WATERWAY

Chapitre 1

Jazmand, Rare Exotic Beauty - She Spreads Herself in Invitation

For this show, Mary, you will be placed in mild bondage, comfortable and able to move enough to avoid any cramping, but completely restrained from entering the stage where the action will unfold.  Restrained also from leaving.  No, you will watch.  But watch what?  Meet Jazmand.  She's the friend I've told you of -- a light-skinned Black lady with long, straight-black hair, and a taste-me look that would melt the heart of Anthony Comstock.  I've attached a picture of her.  Look at Jazmand, pictured turning her delectable derriere toward the camera.  See the orchid-pink folds in her perfumed garden of love?  Here, I've placed this fragrant, purple-pink orchid in a vase, and put it beside your bondage chair.  Let it's otherworldly folds and compelling scent suggest to you the action that will soon unfold on stage.  You will be watching as Jazmand spreads herself on the treatment bed.  When I tell you what happens, look at her and think about being tied in place and made to watch her undergo this procedure.

Jazmand and I talked it through in advance and decided we'd do two shows for you, then free you and see what, if anything, our performance had inspired in you.

For our first show, Jazmand would be the sub.  I laid her gently on the bed, face down and spread eagle.  I placed her in light bondage using restraint chains with padded-leather cuffs to loosely fasten her wrists to the bed posts.  I bound her ankles to opposite corners at the foot of the bed.  Thus restrained, she was mine.  The bed is a hospital type, so I could easily change her position.  With just the push of a button, I could hike her open heinie up in the air so I could fill her to the very brim.  She is a well-trained enema slave, and I wanted you to see firsthand all that those words mean.  For her pleasure, I had prepared a four-quart translucent-amber bag -- brimming with very warm water -- a touch of baking soda and salt added so she could take it all.  I started the procedure with a massage of her back and beautiful derriere.  As it went on, I concentrated more and more on her ample rear, opening her to let you see her most private flesh.  She knew another woman was watching this lewd show, and that knowledge set the color rising in her tawny cheeks.

As she warmed to the process, I began to touch her more intimately, speaking aloud about the enormous enema she was soon to receive, and how worthy her beautiful ass was of such treatment.  Like you, she has a tendency to let the an enema alone carry her over the top to orgasmic bliss.  I warned her that if she did such a thing, she would remain tied, be emptied, then start all over again.  I told her, as my fingers traced along the delicious curve of her butt, that she would get her reward in due time if she could keep control and submit to the necessary procedure.  Jazmand and I both wanted very much to show you what is possible, so she was fully motivated to do it.  But she was afraid . . . Fearful that her excitement would build too quickly, and she would be subjected to one after another massive enema till she got too tired to cum any longer.  You wouldn't want to see that happen to our darling Jazmand, now would you?

Jazmand is very much a verbally motivated person -- and she is deeply submissive.  With enough hot talk and loving encouragement, she seems to be capable of enduring nearly anything.  Thus, when it was time to begin, I hung the bag high on the stand beside the bed and simultaneously began to praise the beauty of what she was about to do.  As my hand caressed the rounded curve of her rear, I told her what a generous act she was doing.  I explained that her sacrifice would introduce yet another woman into the glorious release of continuous orgasmic response. 

I scooped a glob of Vaseline from the big jar on the night-stand, then lovingly slid my finger into her as I told her how clean and released she would feel when all was done.  I ran that finger deep into her insides, moving all around in her bountiful ass, letting her savor the penetration.  Pulling back I was thrilled to see how she thrust her hips out, trying to keep that feeling inside her.  Finally, her bonds would let her follow no longer, and I was able to withdraw till only the tip of my forefinger remained in Jazmand's rectum. 

Turning to you, I winked.  "Jazmand!" I said loudly, "Don't move.  I'm going to put another finger into you to open you up for the enema to come.  Mary will watch you get your pretty ass finger fucked, and I want you to show it openly if you like it.  Don't try to cover your feelings, or there will be severe consequences." The breathyness of her sigh of acquiescence left no doubt to either you or me that Jazmand was more than ready to have the glory of her femininity on display for your instruction . . . Indeed, for your initiation into her anal cult.

Chapitre 2

As my second finger touched her sensitive flesh, Jazmand seemed to open like honeysuckle to the probing of a butterfly.  I couldn't say whether I pushed my fingers into her waiting beauty, or whether she somehow stretched her bonds to suck my hand into her anus like quicksand swallows a heavy foot.  I let my two fingers slide very slowly into her till the knuckles of the rest of my fist were tight against her rear.  Then just as slowly, I drew them back out -- almost completely out -- then back to the depths of her seat, twisting around. 

To spice the moment for us all, I asked her to describe the feeling.  "It's such a funny feeling to feel the oblong width twisting deep inside, isn't it Jaz?"

"Ummmmm HUNUH!!!" She grimaced a bit as I added a third finger, and dug deeply into her quivering flesh.

"Tell us how it feels to be finger reamed like this," I commanded.

"Ohhhh-ahhh!  I love the feeeeeeUNH!!! . . . the feeling.  Do you think I'm ready now for a whooOOAH . . . ready for a whole hand?

"Not with the ruckus you're making with just my three fingers in you.  Patience dear.  Mary has small hands.  Perhaps she would like to teach you that, but not now.  You know what we're here for, and we'll have no distractions.  You and I are going to show Mary how you take four quarts of hot enema inside you without cumming till you're given permission.  And we're going to show her something else that will be a surprise for you both." With that, I began, reluctantly I must say, withdrawing my three fingers from Jazmand's hot hole.  In my other hand, I held an oversized douche nozzle attached by its amber-latex hose to the bulging bag hanging high over Jazmand's prone figure.  I slid the nozzle into her as a replacement for the fingers.  One passed the other so smoothly and quickly that she had no sense of being empty of one intruder before being filled by the other.

Jaz is a true klismophile.  She fell in love with the feeling of the enema back when she spent summers on her Grandmother's farm.  She's played with herself using them for all her adolescent and adult years.  She's learned the tremendous thrill of anticipation.  The wildly wanton stimulation of the water rushing against her sensitive insides.  The pressure that seems to build in belly and loins alike, pressure demanding a release. 

The nozzle I slid into her is a copy of one I made for myself.  Twice the girth, and more than two times the length of the standard douche nozzle, it has a single flute and just two openings therein.  With the bag hung high as we have it, the water rushes from these with considerable force.  You can feel it as it slithers along, back and forth, its spray tickling your intestines with indescribable pleasure.  When Jazmand saw my new toy, she begged me to make one for her.  She's here now because this submissive act is the price I demanded of her for my craftsmanship.  Not that this anal slut wouldn't have taken this assignment even if she had to pay for it.  I certainly would have, so I couldn't fault her enthusiasm. 

But I digress.  I turned to you and explained aloud, "This nozzle and the high-hung bag are capable of delivering more pressure than the bowels should be subjected to.  Thus, we are going to give Jaz her enema in spurts." I pulled the nozzle nearly out of Jaz's sensitive rear, to where its openings were just beyond her tight anal ring.  "I'll flick open the clamp like this" <CLICK> "And as the water shoots from the enema bone, I'll twist and thrust into her so every inch of her rectum and descending colon gets its turn to be tickled by the intense spray."

"Ooooooooooaaaaaahhhhh.  It's sooooo warm.  Thank you, Master.  I love it almost hot"

"About 8 ounces in.  I'll close the clamp," <CLICK> "before she overheats on us, and just thrust this big bone into her a bit to keep her ready while the water finds room to settle in."

We both watched in fascination as Jazmand's horny ass swallowed over nine inches of the huge nozzle.  How can so much length sink easily into such a petite body? I wondered.  From the bliss on her face, it was clear that, if the deep penetration was causing her any pain, it was the kind that "hurts so good."

