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An Earth Day story–at sea. Thanks to Voluptuary Manque, 3113, findmeinnh, stephen55, Stella Omega, Zeb Carter, Dual Triode, vrosej10, and that incomparable author and technical adviser Penn Lady, my fellow hangers-out at AH! Salut!
Mistress and Commander – The Far Side of the World
Margarethe’s eyes flicked over the Fathometer, then the tach, then out to the range markers, the buoys, the GPS, then back to the Fathometer, the buoys, the tach. Her left hand rested on the throttles, the knobs gripped loosely. Her right hand held the wheel, moving it scarcely an inch. She was whistling through her teeth “March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? March, march….”
She flicked her eyes one last time, like a whip, taking in all the instruments, left hand to the clutch, reversing the twin Volvo Penta Diesels, then easing the throttle forward, watching as Dread Sovereign walked sedately to her marks.
Then, her hands moving like a three-card Monte dealer’s, spinning the wheel, stopping the Diesels, flicking on the loudhailer and calling, “Let go forrad!” Almost faster than thought she called, “Let go, aft.” Then “snug her up, take in, make fast, secure all hands.” Dread Sovereign settled to her mooring like a woman giving in to her lover, just the feeling Margarethe wanted to feel.
Again the loudhailer, “Report to the wheelhouse!”
After a quick knock on the mahogany door, it flew open without another word, and Jenny and Robin walked quickly to the steps below the bridge and waited.
“That was better than the fucking disaster you pulled out of your collective ass at Carriacou, but not by much. You slobs, I’ll have you dancing at the gratings the next time you enter port like a clap-ridden Chris-Craft. Now tell me your damned troubles, and make it quick. I need a large capairiñha, sweet and strong like me, and two good orgasms. Jenny make the first report and Robin give me the second. Now talk fast!”
“Mistress,” said Jenny, “I have no Kotex, and my period is due. Please Mistress, may I go ashore and buy them?”
“No, you don’t deserve them, but I won’t have you trailing your damned menstrual blood all over my ship. I’ll have the chandler send them with our order. Ferreira can do some work, it might be a novel experience, the bugger charges e-fucking-nough. He’d best get plenty, we aren’t going home for a while. Robin!”
“Mistress,” he said, “nothing, the stores-required list is complete and can be sent to Ferreira when you direct. When do you wish to refuel?”
“Tomorrow noon will do very well. Get the Harbourmaster on the blower and get Sovereign alongside the fueling buoy by 1145. Scan and e-mail the stores-required to Ferreira. Now get weaving!”
Margarethe had chosen Recife as a convenient fueling and restocking port. 120 days out from London, the Diesels working perfectly after the major overhaul, the VanDerBeeke generator cured of its coughing fits, and the worst of the Caribbean long behind.
The only problem was the lubberly slobs of a crew. Jenny was a strong little thing, for all she weighed eight stone soaking wet. Her seasickness gone, she could work, but took twice the time and triple the energy going about it. Robin was no sailor; a fine rounded butt, utterly floggable, and a pendulous scrotum and long narrow cock made for CBT might be just the thing (pun intended) for a long voyage, but he could not “hand, reef and steer/and ship a selvagee”, whatever the hell Gilbert meant by all that gibberish.
Entering Carriacou, Dread Sovereign had overshot her mooring because Sweet Robin was too slow with the fore anchor. Then Dread Sovereign (DS–how appropriate!) had to be reversed at the risk of parting the stern anchor lines that Jenny had properly gotten overside, and ended that leg of the cruise bobbing and dipping like an overweight woman crossing a cobblestone street. Margarethe was furious, and Robin’s contrition was wasted.
“On your hands and knees, garbage! Call yourself a seaman, do you? The only seaman about you comes out of your jerked-off skinny-ass cock!”
The cat descended on Robin’s lower back. He knew better than to cry out anything but “One, Sir!” The next scored a welt on the backs of his legs, and he counted “Two, Sir!”. The next over his kidneys, and he couldn’t control the yelp that parted his clenched teeth. “You booby-mouthed whaleshit, you’ll cry out, will you!” and she pried his knees apart and drove the cat under him, so several lashes caught his balls. He screamed and fell forward, writhing in pain, held up only by the ropes around his wrists that held him against the teakwood grating on the Great Cabin floor.
“You’ll be quite the boy soprano,” sneered Margarethe. “How about giving us a chorus of ‘The Little Drummer Boy’? Only you won’t be a boy, will you, shit?”
She flogged him again on the upper back, again hard on his buttocks.
