I look.  This clothes issue is that I just don’t want people’s eyes all over my body.  Maybe I like a little privacy, which clothes provide.

“Heyyy... Jenny.”  It was Rafiq behind me.  He has this special way of murmuring ‘hey’:  quietly, almost conspiratorially, as if you’re a really special person and he has something really special to share with you.  Smiling, I glanced back at him.

“You doing okay?” he asked, sitting down next to me.  “I hope the Skipper didn’t make you uptight about taking your top off.  He’s just an odd character.  You’re fine, top on or off.”

“Thanks.  ...I guess I was feeling a little funny about the situation.  But it’s nothing.  Just my silly hang-ups.”

“Whatever.  But I can relate to how you feel.  Whether you’re a guy or a girl, we’re all accustomed to clothes.   ...By the way, your back is looking a little red.  You need more sun screen.”

“Uh-oh.  I really don’t want to get burned.  It’s hard for me to get it on all my back; might I ask you to put it on me.”

He took the tube and proceeded to apply it on my back.  I liked his hands on my skin.  It took me a little while to realize that he was not applying the lotion in a cooly pragmatic way.  He was not minimizing the expressiveness of the contact; he was maximizing it.  He was caressing me.

Taking hold of the tie of my halter top, he said, “Shall I undo this thing?”

To Rafiq, every part of my being was crying yes, yes, yes!  “Okay,” I murmured, smiling at him.

He untied the back, and slipped it off my head.  Then he gazed at me, alternately looking into my eyes and then at my breasts.  “You are extraordinary in so many ways,” he said.

I smiled at him.  Then lowered my eyes.  I felt self conscious to be bare breasted in front of him.

“By the way, now you’re going to need some sun screen on your front.”

“Oh, maybe you’re right.  ...But I could do that myself, you know.”

“Yeah, but we’d both rather that I did it.”

I smiled and said, “What are people going to think?”  But still I arched to present my front to him.  He proceeded to apply sun screen to my breasts.  He paid special attention to my nipples.  I was literally squirming with arousal.  I could scarcely believe this turn of events.

Although I was basking in Rafiq’s warmth, still I was not unaware that we must be putting on a bit of a spectacle for the rest of the crew.  I glanced back at them.  It was Ivy’s stare that caught my attention.  There were daggers in her eyes, directed at me.

*******

Dinner that evening was brief and tense.  I had found it convenient to spend most of the time in the galley working while the others were eating.  Skipper, and James and April quickly went their separate ways, leaving Ivy and Rafiq alone.  Although they seemed to be trying to talk quietly, privacy being a scarce commodity on the boat, I knew there was a drama going on between them.

Having finished cleaning up the galley, I had gone to our compartment.  I was lying on my mattress, the top berth, feeling bad about all the trouble I had caused.  It was impossible not to hear Ivy’s rising voice through the partition.  I knew their conversation was coming to an end.

Then Ivy burst in and began venting her rage at me. “Bitch!  Get out of my room, you rotten little slut!”

“I’m really sorry, Ivy.”  I didn’t know what to say to try to mollify her.

“Just get out!  Get out of my sight.”  She glared at me.

I had no wish to remain in the room with her in her current state.  But at the same time I didn’t want her to think she had the authority to order me out.  As calmly as a could, I said, “I’m sorry you’re angry at me.  I didn’t do anything with the intention of hurting you.  But I don’t mind leaving now.”

I began to slide off the top bunk.  Apparently Ivy didn’t think it was fast enough, for she grabbed my arm, digging her nails into me, and pulled.

Jumping down, I said, “Just keep your hands off me!  I’m leaving, okay?”  I faced her momentarily, not wanting to seem like I was running away from her.

She slapped my face.  “Ow!  Leave me alone,” I said, pushing her away.

She grabbed at my breast and pinched.  “Flat-chested slut-girl.  You and Rafiq deserve each other.”

“Ouch!  You bitch.”  I broke her grip and made my exit, thoroughly freaked by her outburst of nastiness.  It seemed that her aura of poise and polish is a bit of a facade.  If things don’t go her way, negativity boils out.