<CLICK> The second 8 ounces rushed through the hose to join the first.  Jaz was really getting into it now.  She was starting to buck back into the nozzle, fucking herself with it.  I had to fight her to withdraw it till nearly 8 inches was back in free air.  I slid it two thirds back into her churning rear.  She provided all the necessary motion.  All I needed to do was hold it steady and stand by to shut off the flow <CLICK> before she passed the point of no return.

Jaz had only one pint in her.  With her capacity, that couldn't be enough to fluster her.  Yet she was panting already and flushed in her face.  Beads of perspiration were appearing across her brow.  I think it was more the determination not to cum than the feeling of the enema that was getting to her at this point.  Was she so focused on avoiding orgasm that she's doomed to fail in that effort?  Time would tell. <CLICK> With a sawing motion of the nozzle in our subject, the next 8 ounces rushed down the hose and into our pretty, distressed submissive. <CLICK> All too soon, though, the thrill was removed.  But this time I sensed she was teetering right on the edge of control.  Would I win before we even got the first quart into Jaz?

<CLICK> We would soon see.  Jazmand was really into it now.  Undoubtedly she felt the warm water inching ever deeper into her inner recesses.  But a firm resolve showed along with the obvious rapture washing over her countenance.  In, out, in out, wiggle.  Just enough tremble in my touch to keep the stimulation to her sensitive tissues constant.  <CLICK> Still, she had made it this far with no big bang.

<CLICK> Thrust, slide in, water massaging Jaz so perfectly, teasing her ever closer.  <CLICK> Four more times.  Two quarts in her now.  Jaz was now panting heavily, churning her hips against the constant torment of the nozzle in her second sex.  Her ass and pussy were now as one, and the water heating her bowels seems to drive a flame all the way to her nipples as they rubbed across the latex sheeting on the bed.  The special bed could be raised to bring her hips well above the rest of her body, and to pull the mattress away from her distended belly.  I deliberately did not exercise that option for this first enema.  Even with her present load of two quarts, being tied face down, spread eagle as she was, she felt enormous pressure.

Jaz had expected to get a much larger enema for her first filling.  She was waiting for me to adjust the bed and carry on with the torture, but I planned to shut it off at two quarts.  This one was really meant to clear her intestines for the larger onslaughts to come.  I wouldn't tell her just yet though.  She was craning around on the bed, stretching to watch us watching her.  The sight of her wantonly submitting her beautiful ass to such treatment was having a massive effect on us both.  Jaz was savoring this little element of control.  A bit of topping from the bottom in more ways than one.  And she was sooo good at it, so wonderful to watch.  I thought I'd just sit back for a bit and enjoy her show.

Chapitre 3

[For this chapter, begin by selecting a loose-fitting shirt-waist dress or a blouse and full skirt.  Wear a very sexy pair of panties.  You may wear a matching bra, or go braless as you decide.]

Jaz didn't yet know that her first filling was done.  I hadn't told her the volume she'd get.  All she knew was that she was connected directly to a four-quart translucent-amber bag.  Turning her head to look above her prone body, she could easily see that it was still swollen, no more than half emptied into her distended bowels.  At any moment, I could simply snap open the stop-cock and another charge of the heated liquid would flood into her waiting, upturned ass.  No need to disappoint our sexy submissive by informing her that she'd get no more than two quarts -- no more than two in this session, that is.

I called to you, sitting at a distance, watching the proceeding.  "Mary, come up her and sit on the bed beside Jazmand.  I want you to see how excited she gets when she's given a great big, hot ENEMA!" And with a simple touch of a hidden button your bonds let go so that you could leave your chair and come to the stage where Jaz lay, enema nozzle still buried in her shapely rear.

I was on the left side of Jaz's outstretched body.  You sat to her right.

"Mary, don't you think Jazmand has done well.  She's taken a big 2 quart ENEMA.  Jaz wriggles a bit each time we talk about her taking enemas, especially when we stress the naughty word.  Her ENEMA is still in her.  Just as she was instructed, she didn't let it make her cum, but taking it has gotten her hotter than the Fourth of July.  We can SMELL your excitement, Jaz. (Another squirm in her bonds.) What do you think we should give her as a reward, Mary?"

"I . . .  I'm not sure," you responded "She has been a really good submissive.  What does she like?"

"Well, she likes me to give her ENEMAS."  Hearing that, her rear end began positively dancing on the impaling enema bone.  "Once she's full of hot ENEMA water, she gets very oral.  She likes to hold her ENEMA while she licks on a dripping COCK, or a real WET PUSSY -- don't you Jaz?"

"Is yours real WET, Mary?" I teased.  My wink let you know that this was said for effect on Jaz, and not in any way to demean you.

You picked up perfectly on the cue.  "I'm sopping wet watching what Jazmand's been getting.  She looked so sexy.  But I don't know.  I'm so soaked she might drown if I squat over her pretty lips," you demurely protested.

Hearing this, Jaz came totally unglued.  "Please master.  May I go down on Mary."  Jaz really lives to savor the juices from an overheated cunt, I noted.

"Very well," I said. "I'll have sweet little Mary sit on your face.  Drink all you want from her fountain of feminine delights.  Mary, get up and bend over the edge of the bed, hon."  [Mary, stand facing the bed and bend forward till your upper body is parallel with the bed's surface.]

With you so bent over, I hiked your free-flowing skirt up over your back [throw your skirt up over your back to expose your bottom] exposing your pantied bottom, and leaving no doubt as to the truth of your claims to being wet down there.  Twisting her head to your side, Jaz had a full view of your provocative display in the big mirror on the wall behind you.  Her gasping and bucking reached a new peak.  The enema in her intestines was now sending sizzling heat into her sex.  What's more, she was feasting her hungry eyes on hot, woman flesh, flesh soon to be hers to taste.  It was almost too much for our poor slave.  Most delicious of all, she was to pay oral service to a pretty femme who was here playing the submissive for her master.  She would bottom to a bottom.  Perfect.  The moment that powerful image crystallized in her mind, Jaz nearly lost her fight to hold off orgasm.

Reaching over Jazmand's prone figure, I stroked my hand slowly, tantalizingly up your exposed flank, feeling the wondrous silkiness of your inner thigh [run your hand up and feel what I would feel].  I carried on over the silken material covering your cheek, and let my finger slide with some force, back and forth across the thin barrier separating me from your sex [let your hand trace that path]. 

With fresh evidence of your wetness scenting my fingers, I moved the same hand to Jazmand's face and caressed her cheek.  I knew she would inhale deeply of the perfume of your secret garden, and that your heady bouquet would drive her to utter distraction.  Sure enough, she began to lunge rather ferociously, considering the heavy load in her bowels.  I had to loosen her bonds soon or she'd flood the bed in her wildness.  Thus, reluctantly, I began to unfetter our pretty, submissive charge.  Her bonds were sufficient to hold a bucking bronco, but could be undone by one simple tug on a loop of cloth.  She was soon free, and I helped the enema swollen girl slowly, carefully, to roll onto her back, ready for you to mount her upturned face.

<JAZMAND2.JPG>

Beauty Rolls Over

"Mary," I instructed, "let's get these panties out of the way. [Pull your underwear down and neatly lay it aside]  I want you to climb up on the bed facing toward Jazmand's feet.  Get on hands and knees now, darling.  That's it.  Now straddle Jaz's body and get your knees planted around her waist.  [Assume that position]  Perfect.  Stay down in a crawling position now so when you sit back, you don't let Jaz get her nose into your rear, not yet at least." This initiated another savage set of bucks from Jaz, trying to arrange herself to get her mouth on you, a thing my restraining hands would not yet let her do

"Now Mary, slowly rock back until you drop your dripping pussy right on Jazmand's waiting tongue.  Be sure not to lay your weight down on her, though.  Remember how full of enema she is.  [Lick your fingers till they are all wet, then use them to simulate Jazmand's tongue.  Let her go to work on you just as you'd like her to if you two were putting on a hot show for me and having the time of your lives for yourselves.]