The she ordered, “Jenny, cut the useless swab out tuzla escort of his bonds, and see to his cuts. And send him to bed without dinner. I’ll see to him later. Now, when you’re done with Popeye the Non-Sailorman, you can cook dinner for me and you, and lubricate your ass. You’re dessert.”
Now in Recife, anchored properly (although no evolution was ever performed to Margarethe’s satisfaction), it was time to relax. The voyage from the Caribbean had been long, though, while they had dodged the midsummer storms, they had not had the restful sailing Margarethe wanted.
Time now to enjoy Recife’s beaches, to replenish stores and fuel, to down a wee bit of Turbinado sugar, muddled lime, a splash or two of soda water, and a few litres of chachaça, and roasted beef and pork. And to play at leisure with her slaves.
Jenny brought the capairiñha. She had used the last of the vodka (thereby transmuting the drink into a Caipiroska, a Russian capairiñha) and had found some fresh limes (the Devil knows where, thought Margarethe; the girl is a marvel, and she eats champion cunt into the bargain). It’s good to be a Mistress, thought Margarethe as she sipped the drink, with a few million pounds in the bank and another few million under my feet.
Margarethe took seriously her responsibilities. Dread Sovereign and her crew were a trust, a burden, an obligation honorably accepted and honorably to be discharged. Hong Kong may have built Dread Sovereign, but England crewed her. Margarethe, Lubeck-born and descendant of Hansa captains, respected her ship, as she respected the sea and the sky. Hers it was, in the ancient words of the marine insurer, ” the good shippe or vessel Dread Sovereign, whereof is Mistresse, under God, Margarethe Maria Ehrenreich von Schuldig, the said shippe or vessel’s hull, rig, gear, tackle, trim, Crewe and all Merchandize, accoutrements and Furniture whatsoever”. Hers to command, hers to serve, and she need answer only to herself and Der Allmächtiger Herr Gott. But it would be heavy to answer if she failed so much as one hair’s-breadth from her duty.
“Mistress,” came Jenny’s voice from the galley, “if so please you, dinner is served.”
“Very well, Jenny. Stand to!”
Jenny approached the gimbaled table. She set on it the tureen of stewed lamb, root vegetables and broth. She quickly fetched the steins and placed them next the plates and cutlery. She stood back and bowed her head. Robin came forward, in clean shorts and singlet, and stood to attention. He abruptly bowed his head as well.
“Almighty Father, bless this food and us to your service, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen” said Margarethe. “Serve!”
Jenny served out the food, poured the cold lager, and waited her Mistress’ order.
“Seats!” snapped Margarethe.
They sat. Margarethe waited until Jenny and Robin each had first taken a spoonful of the stew and eaten it. A Mistress’ duty is to make sure her crew, even her slaves, have been fed first. In her heart were the words of the great Slim of Burma, spoken as if the Allmächtiger Herr Gott spoke them to her: “You will neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep, nor smoke, nor even sit down until you have personally seen that your men have done those things. If you will do this for them, they will follow you to the end of the world. And, if you do not, I will break you.”
“And it’s to the end of the world I will take them, and do my duty to them,” thought Margarethe, eating the stew hungrily. At the wheel all day, she had had a slice or two of re-baked bread, cheese with the mould pared off, and some water, and nothing else, while sending the crew to their meals. Baked beans on toast with bottled lemon juice in water were hardly enough for a working crew by day, but the re-stocking would begin tomorrow, and a feast was in order.
Margarethe thought of broiled pork chops, red cabbage sauerkraut, boiled potatoes with butter dripping from them, cold dark St Pauli Girl, and a real eisbecher with fresh strawberries and chocolate sauce. Then an Uppman perfecto, and then she would play, biting Jenny’s little fraises-du-bois nipples, slapping her thin English cheeks both facial and rectal, then using the vibrator (must get some more batteries, make sure Robin the Fool has them on the re-stocking list and beat his ass if he doesn’t) and her finger and tongue on Jenny’s thin warm cunt. Then the strap-on (dear old Schwarz Max) in Jenny’s thin little ass. Finally, Jenny’s mouth on her clitoris would finish her. Jenny would hum “Land of Hope and Glory” as Margarethe exploded her ejaculate into Jenny’s mouth.
“Robin, you have the first watch. Take a couple of ibuprofen if you’re still sore from last night. Jenny, I’ll fuck you now, and you can take the next watch. Then call me, and I’ll take over. Standing orders are in force from now; call me if in doubt at any time.”
“Try a sailor-like ucuz escort ‘Aye aye, Mistress'”, said Margarethe with a smile.
“Aye aye, Mistress.”
“Good girl. Now, our lubberly lover, get up on deck.”