However outrageous her behavior was, still I couldn’t help wondering whether I was in the wrong for having precipitated her breakup with Rafiq.  My mind was in turmoil.  Who was right?  Who was wrong?  Was there a right and wrong?

Should I forsake further involvement with Rafiq?  Or should I just press forward?  Was there really a choice here?  Oh... Why does my happiness have to result in someone else’s distress?  Why do things have to be so complicated?

...Well, in the thick of these imponderables, maybe this is not the best time to divert the reader’s attention to trivialities.  Nevertheless, before I get on with my story, there is one misrepresentation I need to correct.  I don’t think “flat-chested” is an accurate descriptor for me.  ...Not that I want to imply that I care how Ivy describes me.  ...But I guess I do care, or I wouldn’t mention it now.

*******

That night I slept on some blankets out on deck.  I was a little chilly there, and the deck was hard.  I ended up having the strangest dream.  I was at a formal prom-like affair, at some place like a fancy waterfront hotel.  Except that it seemed to turn into a place that was floating on the water in the middle of the ocean.

I was wearing the most extraordinary silk skirt, with such vividly patterned colors, mostly gold and black and red.  It was as beautiful as only something in a dream could be.  Its low-riding waist band had this silver chain with dangling jewels: rubies and onyx, not costume jewelry, but the real thing.  The skirt was wrap-around, but as nice as it was, it didn’t have quite enough material to assure that the side stayed closed when I sat down.  I couldn’t be sure that my white cotton undies wouldn’t be visible, and that would hardly be appropriate for so fancy a skirt.

But that problem pales in comparison to the problem with the top.  In the dream I knew I was supposed to have a matching top, a sexy affair that would leave my midriff bare.  But somehow or other I ended up without the top – attending this elegant formal soiree half naked, breasts bared.

A friend of mine, Diana, was praising how good I looked, and at times hugging me and kissing me.  Nevertheless, I was really uptight.  But nobody else, guys included, were making a big deal out of my attire, or lack thereof.  In the dream I felt that this was because they hadn’t yet noticed my nakedness.  I tried to stay close to Diana, hoping that this would somehow protect me.

Then some really handsome guy came up to me, and bending on one knee, took and kissed my hand.  In the dream such behavior was not absurd, but seemed natural enough for this unusual guy in this unusual situation.  Although he was not Rafiq, I think he represented Rafiq.

He took my hand and led me through the crowd.  Still nobody seemed to acknowledge that I was topless, although I remained thoroughly anxious about it.

We went up a couple flights of stairs, through another room crowded with people, then out onto a balcony and down a spiral staircase.  He had let go of my hand and gone ahead.  But then it felt like it was taking a great effort to move my legs, and I could not keep up with him.  The stairs became steeper and I felt that I couldn’t continue downward without falling. 

I was now all by myself.  The staircase had morphed into a rope ladder, and I was now on the bottom rung with nothing below me.  The rungs holding my feet separated from each other.  It was like standing spreadeagled between two playground swings, one foot on each swing, one hand on each chain - in other words, not much in control.

There were people on the floor far below, looking up at me.  At this point in the dream I no longer had any panties on under my skirt, although I remember having had them on earlier.  And since the rungs supporting each foot had swung wide apart, I was giving everybody below a good view.

I was being lowered to the floor below.  When my feet were less than a meter above the heads of the crowd, my descent stopped.  Some people started poking between my legs with poles or broomstick handles.

They were sticking one into my pussy and another one up my butt.  It really hurt.  I was desperate.  There was nothing I could do...

I awoke feeling genuine pain.  But that melted away as I realized it was only a dream.  I sat up and looked at Rafiq, at the helm.  He smiled at me.  I got up and cuddled up next to him.

“I had this strange dream.  Kind of a bad dream.  I was at this big formal party, and people were hurting me.”  I chose not to divulge the outre particulars.

“Oh.  You’re probably anxious about the little conflict today.  But don’t worry.  Ivy just needed to vent.  Things will settle down soon.”  Rafiq gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Do you ever have anxiety dreams where you’re out in public without clothes?  ...Or maybe that’s just my hangup.”