Jazmand's tongue was wondrous.  This girl obviously loved to pay homage to a pussy.  She performed expertly, even from this awkward 69 position.  She started with a long, soulful tongue exploration of your outer lips.  As you began to open to her mouth, her caress drifted to your inner lips.  This was not like some guys who'd given you head as a preliminary -- its only purpose being to get their dick where they wanted it.  There was no rush here.  This was the main event -- a soft, loving woman wanting to spend all the time in creation savoring the sweet perfection of your sex, drinking you in, sensing and then merging with the pulse-beat of your body.  Her tongue swirled back and forth around your inner lips, sometimes circling as if to bore into your core, but never really entering.  Then trailing passion up to the front end of the valley to dance wantonly around that most sensitive little hill.  Round and round the lips.  Now jabbing into your hole, licking your love juice fresh from its source.  Back up to the trigger of your sex, her lips folding around it in loving, sucking adoration.  Worshipping your femininity.  Licking deep into your opening, reaching like a long, giraffe tongue, up into the top of the trees for the most tender morsels of your love.  Out and to the front of your cleft, round and round your engorged clit.  So sensitive, slithery feelings that drive flames of passion all through your loins, back down your wet slit, stopping so wantonly to tease into your pee hole.  Was there nothing off limits to this Jazmand?  Did she really see every inch of your body as worthy of praise and exaltation?  Tonguing soooo deep into your vagina.  Could she feel it closing and opening to her invasion?  Yes!  This woman could read your body like an open book.  She would not let you cum.  She would lead you right to orgasm's raw edge, then hold you there forever, drinking from the fragrant chalice at the altar of your wet sex.  Yes, she really would drown herself in you.

Yet I knew that, as much as Jaz loves to hold an enema, and to drink from a responsive pussy, even she could not prevail against the forces of nature forever.  I decided to tilt the scales a bit in your favor.  Stretching out between Jazmand's open legs, I began to repeat on her the tongue dance she was so expertly working on you.  Now she began to run her tongue into you in earnest.  Deep into your open, waiting hole, then slathering up to vibrate against your clit, then back down the slit and deep into the hole, clit, hole, clit, hole, in rhythm as your hips began rocking on her face.

I had Jazmand very near cumming in my mouth now, and I broke just long enough to give you one final order.  "Mary, sit straight up now and let Jaz get her tongue on your ass.  [Fingers real wet, use them to play the role of Jaz's tongue back there]  Don't worry about offending.  She loves everything about you.  That's what she really wants to do.  Sit back on her and see what her tongue can do in a sensitive ass like yours."

You were hot enough to comply without any fears that this might be too much, might mortify.  Up you sat, and no sooner were you up than Jazmand's incredibly long tongue was up too.  Up deep in your ass, probing your depths.  Bringing out feelings you'd never known before.  Instinctively, your fingers moved into position to carry on the work Jaz had been doing to your seething sex.  I let the tension build till I could see you starting to cum, then I brought Jazmand over the edge . . . Taste buds flying deep into her orchid opening . . . The back of my tongue rubbing across her tender clit with each stroke in and out of her . . . Lips closed tightly around her womanhood . . . Sucking sweet nectar down my throat . . . Feeling her explode in wave after wave of ecstatic release.  As she went off -- the sheer force of her passion driving her probing tongue wild inside your rectum -- you floated up into an out-of-body, goes forever cum that drove Jaz even higher.  Spurts of her massive enema were spraying out of her with each successive contraction.  Thankfully, I'd covered the bed with the latex sheet in expectation of this.  My own stiff love-pole, slippery with abundant precum, spewed its load against the oily smoothness of the rubber sheet.

After what seemed ages of floating in the ethereal wonderlands, we all returned to planet earth and the realities of getting Jaz to a bathroom before the few drops she'd let out became a torrent and the place became a Superfund Cleanup-Site.  We both helped the enema-engorged girl to her feet and led her lovingly to the bathroom where she could get her much deserved release.

Chapitre 4

Jazmand's mincing walk to the bathroom was a study in enema seductiveness.  She was bent slightly forward, swaybacked, belly distended, ass displayed prominently behind her, as in the sexually submissive posture adopted by apes in the presence of a larger, more dominant member of their clan.  Jazmand was a thing of the primeval forest, submission, dominance, the never ending story.  She relished the appeal of her enema-engorged body, and played it to the hilt as we steadied her shaking legs and helped her to the toilet.  I kissed the back of her neck, and you kissed her full on the lips, those lips so fragrant with your own intimate perfumes.  You traced the swell of her belly with your hand as we eased her body down onto the padded toilet seat.

Jazmand would have liked us to stay with her.  In such a state of arousal, nothing at all seemed dirty or off limits to Jaz.  She would have your kisses, your hands massaging her turgid tummy and aching tits as she spewed forth the hot water I'd injected into her.  She would have taken my aching cock into her luscious lips and drank from it as instinctively as a hungry infant suckles its mother's pap.  She would have had her hands full of the wetness between your legs.

For Jazmand, the expulsion of an enema in the witness of her Master or Mistress was the ultimate act of submissiveness.  This was the most private of moments.  Everything about her would be on display.  The sight of her body racked by cramps.  The spurting, plopping, farting sounds.  The fetid smell of enema water spraying from her anus.  This was her proof -- her badge of courage -- the absolute demonstration of how she would humiliate herself if it pleased her Master, and now her Mistress, to have her do so.

Yes, she would have welcomed our continued presence.  She would have shown us how her belly tensed as each new cramp squeezed another burst of murky water from her core.  She would have shown us how she liked to rock from side to side on the toilet, her fingers gently moving across her enflamed sex with each sway.  She would have directed our eyes to her swollen nipples and engorged areola, straining outward from her chest as if reaching for attention . . . Reaching for lips to suckle.  She wouldn't care that you saw her draw her free hand to her nose, inhaling again and again, drinking in the heady perfume left when her fingers had sunk into your hot pussy.  All of this Jazmand would have willingly displayed had we stayed with her to witness the wonder of it.

But staying was not part of the plan.  We would adjourn immediately, shutting the door of the soundproof bath.  The room had a ventilation system that would well serve a submarine.  The stench of Jazmand's surrender wouldn't reach us.  The noise of her debacle we would not hear.  The beauty of her prostration would be lost to our eyes.  Or so she thought as we turned toward the bathroom door.  Lest she feel too much loss at our parting, we stopped at the portal for a deep, passionate kiss, you and me.  And with my hands all over your gorgeous ass -- opening your hips to display your rosebud to your lesbian lover -- I turned to Jaz and told her of the next step in her ordeal.

"Jazmand, Mary and I will leave you alone to expel your enema, dear.  But make a sexy show of it.  This room is equipped with hidden cameras.  Your every sound and act will be recorded, and the instant replay will have a prominent role in an upcoming act, so do a smashing job of it, my darling," I said, winking to her as we withdrew. 

[Continue to caress yourself as defined in the paragraphs below.  All the time, let your imagination bring me as close to you as my words can define.  Know that my imagination has me standing right there, in heat over every move you make, sharing my most intimate dreams with you.]

We moved only one door down the hall to the adjacent bath.  There, I set you before me on a latex covered massage table.  Spreading your legs apart, I drew into you and locked my hungry mouth over yours in a kiss that sucked the wind out of you in a deep, breathy sigh.  My kiss was full of all the passion the evening's adventure had fired in my loins.  The fire raged from me to you, and you reflected it back in to me even hotter.  My hands traced down your hairline, your neck, your back and the twin melons of your lovely ass.  The kiss drifted on for ages.