“Aye aye, Mistress,” Robin said, turning to go.”
“Standing orders in effect. Call me at any time if in doubt, which is your usual condition. When Jenny relieves you, go to sleep at once and don’t jerk off, even assuming your balls have recovered from last night. I need you for re-stocking and refueling tomorrow, although God alone knows why I shipped a worthless shit like you. I must be losing my fucking grip. If I find you have jerked off, I’ll give your prostate a pinch you’ll never forget. If you even think of touching Jenny, first kiss your balls goodbye. Now go.”
“Aye aye, Mistress.” Jenny’s commiserating glance followed Robin on deck.
“Now, Jenny, let’s go.”
Mistress’ stateroom was well aft, the queen-sized bed taking up most of the space, with the electronics cabinet and the clothes locker taking the rest. Margarethe went into the ensuite bathroom (too grand to be called a mere “head”), dropped her trousers and underpants, and called to Jenny, “Here, love.” Jenny knelt in front of Margarethe and placed her hands below her Mistress’ cunt. Margarethe pissed contentedly over Jenny’s hands, emptying her bladder with a sigh. “Now wipe.” Jenny ran her hands over Margarethe’s pussy, then rose, washed and dried her hands with the fresh water from the faucet, and when Margarethe stood, knelt again and licked her pussy clean.
Margarethe removed her blouse and pants. Her underclothes went next, and her cap had been taken below before dinner and placed handy to her bed. She ran her hands over her full breasts, glad of the end of the restraint under which they had been all the hot day. Jenny undressed quickly, folding her clothes and placing them on the deck next the bed, and got into bed. Margarethe joined her.
Jenny kissed Margarethe. The strong flavor of the Uppman perfecto caused Jenny’s stomach to lurch as though in a seaway, but she recovered, and kissed her way down Margarethe’s body. She suckled the heavy breasts, taking nipple and aureole deep into her mouth like a suckling child and reveling in the swelling response to her mouth. She butterfly-kissed the athletic chest and stomach, and buried her face in Margarethe’s black, wiry public hair.
She licked Margarethe’s pussy, starting with the firm outer lips, going to the already wet inner lips and then the clitoris. Margarethe orgasmed hard, wetting Jenny’s face.
Then Jenny’s finger lightly, gently, with the care of a mother touching a newborn, entered Margarethe’s hidden scared space. Jenny’s finger traced the firm hymen, gently exploring it. Mistress was a virgin queen, indeed. A Dread Sovereign.
Margarethe swiftly grabbed Jenny, turned her onto her back, and roughly inserted three fingers in jenny’s cunt. “Take it, bitch!” she said. Margarethe roughly hand-fucked Jenny through two orgasms. Then came Schwarz Max, strapped on tight and lubed up good. Jenny grunted at the thick black rubber shaft drove into her anal sphincter, pushed through it, and continued driving until Margarethe grunted her orgasm.
Slipping out of her, Margarethe whispered tenderly, “Get some sleep now, my darling, my love,” kissing her.
Margarethe seemed hardly to have dozed when “Mistress!” Robin’s cry sounded through the loudspeaker above the bed. Margarethe sat up in a flash and shouted, “Was hat gefallen?” She lost English while returning to consciousness, pulling on sportsbra, shirt and shorts.
“Mistress, there’s a man in the water, I rescued him with the boathook but I need help getting him onboard.”
“Damn the boy if this is a trick by pirates or wharf rats to storm my ship,” snapped Margarethe, grabbing the Walther PPK in her left hand and the AK-74 in her right. She raced on deck, Jenny half-naked tumbling after her.
It was no ruse. The harbor was brightly lit and the noise from the dockside bars was scarcely less than in daylight. But there was only the man, black-skinned, big-muscled, barely able to keep head above water.
“Get him aboard.” Margarethe secured the weapons, keeping them handy. Then their combined efforts brought the man on board. He was unable to speak, breathing in short, stentorian gasps. His clothes showed long exposure in the harbor.
“Let’s get his clothes off and see what’s the matter with him, although dammit, I don’t know what we can do for him at this hour without a doctor or medicines.”
They peeled off the dripping wet shirt and cheap jeans. His shoes, if he ever had any, were gone, as were any socks. His underwear was worn and cheap-looking, but clean. Jenny took the clothes to the clothes washer and started the machine. Meanwhile, an inspection of the man’s pockets had turned out a comb, a wallet with soaked bills and ümraniye escort papers, and a few small coins.
They brought him below and spread him on towels on the large settee.
“Mistress,” whispered Jenny, “look at his cock.”
It was almost blue, so black was the skin. It measured not less than eight inches long and was extended to maximum length; the veins stood out as if to burst the skin.