“At your big formal party, naked?”

“Topless.  I had a skirt on, short but elegant.”

“Cute,” said Rafiq, gazing at me with admiration.  “I would have liked being in that dream with you.  You must have been ravishing...  But anyway, yes, I understand that kind of dream.  I once dreamt I was giving a presentation to an audience, and my fly was broken and kept being wide open.   ...Maybe the prim and righteous don’t have a monopoly on those kind of anxieties.”

“Prim and righteous?  Why do you say that?  I don’t think that applies to me.  Except...”

“Except you’d rather not show too much skin.  Otherwise, no, it doesn’t apply.  ...Except there is a certain ...like, aura of virtuousness about you.  The kind of things you think are important in the world.  Your concern about other people ...and not imposing on other people.”

“Well... but...”

“But yeah, that’s a different thing,” Rafiq conceded.  He pondered for a moment, then said, “Also there’s your concern about what other people think.  That’s what it is.”  He smiled at me.

“Well...”  After pausing to ponder, I said, “I know this guy and he once insisted that he never worried about what other people think.  And he’s this totally conventional guy - a conformist, right down to the brand labels on his clothes.  So go figure.  ...Don’t you think we’re all concerned about what other people think?  We’re social creatures.  Other people are important.”

“That’s true.  But you do bring it up - what other people think.  But it’s no big deal.  Don’t worry about it.  I only mentioned it as a reason why I can picture you having anxiety dreams about not having your clothes on in front of a bunch of people.”

“Oh...  Well, maybe I do get too hung up on what other people think.  I’ve got bad habits.”

Rafiq smiled.  He gave me a little kiss and said, “I like your bad habits.”  He squeezed me close.  I rested my head on his shoulder.

*******

The difficulties I had that day with Ivy paled in comparison to what happened late the next day.  I was in the galley cooking dinner.  In one frying pan there were hamburgers for the omnivores; in the other frying pan there were veggie burgers for the herbivores.  Rafiq was in the guys’ compartment, napping, in anticipation of watching the helm that night.

April appeared, telling me to come up quickly to see the dolphins swimming alongside us.  I dashed up, forgetting about the stove.  In the excitement of watching the dolphins so close, I left the pan on too long and burned the burgers.

The Skipper was angry.  “For dereliction of duty, through my authority to discipline the crew under my command, I will administer one dozen strokes with the cat.”

I was appalled.  Could he really do that?  I had seen “Mutiny on the Bounty”, so I knew that Captain Bligh routinely whipped his crew members.  But could this man do that in this day and age?

“Prepare her for the whip.  Strip her to the waist,” ordered the Skipper, motioning to April and Ivy.  I was wearing an V-front athletic-style swimsuit top.  Ivy approached me, intending to strip me of it.  I didn’t want to be forcibly stripped.

Backing away from Ivy, I said, “You have no right.  None of you have any right to touch me.”

“Strip off her to top,” repeated the Skipper.

As Ivy closed in, I entreated the Skipper, “Please no.  I don’t want to be handled like that.  I’ll take it off myself.”

The Skipper grunted assent.  Ivy frowned at me.  Slowly I crossed my arms to take hold of my top from either side.  Glancing at the assembled eyes following my every move, I was tempted to turn away from them before lifting off my top.  But such modesty felt like it would convey girlish timidity, especially since Ivy and April had already gone topless.

Facing them I pulled my top off overhead.  Then I dropped it to the deck and stood facing them with my arms at my sides.  I tried to convince myself that it was no big deal if they could look at my bare breasts.

After eyeing my body for several moments, the Skipper made me raise my arms so that he could tie them to the boom.  Having done that, he stood before me eyeing my breasts.  I was thankful at least that he didn’t feel them.

He disappeared below to get a whip.  April stood off to the side watching me gravely.  James, at the helm, seemed more interested in April’s reaction to the unfolding events than in me.  Meanwhile, Ivy circumambulated me, eyeing my front, smirking.  She made me feel thoroughly humiliated.