When I broke away, it was to drop down to my knees, my face near your inflamed sex.  But my visit was not to find a new site for my kiss, at least not now.  I reached into a cabinet in the table, and withdrew an enema syringe.  It was a 2 quart type, much like the drug stores sell.  It was unremarkable save for being made of beautiful pink rubber with a long, matching pink hose.  The nozzle, however, was a different matter.  It was an exact copy of the one you watched disappear into Jazmand's receptive rear. 

[Get out your enema syringe.  From here on, just follow this chapter.  Let the action serve as your instructions.]

<TEFLON14.GIF>

Engineering Drawing of WaterWay Nozzle

I made a show of explaining the merits of the nozzle.  "If you'll recall, this custom enema bone is 14 inches long instead of the diminutive 5½ inches of the standard douche nozzle," I declared in deliberately technical jargon.  "Its length leaves plenty sticking out to grab and ass-fuck you even when it's bottomed out in your pretty rear.  It flares at its end like the douche nozzle, but it's double the standard nozzle's diameter.  It has only one flute to the douche pipe's four, and two holes in that flute, so that its spray is concentrated in a tiny area.  The concentrated flow means that the nozzle gives a strong sensation of squirting into the sensitive lining of your rectum.  But I altogether digress, and I know you are anxious not to hear about this tool but to feel it spurting up your pretty rear." [I know you probably don't have one like this, but use a standard douche nozzle, and lots of imagination.]

"Here, let's get these confining clothes off you.  I want you to wear this black-silk gown.  It's really beautiful, filmy and free.  It will leave plenty of room for your midsection to expand, and expand it will," I teased.  [Undress.  Put on a nightgown that's silky, filmy, and has plenty of room for your belly to distend.  And remember, you asked for this. <smile>]

"Excellent.  It looks absolutely stunning on you, Mary.  A perfect backdrop for your light complexion, your blond hair, and your pink syringe.  Now, go to the sink, dear, and run the water till it's nice and hot.  There.  That's it.  Now set the hot and cold so the water is very warm, just comfortable to leave running on your wrist.  Got it?  Good.  Now fill your syringe with two quarts of that very-warm water," I instructed.  [If you have serious problems with water absorption from enemas, then mix in 2 tablespoons of baking soda and 2 teaspoons of salt.  Otherwise, plain water is best for this scene.]

"Perfect.  Now take your enema bag over, and hang it on the shower head.  Great.  You're almost ready.  Come here.  Let me give you a big kiss for such a splendid job.  Do you have any idea how utterly sexy you looked, getting everything ready?"

I kissed you long and deep this time, letting my hands roam over the voluptuousness of your silk-clad body.  You responded, melting into my embrace, opening yourself to me like a magnificent anemone . . . Flawless beauty -- drawing in her prey.  Would you completely absorb me, make me a part of you?  What better fate could there be?  Drunken with your kiss, lost, no longer able to hold on to my own identity.  Yes, I would have to yield to the undertow. 

No!  Swim at right angles to it.  Don't enter the watery grave yet.  There is work to be done.  An enema to be given.  I want to live, to stay separate long enough to watch the romance of your enemaing yourself for me.  Then -- after that -- who knows?  Maybe we'll kiss again and this time the current will sweep me totally away, forever to be alive only as some part of your perfect flesh.

But there was the world of reality to reenter.  Such a rude shock after the nirvana of touching you, tasting your fresh mouth.  I handed you a large jar of Vaseline.  "Here, Mary, you'll need some lubricant." With those words, I broke the spell you'd so skillfully woven.  Privately, I wondered, Did you know how close you had drawn me to -- to what?  I do not know.

Back in reality, you stepped to the tub and pulled the nozzle from its resting place in the open mouth of the syringe.  In my weird mind, I imagined the bag shooting a nasty, jealous glance at you.  It resented your taking its prize from within it and preparing to place it in yourself, instead.  For your impertinence, it would pump your bowels achingly full of hot water.

With trembling hands, you scooped up a large blob of Vaseline on your index finger and lovingly coated the length of the huge douche pipe.  You lingered over the task, thrilling to the touch of the slippery tube, thinking how it would feel as it slid home in your ass and poured out its warm, cleansing contents into your waiting insides.  Content with your job, you turned to me for the word to drive the pipe home.

"Mary, haven't you forgotten something?" I asked.

Your questioning look told me you were not sure what I meant.  "Lubricate yourself, too, Mary," I instructed, relishing the blush these nasty words brought to your sweet face.  "Bend at the waist, just as before.  Throw your gown up over your back to expose your pretty heinie to me.  Yes, just so.  Now, Mary, take another big scoop of Vaseline on your finger.  Rub it all around your asshole, honey.  Beautiful.  Delicious.  Now, open yourself with your other hand, and slide that greasy finger up in you.  Further, all the way in, dear.  We want you well lubricated before we start.  Perfect.  Move that finger all around up inside yourself.  Massage those muscles till they are totally relaxed and ready for what's to come.  Or should I say what's to cum?"

"OK, Mary, that's enough, sweetie.  We don't want you going off like a skyrocket before the main event even begins.  Come over here."

You straightened, letting your gown slide back down over your well-lubed opening.  You walked back over to me, caught up in the spell of the procedure.  I took your hand in mine, the one you just used to so thoroughly lubricate your anal region.  I brought it up to my face and kissed your open palm, taking in the smell from inside your bottom.

"Ah-ha, Mary, you do need an enema don't you.  There's fecal matter on that finger.  It wouldn't do to have your rear passage full of waste.  It would certainly interfere with things to come."

Blushing crimson, you watched as I cleaned your finger with a tissue.  With that done, I grasped the hem of your gown and drew it slowly up your legs, up your torso and over your head, leaving you standing nude, beautifully ready, before me.  "Now, Mary, go back to the tub.  Step in and face away from the fixtures.  That's a girl.  Take that well-greased nozzle and slide it slowly up inside your ass, just to the depth that feels best to you.  Yes.  Beautiful.  That's lovely beyond words, honey.  You are so responsive to it."

"Let it sit there a moment, holding it in place so the slippery thing doesn't slide back out.  Now open the clamp.  I want you to take this enema slowly, dear.  The moment you feel an orgasm creeping up, turn the thing off and concentrate on holding off till your enema is all done."

"Yes.  You're making great progress.  God, how I want to come hold you while you do this.  Or to switch places.  It looks so sexy.  And you've taken over half the bag, now.  That's a good girl.  Take every drop for me.  See if you can hold on and take every last drop for me.  Try for all you're worth.  Stop the flow whenever you need to, but do take the whole thing, darling."

"Oh, Mary, you're doing so well," I said, urging you on.  "Do take the whole enema for me.  We need you really clean.  And you know how wonderful you'll feel once you're emptied of all that trash and water.  Mary, I just have to see you with a full two quarts bulging in your belly.  I want to see what you'd look like pregnant.  So pretty.  So rounded and fertile.  Such an Earth-Mother symbol, like those carvings of the ancient fertility Goddesses.  So female."

"You make me want to be your mother, Mary.  Your mother would take you to the bathroom and make certain that you got cleaned out real good.  She'd teach you to submit so someday you would know how to rule, to bring forth new life and train that newborn in the ancient ways.  Mary, if your mother tells you to take it all, you can.  Mom knows what's best for her little girl.  You can do it, honey.  Just a little bit more now.  Breathe deeply.  That's a good girl.  Bend your back a little and let that heavy tummy sag.  That's my good girl.  Take every drop for mommy."