“Bloody hell,” said Robin.
“What the Hell do you mean by speaking, oaf?” snapped Margarethe.
“Mistress, please, pardon, but this man must have been bitten by a Brazilian banana spider.”
“Oh bloody fucking hell, pull the other one, it’s got bells on!”
“No, Mistress, truly. Difficulty breathing and a massive stiffy-poo, it all fits. Look on the Internet. Try Phoneutria nigriventer.”
“All right then, sparky, but if you’re taking even the tiniest Michael, you don’t know what pain is. Keep him calm and I’ll look.”
Going to her stateroom, grabbing and booting her iPhone, Margarethe hastily returned. A Mistress doesn’t leave her post for long when there are sick or wounded aboard, whether passenger, crew or castaway. She quickly ran the search, and smiled at Robin.
“Spot on, boy, your next punishment’s scrubbed. Now happily our chappie here might make to morning alive, only ten reported deaths out of 10,000 bites, and this one’s in fine health,” she said, inspecting his still-burgeoned tool. “If I wanted to part with Virginia, I’d use him. But I’ll be keeping Virginia, so perhaps in my ass….”
The man was still breathing harshly, exhausting himself with his gasps. “Breath deprivation during sex,” said Margarethe, thoughtfully, “I’ve never done that before. Get the lube, Robin, I’ll be first. Jenny, dry him off.” Jenny plied the towels briskly. Apparently, the man had regained consciousness but could not speak.
They rolled the man to his side, he being too exhausted to react. He looked stunned, barely comprehending his surroundings.
“It’s all right, old chap,” said Margarethe soothingly, “No one here speaks Portuguese, but you’re among friends–oh yes you are, ducky! Robin, see if you can get another punishment scrubbed by lubing me well.”
Addressing their castaway, she said, “Now here’s a welcome aboard.”
Margarethe pulled down the shorts she had hastily donned when she ran on deck, armed and ready. The weapons had been placed handy to her, but far enough away from their guest so as to discourage any inconsiderate action. Robin opened the tube of Astroglide (better make sure he orders some more tomorrow, I mean today, don’t want to run out in the Sargasso Sea or off Cape Horn, bloody inconvenient and no good Boots in Tierra del Fuego, thought Margarethe) and applied a healthy two-fingers-full to Margarethe’s anus, entering her rosebud and massaging firmly.
“Keep it up, laddie, and I might do the same for you some time, before you get Schwarz Max.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
Margarethe lay down on the large settee and moved against the man, now lying on his side, his breaths slightly more even but his cock still extended. She spread her buttocks, moved against him and ordered Robin and Jenny, “All hands, docking maneuver and don’t fuck this one up.”
They helped Margarethe to thrust herself against the concrete pillar of the man’s cock, and bury it with a quick buck of her hips. Margarethe made short work of her first orgasm, firmly rubbing her clitoris as she butted hard into the monolith engulfed in her anus.
“Time to take my time,” she said, and gently rotated herself over and around his shaft, fingering her dripping cunt and licking her juices from her fingers. She reached back and ran her hand over his balls, carefully squeezing each one and pulling at his scrotum. She orgasmed, and pulling him out of her rapidly, stood up.
The man ejaculated, strangling and grunting. His cock did not slacken in the least.
“Clean up his mess, but be careful! He might have enough virus in his cum to take out the bloody Lifeguards and the Queen’s Own Fucking Highlanders.”
Turning to the man, she said, “Ho, me hearty, I’d shanghai your black ass in a minute, but I dinna’ fancy a Brazilian jail–although some of the girls might be fun–aye, weel, this’ll no pey the rint,” Margarethe lapsed into what she thought was a comic dialect, and none of her hearers criticized her.
“Anybody want my leavings? He’s still hard as the main prop shaft on the Queen Mary. But use a bag–no glove, no love.”
Robin took the Astroglide, applied it to himself, and slipped a Rough Rider onto the man’s still-erect cock. “Never neglect an opportunity,” he said.
Margarethe slapped Robin’s face hard. “Wha the fook asked ye?” she snapped, still in the dialect. But Robin was soon at the jig-a-jig with his partner, whose breathing was returning slowly to normal limits, and so was lost to outside influence.
Margarethe took Robin’s modest but useful cock in her hand and furiously, roughly masturbated him. “If you shoot on my shorts I’ll make you lick them clean and wear clamps on your balls. But no clamps tomorrow–girl, you gotta work tomorrow!”
Robin ejaculated into his own hand, which he moved between his slit and Mistress’ hand. The man came again, less vigorously than before.
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