The Skipper returned with a multi-tailed leather lash.  Each thong had several knots in it.  Was this the dreaded cat-o’-nine-tails?

There I was, half naked, arms bound over head, waiting to be whipped.  The Skipper stood off to my left side.  Ivy was somewhat in front of me, still smirking.

“Are you ready for your whipping,” the Skipper asked, feeling my back and sides.

“Please no,” I begged.

The Skipper ignored my plea.  He drew back the whip swung it into me.  Shlackk!  Across the back.  I gasped.  It really hurt.  Again, shlackk!  “Ow!  Oh my god!”  ...Shlackk!  “Ohh!  Please not so hard.”

“You’re not counting the strokes, Jenny.  We’ll have to start over.”

“No, please.  You hadn’t told me to count.  But that was three.  I’ve had three.”

Shlackk!  “OW!  ...Four.  God that hurts.”

“No, that was one.  I said we were starting over again.  Shall we start over yet again?”

“Oh god no, please!  You’ve hit me four times already.  It hurts so much.”

Shlackk!  “AHHH!  Five.”

“That’s not five.  That’s not anything.  I’m just going to keep whipping you until you start counting correctly.”

“One then!  Is that what it’s supposed to be?  Please don’t keep whipping me.”

“That’s better.  One it is.  I knew you would catch on.  Now after this, add ‘sir’ to your count.”

Shlackk!  “Ow! Ow!  ...Two, sir.  Is that what you want?  I’m trying to do it right.”

“Yes.  You’re doing it just right now.  Two down, ten to go.”

SShlackk!  “AHHHH!  Three, sir.  Oh-my-god, don’t hit me that hard.”

He laid on three more strokes, progressively harder, with me crying out after each one.  Then he paused, and examined my back, passing his hand over the welts.  “Hmm.  Better move it around more or I might break the skin.  We won’t want that now would we?”

“No sir.  Please sir, you’re hurting me so much.”

Now, instead of being on my left, he stood directly behind me.  SShlackk!   “AHHH!  Oh-my-god, no.”  He laid that one onto my right side; it wrapped around the ribs to the front, just below the breasts.

“What was that?”

“Seven, sir.  Please not on the front.”

But as I turned away to keep him on my left side so as to prevent the whip from wrapping around to my front, he switched to a backhand stroke that caught me directly across the stomach.  “OW, OW, OW!  ...Eight, sir.  Oh, please...”

As I twisted in the other direction to avoid another backhand stroke on the front, he laid on a forehand stroke that caught the base of my right breast.  “OOOOH!  No, please no!”  The sting was vicious.  Couldn’t he stay away from my breasts?

“Mmm.  Those pretty little titties.”  He paused to fondle my breasts.  “How did that one feel?  Pretty good, eh?  You gotta like that high intensity.”

“Please not there.  Anywhere else.”  If he hit me on the nipples with that awful thing, I thought I would just die.

“What number are we on now, Jenny?  Do you know?”

I wasn’t sure.  Somehow it had to be near the end.  “Is it ten or eleven, sir?  I think it’s eleven, sir.”  Actually I thought it was probably ten.

“No.  That was nine.  Three more to go.  You’re a good girl, Jenny.  Are you ready?”

This time I kept my back to him, not knowing whether he would use a backhand or forehand stroke.

SShlackk!  “AHHH!”  It was a backhand stroke that wrapped around enough to catch the side of my left breast.  I writhed, gasping.  Finally I said, “Ten, sir.”

SShlackk!  The hard forehand stroke wrapped around straight onto my right breast, the knotted thongs hitting my nipple like bullets.  “EEEEEE!” I let out a shrill scream.  My knees gave out from under me, and I hung from my bound wrists.  As the pain crested, I thought I was going to faint. 

He paused to feel my breast.  After a time I murmured, “Eleven, sir.”  The end was finally near.

“Where should we lay the last one?  We want to finish strongly, don’t we?  You’re such a good girl under the whip, we want to make this memorable.”

“Oh, please no.  You’ve already whipped me so hard.”