My surreal patter had its desired effect, distracting you enough to let you take the whole bag.  The gulping sound from the syringe hanging above your head signaled your success.  But before I could even congratulate you, in walked our dear Jazmand, fresh from dumping her first enema.  In an instant, she took in the proceedings.  She knew our goal was to increase your capacity, and that we'd reached a first plateau along that way.  She loves you, Mary, and she feels quite a flush of lust for you as well.  Her first inclination was to rush straight to your side, to shower you with kisses and with praise.  But she is also a well-trained submissive, uncomfortable in any other role.  She looked to me for permission to approach you. 

I nodded my assent, but added, "Mary is also your Mistress now, Jaz.  You must have her permission too.  Ask her what you may do for her."

Even Jazmand's dusky skin could not hide the flush that spread over her face.  Now she realized that she was not the only one who'd picked up on the significance of bottoming to a bottom.  She was to call Mary -- enema-submissive Mary -- her Mistress.  She loved it from the bottom of her heart.

"May I come kiss you, and help you hold your enema while it cleanses you, Mistress Mary?" Jazmand pleaded.  The sincere desire burning from her eyes would have melted through any wall of resistance.  And your desire to again feel her expertly loving touch was equally powerful.  There was no question what your answer would be.

"Of course, Jazmand," you replied.  "I'd love to have you both here with me."  With that, we both stripped off our last garments and stepped into the tub with you.  Jazmand planted her mouth immediately over yours, kissing you with a fire and passion I've never seen in her before.  The mingled perfume of all your most intimate spots was still fresh on her face, and the two of you reveled in it.  I kissed the hairline at the nape of your neck, trailing kisses down to your shoulder, along your back, down your hip to near where the monster enema-bone split your silky ass-cheeks.  With my face so close to your core, I stroked the fullness of your belly, ballooned out with enema water.  The image of the fertility Goddess was now even clearer in my mind.  How far could worship in this cult take me?  Over the edge? 

Already my cock was straining painfully, as if trying to grow long enough to penetrate you even as I knelt behind your lovely form.  Jazmand's kisses just kept delving deeper into your soul.  Her hands teased loving sighs from your breasts.  Her fingers stroked back your hair.  Her eyes gazed into yours.  She was a thirsty desert traveler, parched, weary, crawling, and here, before her were these lovely, twin pools of the most sparkling, crystal-clear water.  Headfirst she dove, her long tongue playing with yours as the wetness of your kiss mounted in uncontrolled swirls.

Behind you, you felt my mouth actually kiss the enema bone sticking from you.  Your body involuntarily spasmed at the thrill of the tickling feeling, the knowledge of the decadent deed being done. 

I turned on the prewarmed water and let the shower flow over us.  Some of the water entered the bag, hung on the shower head, and your enema began anew.  Jazmand broke away for a moment to see where this deluge was coming from.

"Unnnnnhhhh," you groan.  "I'm getting m . . . muuuuahhhh." Jazmand's renewed kiss stooped you from articulating the words.

As the second bagfull began to enter your bloated body, I moved between your legs and Jazmand's.  If she had claim to your Maybeline lips, I would take your love lips, and the enema bone could have your nether lips.  What a foursome we made.  Jazmand jousting with your tongue . . . Devouring you . . . Sucking wanton sighs from you . . . Moaning into your rushing, panting breath.  Me, running my hungry mouth over your sex . . . Finding each delicious part of you . . . Opening you . . . Merging with you . . . Letting your excitement pour into me.  The bag . . . Near full again as the warm shower streamed down on us all . . . Its mammoth bone was buried nearly to the hilt in you now . . . Your insides soooooo full.  So delightfully, painfully, pleasantly full. 

My tongue was now in its rhythm.  Into your love tunnel as deep as I could borrow, back out, dragging with it all the love juice freshly made in your overheated pussy.  Each trip, in and out, with the upper part of my tongue sliding oh-so-slithery across your hard little love button.  In-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, on and on forever.  And that damnable enema, just pouring more and more pressure into your over-stretched insides.  You had been in a state of semi orgasm for so long, but it finally went wild.  Your whole being was spasming around that nozzle deep in your core.  Love flowing into and out of every part of your body.  Water washing down, moistening your flesh for more.  You were near passing out when your awareness of the unbearable enema-pressure brought you down from the heavenly realm.  How many quarts, you couldn't be sure, but enough that, with each wave of ecstasy that swept through you, some was spurting out.  Fortunately the shower had kept all this reasonably hygienic, but you knew you must break away and release this massive load.

Jazmand and I helped towel you gently.  The distention of your abdomen told us that each move must be made with the utmost care and tenderness.  We guided you, shaking at the knees, as you made the few steps to the toilet.

We didn't know how you would feel about it, but Jazmand and I agreed that, if our true potential was to be reached, all intimate boundaries would have to be lowered.  We decided to stay.  With loving, kissing, massaging, hugs and a few squeezes, we would help you rid yourself of all the water and waste, and of any inhibitions that might be in the way of our full exploration of enema haven.

Chapitre 5

[As you settle in to expel your filling, read the following and act out the caresses and touches using your hands for mine.  Where my tongue enters you, substitute your well-licked fingers, slick with the dew from your own mouth.]

Bathroom things have always been a private matter to you.  You are not used to an audience while you go through the cramping, squirting, perspiring agony of expelling a large enema.  Yet you sense the special bond that's developing between us.  Three lifelong klismos, ready to share all of our passions, to be transparent before one another.  You are just as certain as Jazmand and I am that we must have no secrets, no walls to hinder the intimacy that is, at this precious moment, so strong between us.

Still, old habits die a slow death.  You plop down on the toilet seat, hoping for immediate relief, desperately needing it, but some hidden vestige of decorum is in control.  Is your subconscious doing this?  Unbidden, a message is being sent to your anal-sphincter muscles telling them to hold shut.  Nothing comes out.  Your tummy is a sea of cramping pressure.  You feel it pushing almost unbearably against your rectal opening.  But nothing more than a dribble comes forth.

I know just what is happening, and what must be done to fix it.  I kneel beside you, kissing you again, massaging your breasts.  My hand tracks the pregnant bulge of your enema-swollen belly.  My tongue is delving into your mouth now; my kiss building again to a raging fire.  My hand trails down the smooth swell of your enema-full abdomen and into the thatch above your well-exercised sex.  I let my fingers slide through the slick wetness there, tracing the outer then inner lips, teasing around your love canal, then back up to play with the trigger to your passion.  As the masturbation/kiss grows more intense, I let my other hand slide round your rear, massaging around your hole, forcing your cheeks open, coaxing you to let the massive enema flow freely.

You are climbing back up the stairs of desire now.  I am focusing my fingering more on your clit, beginning to find that rhythm older than time, strumming you like a fine Stradivarius, making such beautiful music. 

Jazmand, not able to stand and watch any longer, walks over to join the action.  Through half-closed lashes, you see her coming, and, reaching out, pull her body to you.  I break my kiss and you immediately pull Jaz's overheated pussy to your hungry mouth.  You take in the incredible, musky perfume of her Black ancestry.  Light skinned though she is, her Saffron tang is as primeval as that of the best of her slave forebears.  You are taken aback by it, not expecting this olfactory treat from one so fair.

Free of the kiss, I concentrate my efforts on coaxing total release from both of your holes.  My fingers literally fly over your love button.  As the crescendo mounts, my hand on your rear actually explores your darker passage, fingers sliding in and out of your well-greased, sodden ass.  Your orgasm is on us.  Jazmand is trembling, hardly able to stand, as she spends herself into your open mouth.  Her love juices are coating your face, dripping down the elegant curve of your neck.  My mouth is on your breast, sucking incredible sensations from your engorged nipple.  My fingers are playing a symphony, drawing mystical, high-voltage discharges from your sex to your opened ass.  With each crashing wave of passion, you feel bolts of electric pleasure ripple out from your groin, shooting fire down your legs, up your torso, into your breasts, up into your mouth, driving your hot, probing tongue wild in Jazmand's fragrant pussy, sucking wave upon wave of earth-shattering delight from her.

Each surge through your system is met by a rush of hot, churning enema from your distended anus.  Now, all pretense of civility is gone.  You and Jazmand and I are all locked in that ancient dance of release.  There is nothing left to hide.  There is no hidden signal, telling your strained sphincter to remain closed.  You are totally, utterly open.  Your enema flows now in a torrent, interrupted only on occasion by a spasm across your pelvic floor as the long, lolling orgasm just rumbles on and on.

You are not even aware of when Jazmand's pussy left your lips -- when my hands were withdrawn from your fevered core.  You only know that ages passed and the pregnant look of your tummy finally gave way to your usual, trim self.  Jaz was dabbing at your sweating brow with a cool wash cloth.  I was telling you what wondrous progress you'd made, and how tremendously proud I was of you, how in love with you.  Jaz, in love too.  And you, between the occasional cramp and burst of remaining water from deep inside, telling us that you loved us both more than words could explain.

"Perhaps," I winked, "we'll all go somewhere where the law allows multiple mates, and we'll get married.  How would they view it when we come back here and clear customs.  When they see our passports.  How would it play in Peoria?"

"Not as well as we'd all play, in Peoria or anywhere else," you replied, and Jazmand and I both laughed a hearty release to the evenings high tension.

Chapitre 6

[If you are not completely worn out, let your fingers do the walking again, just as you did in the last chapter.  Hands for hands, wet fingers for tongues, enact the scenes related here.]

With that laugh, we began to take inventory of the evening's affairs.  Both ladies well enemaed.  At least one crushing cum for each of us.  Hours of rigorous action.  We were all tired.  We decided that the first night's training could be labeled a smashing success, and that further programmed activity could be taken up in the morning.  Since it was Friday night, there was nothing on tomorrow's agenda save our essential work, and a morning trip to Miami for a shopping spree to support our training efforts.

This established, we cleaned up the baths and dried and lovingly stored our rubber gear, no small task in light of all the light-hearted goosing and teasing that we'd fallen into.  With all done, and in high spirits, the three of us retired to the Master bedroom, flayed ourselves out on its massive bed, and fought for control of the remote.  There were the usual late-night offerings on the satellite.  I voted for an infomercial on an incredible new car wax that lets you set little fires on the hood of your Rolls Royce, but that suggestion was met by a hail of pillow blows from the two of you. 

You countered with a suggestion that the I Love Lucy rerun channel was really the only choice at this hour.  This brought a second flurry of pillow fighting.  Jazmand settled things when she clicked onto a late-night love channel right as a gorgeous actress lovingly lowered her face down an enormous, rigid erection.  No pillow blows while this blow job goes on.  Rapt attention from the peanut gallery.  The porno flick was as mindless as most, but the performers were absolutely beautiful and the action was hotter than Mauna Keya.  In short order, the three of us were laying like logs in a row, facing the giant TV at the side of the bed, hands in each other's sexes and eyes glued to the action on the big screen.  Before long, the moaning of the porno players was matched and exceeded by sounds from within the room.

The flick came to its inevitable, cum-shot finale and, with one last heroic act of sanity, you clicked the remote.  Jazmand nuzzling deep into your neck, me with my mouth all over your heaving breasts, your concentration was a wonder to behold.  You found a concert just beginning.  The Philadelphia Philharmonic was playing romantic music.  The perfect backdrop to enhance, not distract.

Jazmand rolled over you and began to kiss you in earnest.  Soon she was melting herself into your enflamed body, her thigh pulled brazenly up between your legs while you slithered your wet sex along her silky flesh.  I turned and stretched out behind you, face to your feet.  My throbbing cock was nestled in the soft cleft of your perfect rear.  I drew a foot to me and trailed tickling tastes along the line of your toes, down your arch, across your heel.  Up your calves, so beautifully formed, smooth and rounded.  Kissing the ultra-sensitive flesh behind your knee.  Up your flanks, outside and in, drinking in the sight and smell of your silken leg-flesh.  Across your rounded buttocks, loving, worshipping now.  So perfect.  How can this be?  I must look deeper.  So near your enemaed rear, but no, I want to slide between the two of you, down where Jazmand and you meet, where her strong thigh slides against your syrupy sex. 

I push my way into the entwined legs, so fragrant now with two enflamed pussies pouring out their pungent juices.  My mouth finds Jazmand's waiting cunt, and she begins to undulate against my face.  Together we twist and turn till I am lying, back down on the bed and Jazmand is sitting astride my face looking toward you.  You, in turn, are sitting on my waist and raised to mount my manhood.  Slowly, maddeningly, you lower your dripping femininity onto my overheated pole, inch by inch, taking it into your seething core.  Jazmand watches in fascination, one finger tracing lightly across your clit as you slide down onto my waiting hardness.  Again, your hungry lips find Jazmand's bee-stung mouth and tongues entwine, sucking greedily.  Kisses drawing rasping breath from both the beautiful feminine forms sitting astride my sex-fired torso.

I grab jealously onto your waist, holding you motionless astride my aching cock.  Even a bit of stirring now and I know I'll explode into your slick love-tunnel.  I want the exquisite feeling of my love-swollen cock, tightly encased in your slippery opening, to last forever.  But the pressure in my groin is too intense.  I must pour wave after wave of creamy release into you.  My mouth, an open, probing, licking, living thing, at one with Jazmand's cunt, taking in the river of her excitement.  My nose, nestled between her tawny cheeks, with each ragged, gasping breath, awash in the incredible aroma of her thoroughly enemaed ass.  A hand cupping the sensitive flesh of my chest.  Another hand hefting the overloaded weight of my cum-filled balls.  My hand, caressing a swollen nipple.  My cock, thrilling to the little tremors beginning to vibrate through your pussy as Jazmand's fingers on your clit carry you to yet another earth-shattering release.  My tongue is stiff as an alter-cock, probing into Jaz as she sits pulsing and slathering herself on my mouth, driven by your hand caressing her most sensitive woman-flesh.  I rock my head trying to get my nose up inside the perfection of her ample ass.

I am doing my utmost to hold on.  Grasping your hips, pulling that silky pussy of yours hard down onto my straining erection.  I have an almost unbearable urge now to begin bucking up into you like a frightened bronco giving his first ride.  Only the most iron-willed determination keeps my body rigid under you.  As Jazmand coaxes your orgasm from your depths, I can feel each grasping spasm massage the cum up my pole, sucking me like some great milking machine, drawing me inexorably toward the most thunderous orgasm I have ever experienced.

Somewhere out in space, aligned with the 8 corners that define the room, a force is gathering, aiming blue-white flashes of plasma energy into the triangular points where the three of us join in our cosmic dance of discharge.  It begins as translucent whiskers - the Northern lights when they first shimmer across the moonless sky - an illusion - a cloud - a wisp of something from beyond.  Then gathering till the whole of the heavens prance and explode and careen in wanton flashes of stupendous glory.  Hot, brilliant, flashing sex, pouring from my every cell, up through my rigid rod and flooding you till it drips down into Jazmand's busy hand, dancing across your delta of Venus.  Your feminine slime, soaking and stoking my exploding fire.  My tongue gone wild in Jaz's pussy, in prefect time to your fingers on her clit, till it gathers together to take us all into that place the French so aptly call Lé Petite Mort, the little death.  Jazmand's glorious flow, gushing from her fragrant, orchid valley into my cunt-thirsty lips.  All twining together, we are one pulsing, beating, orgasmic piece of flesh, our juices seeming to flow through our joined bodies as if we were some vast storm drain -- sucking off the downpour from a flood ravaged city -- pumping our engorgement round and round -- all the rivers overflowing -- too full to let it all go. 