“Now what if I were to quit now, without giving you your last stroke.  That would be disappointing, wouldn’t it.  You would be left with a real sense of incompleteness.”

I shook my head.  I would not be left with any sense of incompleteness if he stopped now.  I don’t need whippings to feel complete.

Continuing to feel up my breasts, he said, “But take a look at your tits.  No harm done.  Just some nice pretty welts.  And those ones leading across your nipple are so cute.  So you want me to finish with an extra-hard one right on the tits.  Your nipples are sticking out just begging for it, aren’t they?”

“Please no.  Not there.  You don’t know how that feels.”

He started prodding and pinching my nipples.  They were stiff and hard... but my right nipple hurt so bad.

“You’re hurting me.  Please leave my breasts alone.”

“Tits!  Your perky tits need a hard whipping.”  He was kneading them vigorously.

“Ow.  Ow.  Please don’t torment me like this.  Just finish your whipping and let me be.”

“Then stand like so.  That’s good.  Arch your back, thrust those titties out.  You know you deserve this and you really want it.”

He took a step back to my right.  I turned my head away from him and squinched my eyes shut, waiting ...waiting ...waiting.

SShlackk!  “EEEEEEEEE...  Ow, ow, ow...”  Again my knees gave out and I hung from my wrists.  Gasping, panting.  My nipples were on fire.  He had hit me so hard.  I was in agony, just writhing with pain.

But my punishment was finally done.  As I began to regain my equilibrium, I looked down at my breasts.  My nipples appeared to be intact, although I wouldn’t have known that from how they felt.  “Twelve, sir,” I gasped.

“Now you want to thank me for whipping you so well, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”  I’d say anything not be whipped again.

“And what are you thanking me for?”

Insubordination was out of the question.  “Thank you for whipping me so well, sir.”

“You are a very good girl, Jenny.  A very good girl.”  He untied my wrists from the boom.  I dropped to my knees, cradling my stinging breasts.

********

That evening in the twilight, I was alone with Rafiq as he took his turn watching the helm.  He was applying a soothing balm to my whip marks, as I sat on the deck half naked before him.  Although he was sympathetic, he was not incensed that the Skipper had punished me so severely.

“How can you condone what that bastard did to me?” I demanded.

“I’m not condoning it.  But what’s the point of condemning it?  What’s done is done.  You got a whipping.  I appreciate that it was hard for you.  It would be hard for anybody.  But what good does it do for either of us to moan about it now?  And you’re still as beautiful and spirited as you ever were.  Even more beautiful.”

“Covered with whip marks?  Do you call that pretty?”

“Well.  Isn’t the answer obvious?”

“Oh, you!  What next?  That my whipping is erotically stimulating?”

“Well, isn’t it.  Aren’t you aroused now?  Look how hard your nipples are,” he said, fondling them.

“But that’s because they’re sore and you keep twiddling them as you put that liniment on me.”

“No, they were already really stiff.”

“Well, because I can still feel residual sting.  And besides, I’m chilly.  You’ve got a shirt on.  I don’t.”

“Yes.  I’m aware of your nakedness.”  He gave me a sly grin.  “There’s something very special when a girl has to be naked, while guys wear clothes.”

“Has to be naked?  What do you mean by that?  ...Oh, that’s your fantasy, is that right?  Like I’m your little slave girl, bare breasted before you, and just got a whipping.”

“Yeah.  It sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe to you.”

“And also to you.  Right?”

“You’re a really annoying person.  Do you know that?”  But as I spoke, I was beaming at him.

He cuddled me close to keep me warm.  We sat in silence.  After a time I said, “I don’t want to keep bringing up a painful subject, but it bothers me that you think I would get erotic pleasure from being whipped so hard.  There was nothing erotic there.  It really, really hurt.”

“Well, maybe it just needs an adjustment of perspectives about pleasure and pain.”

“I’m sorry, Rafiq, but you’re wrong.  It’s not a matter of changing perspectives.  I know what kinky discipline is, and that wasn’t it.”

“You know about such things?  That’s interesting.  What sort of experiences have you had?”