But let go we must.  As you slide off my cock, Jaz and I compete to taste our mingled love juices dripping from your well-used genitals.  We nuzzle, all stinking of hot, raw sex.  Jazmand is stroking my cock, milking the last drops of cum from me, hungrily lapping them up.  The moment, the love, the sexuality of it all is so intense I never lose my erect pose.  In short order, Jazmand has guided you to your hands and knees on the bed.  She has slid under you, ready to see to the needs of your soaking love slit.  She guides me with the hand griping my male flesh, bringing me up behind you, positioning my hardon at the entrance to your nether hole.  We are slippery enough with our mingled love syrup that there is no need for lubrication.  I feel you push back, opening your beautiful rosebud like some rare desert flower that blossoms only for the solstice sun. 

As my cock slides inch-by-inch into your creamy ass, the erotic delight of the feeling sends a shiver through both our bodies.  Jazmand is there with her tongue deep in your sex, eyes wide to watch her man and her woman come together, nostrils flaring with each panting breath she takes.  With all the delight of a bitch in heat hanging her head from the window of a moving car, she is drinking in the combined smells of all that we have done . . . Are doing.  Her eyes follow each thrust as my engorged hunk of flesh slides in and out of your most secret place, gathering pace and size with each new plunge.  Jazmand's expert tongue and soft, silky lips have you climbing, hips bucking to meet each thrust, soaring toward yet another massive release.  You have never been a great fan of butt-fucking, however, this time is something different.  Actually, you hadn't given it much of a thought, it all unfolded so naturally, so quickly, and with such complete preparation.  After all, you are squeaky clean from your enema.  Your anal-erotic tendencies have already been honed to a razor's edge.  Your every erogenous zone has been teased, touched, loved, fondled and totally primed.  And now, with each successive stroke of this great pump pistoning into your innards, you are feeling so shamefully full, so wanton, ass hiked up in the air to better be filled with hot, pumping cock.  Cock that is ramming into you with utter abandon now . . . A life of its own . . . Matched stroke-for-stroke by your gulping rectum, alive in its own right, drinking from the penis pumping into it.  First, a tiny draught of precum.  More precum, a dribble, a stream, pressure building so wonderfully.  You can feel it in the pulsing veins throbbing on the surface of the intruder scorching your ass.  Exploding now, a river, real cum, surges of it spraying oh so deep within your receptive bowels, the wide base of my manhood pressed tightly against your buttocks, obscenely parting your opening. 

The feeling of that hot geyser spraying your insides takes you over the edge.  Yielding to Jazmand's tongue, you grind your pussy into her upturned face, pouring your own hot love offering into her eager lips.  I am still caught in the ending waves of my seismic ejaculation when Jaz pulls away from your well-licked pussy and plops my hard cock out of you and into her mouth in time to catch my final spurts.  I'm not sure whether it is the taste of me or of your ass, or perhaps both mixed, but something fires her passion in a sudden brilliant flash, and she orgasms again, her little fingers furiously working pleasures from her smoldering sex.

By now, our symphony of sex complete, the three of us feel, smell and look like whore-house veterans.  We are each soaked with love offerings of every kind from one another.  Without so much as freshening up, we are soon sleeping peacefully to the closing sounds of the Philharmonic.  We will not waken till the Saturday sun pours into the large window over the bed, calling us to the merriment of an erotic toy and lingerie shopping spree.  But not before a really good, hot shower.

Chapitre 7

The first slanting rays of the sun, sliding unstained through the bedroom window, brought us to awareness of Saturday morning.  The trade winds were awake already, their cool Atlantic scent ruffling the chintz curtain, fanning a Florida morning to life.  The sky, with its rose tinted clouds at the far reach of the sea, broad crepuscular rays shooting across the heavens from the horizon out past the beach, was a masterpiece fully worthy of the beauty that is Key West.  Parrot heads, this is what it's all about.  Without this sunrise, how could Jimmy Buffet find the lyrics and ambiance to teach the easy-going Margaritaville life?

As I bustled about the kitchen, the heady aroma of fresh-ground Colombian coffee added to the day's wake-up call.  In the garden outside the kitchen window, a wind chime was singing its soothing litany to the breeze.  I was busy with morning work, watching over the coffee preparation, heating some croissants.  But I was distracted by a strange new noise, added to the chimes in the garden.  There was a constant background chatter out there, a 'guk-guking' sound.  Taking time to peer out, I was amazed to find three lesser flamingoes gathered around the garden pond, terrifying the koi, but threatening only the algae that I had planned to attack next weekend in any case.  How they came to be here, I couldn't even guess, but they added a mystique to this special morning.  Usually, when new wildlife arrives in my garden, I do what I can to feed and welcome my guests.  My culinary skills were not well developed when it came to entertaining filter feeders, however.  For the flamingoes, all I could do was maintain their safe haven lest they be sent back to some tourist attraction where they would be placed on public display.

We had a 10:00 AM flight to Miami.  This island is gorgeous and fun, but not the best of venues for our planned shopping.  The sound of a car pulling onto our drive called us to quick action.  It was a bit early, but the limo must have come.  Jazmand ran to the door to ask the driver to wait.  She had no more than opened it when a muffled pop sounded outside.  The door frame exploded into splinters, flying into a clutter on the living room floor.  Jazmand screamed and lurched backward.  The rending squall of tires burning out, and the roar of a powerful engine floorboarded, split the calm morning air.  I rushed to the door in time to see a blur of a disappearing black car, all the windows darkened, skidding around the hedge at the end of the drive.  Jazmand screamed "You muthafucking pig, Rashad! You Bastard! . . . Bastard!" then broke down sobbing.  She appeared to be uninjured.  Shaken, but not hit.

We were both utterly incredulous.  In all my life, I had never witnessed anything remotely like this save in the movies.  We crowded around Jaz for a moment, comforting her.  For someone who'd just narrowly escaped death, she was amazingly in control.  Her shaking, which I'd first read as fear, I saw now was almost unconditional anger.  She at least thought she knew who that was in the dark sedan, and she was madder than a hornet that they'd done this.

"OK Jazmand, what the Hell's going on?" I asked her.

She just stared. .  I didn't get any impression she planed to hide the facts.  It seemed more like she was still too mad for words.  Instead, she gawked mutely at the shattered wooden molding.

As if enough weren't already happening, the limo pulled up and honked.

"Can we just get in the car, first?" Jaz asked.  "Let me have just a minute to calm down, then I'll tell y'all who I think that was, and what's on his mind.  I never thought he'd go that far."

I was thinking we should call the local police, but that option was taken out of my hands.  Within a minute of the limo's arrival, a police cruiser pulled in and two officers disembarked, hands on weapons.

"Shit," Jazmand said. 

I gathered from her remark and her grimace that she'd have preferred this morning's action didn't get the attention of the police.  Well, too late for that.  It has.

Walking out into the front yard, I greeted the driver of the squad car, a tall and lanky Cary Grant look alike.  "Morning officer."

"I'm officer Delancey," he announced, ignoring my hand outstretched for a greeting.  "Is everybody OK here?" he asked, with more than a little suspicion on his face.  "We got a shots-fired call."

"Yes, thank God we are all fine.  Somebody took a pot-shot at my front door a few minutes ago.  We were just coming out on the way to the airport.  That's what the limo's here for."

"Well, I'm glad you are all safe.  I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you a few questions, though.  You may want to call your air carrier and modify your travel plans," he said.  It was not in the tone of a suggestion.  It was more like an order.