Oh-my-god.  I was mortified by the awful thing I had just revealed.  As I’ve described in some previous stories, I have received certain untoward punishments that culminated in sexual release.  But it wasn’t something I ever wanted to happen.  I’m not a ‘pain slut’.  I hate that ugly term.

“Oh, Rafiq,” I stammered.  “I don’t know why I said that. ...This is so embarrassing.  You’re getting a completely wrong idea about me.  I never sought out that kind of thing.  That’s not what I’m about.”

Rafiq squeezed me close.  “I didn’t mean to sound like I was probing off-limits.  I don’t want to talk about anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

Now I realized that I was behaving as if I wasn’t worthy of his intimacy.  After a time I said, “I’m sorry.  I guess I’m overreacting.  Of course we’ll talk all about it.  I wouldn’t want to have secrets from you.  But let’s not go into it tonight.  I feel so drained by what happened today.”

“I understand that.  By the way, it’s not that easy for me to reveal how much pleasure I get from your...  your being a damsel in distress.  It’s a strange thing.  Not consistent with the rest of me.”

“Oh...  Yeah.  Funny how guys and girls are made.”

After a pause Rafiq whispered, “Everything is just as it should be tonight.  And tomorrow I do intend to have some words with the Skipper on your behalf.”

I smiled at him gratefully.  He gave me a long kiss.  As the splendor of the cosmos was revealed in the blackening sky, I fell asleep in his arms.

*********

The next morning, on meeting the Skipper as I emerged on deck I said, “Good morning, sir.”  The ease with which I greeted him surprised me.  Strangely, I didn’t bear as much resentment as I thought I should.

“Good morning, Jenny.  You’re looking well.  Life at sea seems to agree with you,” he replied, smiling.

“Yes, sir.”  I was a bit shocked to hear myself addressing him as sir.  Nobody else affords the Skipper that respect.  I was glad that nobody else overheard me.  I’m not sure what they would have thought.

Still, I noted that where I had previously seen only loathsome decadence, I could now see some other dimensions.  There was a bit of a commanding aspect to him.  Even so, I kept my distance.  I didn’t trust him.

Other facets of the my social situation aboard the yacht were also problematic.  Because she considered me to have stolen Rafiq from her, Ivy would not speak to me.  I could feel her animosity, and was a little frightened of it.

April also was decidedly cool toward me, perhaps because she was Ivy’s cousin.  Twice during conversations with her, she had blamed me for the breakup.  She said she had never imagined me the kind of person who would do that.  This hurt, because she was a friend.  After all, she had invited me here and was the only person I had known previously.

The absence of a female friend on board was a privation.  I rely so much on females for sympathy, understanding, and advice.  But now I was dependent on Rafiq for all my social needs.

That did not seem to bother Rafiq, however.  He maintained a polite distance from everyone but me ...and more than a polite distance from Ivy.  In fact, Ivy was no longer speaking to him.

I felt that I was guilty of causing their falling out.  Rafiq, on the other hand, although he felt sorry that Ivy was taking it so badly, seemed to think it was fated, saying “to resist falling for you would have been like trying to stop breathing.”

That was wondrously captivating to hear that from a guy you admire so much.  Nevertheless, having always been a little shy, and feeling my allure to be understated compared to Ivy’s, it didn’t quite fit my self-image for Rafiq to dump the beautiful, poised, and vivacious Ivy in favor of me.  But I certainly couldn’t complain about it.

Anyway, a little later I noticed Rafiq conversing quietly with the Skipper.  I suspected he was talking about me, and kept out of earshot.  After five or ten minutes, Rafiq approached me.  “Heyyyy, Jenny.  I spoke to him about yesterday’s whipping being excessive.  To some degree he was sympathetic.  And he even agreed not to use the cat on you again.  Um...  That’s the good news.”

Yes?  And...”  I waited for Rafiq to continue.

“Well, now for the other news.”  Rafiq had this furtive smile.  “He’s probably going to whip you with something else instead.”

My mouth fell open.  “Why?  Now what have I done wrong?”

“Oh...  Probably nothing.  I think he just feels that you’re good for another whipping.  But not right now.  So relax.”