"Thanks," I said with a clear ring of sarcasm in my voice.  Then thinking better of it, I smiled a bit and explained, "It's just that the three of us had really been looking forward to this trip.  This is unnerving, getting shot at, and having to cancel plans and all.  Still, it beats letting this goon get away with it.  Who knows, next time he might take more time to aim?" In an afterthought, I added, "Shall I send the limo driver on?"

"No, we'd like to ask him a few questions too.  He may have seen the car that the shooter used."

The other officer, a balding man with a distinct paunch trying to overflow his belt, was already on his way to the now nervous looking limo driver.  Officer Guy Isidore, two years from retirement, would pass on the bad news that the driver must be briefly detained for questioning.  I dispatched you, Mary, to call Paradise Transpo and reset our flight schedule, as well as that of their driver.

That done, the two officers gathered the four of us together and explained that there were some routine questions they had to ask in any shots-fired case, particularly where there was the possibility of attempted murder involved.  They would, we learned, also have to send some people from the crime lab come out and examine the area, including the door frame, for clues.  Ugh.  I knew the bullet had torn into the wood well inside the door.  I'd have to be at home, or call in the maid to watch over things while they investigated. 

First, the officers got names, addresses, telephone numbers, all our personal data from each of us.  Then they started their cross examination with the limo driver, who turned out to be the source of the shots-fired call to the police.  It was probably our good fortune that put Delancey's squad car within a block of our house when the call came in.  If we had already left, who knew what the gendarmes might have done to my house, garden and new-found flamingoes?

As I listened to the details the driver could provide, I carried on a background process of considering how to salvage something of our weekend.  My upset at having someone use us for target practice was considerable.  If the jerk succeeded in wrecking all our plans, the day would be that much the worse in my mind.  Still, I knew that the incident might have the two of you feeling that this was not the time for play.  No matter, I thought.  Whatever we do for the rest of the weekend, I'd rather we do something other than hang around waiting for the crime lab to disassemble the house.  I asked the heavyset officer, who wasn't doing much talking, if I could call my maid to cover for us later, after our debriefing was done.  With his leave, I put a call in to Juanita, hoping she'd be home on an early Saturday morning, a day she had off.  She answered on the fourth ring, sounding breathless.  She'd been out running with her dog, and heard the ring from the front walk, she explained.

I explained our situation to her, leaving some of the more lurid details about our intended activity for her to guess, and asked if she could come in, double-time pay, and give us a break from the crime scene.  I knew she was trying to gather money for her son's schooling, and could use the extra income.  Sure enough, she said she'd be delighted.  Her conversation was full of comforting, reassurance, and solicitous concern for our welfare.  Either a very good employee, a great person, or an experienced liar, I thought.  Knowing Juanita as well as I did, I figured it was mostly the first two with a smattering of explanation three thrown in for good measure.

The limo driver was explaining that he had more seen than heard the shot, and that he'd seen the car tearing away right after the shot was fired.  He told the police that the car was a black Lexus with smoked windows, very dark so that he couldn't make out anything of the driver or even tell if there were any other passengers in it.  He'd seen the barrel of the weapon poked from the window, saw the blast, and the damage to the door.  Heard just a muffled pop.  The officer asked for a description of the weapon, but all he'd seen was the barrel.  This, he described as being, " . . . really big, maybe an inch and a half in diameter."

The description of the car and weapon jibed perfectly with what I could provide.  I'd only seen the car and the gun for a moment before the driver sped off, but I noticed how large the barrel was.  A silencer, I suggested, judging from its appearance and from the minimal noise that the shot had produced.  As to the car, I couldn't provide any details.  Just that it was a black late-model sedan, luxury looking.  It had plenty of horsepower, judging from the way it had shot out of the drive.  And the windows were darkened.

Jazmand was next in the interrogative spotlight.  She provided little in additional details.  Only that the car was already parked on our semicircular drive and a bit past being parallel with the front of the house, already aligned to make a dash for the front gate, when she opened the door.

I noted, as she was relating this, that she didn't mention the name she'd shouted in her initial anger and fear.  Rashad, I remember she had called him.  Perhaps she was not so sure that's who it was and didn't want to chance implicating an innocent man.  Perhaps she had some wild idea to handle this herself instead of letting the authorities do it.  I didn't know her intentions, but decide to let her take control till I had a better understanding of what she was up to, and what she was up against.  It seemed to me that the shot was meant for her, not you or me.

"Mary," the fatherly Isidore proceeded, "what did you see?"

You amazed the rest of us with your level-headed observations.  You had just a flash of a view from the door, arriving there just before I did.  Both the police and the rest of us were pleasantly surprised at the detailed description you were able to provide of the weapon. 

"It was shorter than a regular rifle," you said.  "It didn't have the wooden piece that goes back to the shoulder, the butt.  It stopped in a handle like a pistol grip right by the trigger.  And it had a long, curved clip."

"How long would you say the clip was?" asked Delancey.

"Oh, nearly twice the length of the pistol grip, and thicker than the grip, too," you replied.  "And it had the big center barrel like they said, but it had two shorter, smaller diameter barrels.  One was over the main barrel, and the other under it."

"An Uzi," Isidore said.  "That's gotta be an Uzi.  It'll take the boys in forensics a month to figure it out, but that's what the weapon was."

"And one more important thing," you interjected, beaming proudly.  "I got part of the license number of the car.  It started with NLT and then some numbers, and I think a letter on the end."

At this revelation, all of us were incredulous.  How did you see so much so fast in the midst of such pandemonium.  Obviously, your powers of observation are tops.  I made a mental note that I'd have to factor that knowledge into your training.

"Florida tags?" Isidore asked. 

"I think so," you replied.

"Good.  We'll check that out," the portly officer said, and immediately radioed in to police headquarters with a description of the car.  The police in the area would be on alert.  Perhaps they'd catch the gunman immediately.  Somehow, though, I doubted it.  This didn't seem like the act of some teenage thrill seeker.  More like a professional hit man.  I guessed the shooter would know how to quickly ditch his car and evaporate into the local scenery.

Delancey's words to the limo driver broke into my thoughts, "Mr. Hansen, that's all for now.  If we need to get in touch, can we reach you through Paradise Transportation?"

"Sure," Hansen said, and added, "I hope you get the guy." With that, he strode toward the door, obviously relieved to be finished with this.  "If you're only going to be a bit, I can wait and take you down to the airport.  They will have held the charter," he called back over his shoulder.

In response to my pleading glance, Officer Delancey nodded, and I signaled to Hansen that waiting was a great idea.

Delancey almost smiled - or at least looked as if he was straining not to -- and said, "Oh, we'll get him." Somehow, I wasn't convinced by his demeanor that he was all that certain that they would.

Next, he turned his attention to us.  "Have any of you got anyone mad enough to want to scare the hell out of you?  Maybe somebody wants to get you to back off on something?"

Not too surprisingly, none of us admitted to having any such relationships.  I was curious as to why he thought this may have been a deliberate scare, and I asked.

<UZI2.JPG>

The Uzi Assault Riffle - Shown here without the silencer that would, if installed, give the impression of a very large bore center barrel.

"If that was an Uzi," Delancey explained, "Then the shooter could have sprayed your front door with a 30 round clip before he tore out.  From the sound of it, this was a professional.  I think, if he'd really wanted somebody dead, he'd have fired more than one shot."

Delancey's logic sounded solid as Gibraltar to me.  Perhaps this Rashad had some plan for Jazmand, and she was not going along.  I was certainly looking forward to quizzing her about it.

As I was pondering this, Juanita arrived in time to the departure of the two officers.

Finally, all the questions and delays behind us, instructions for the weekend left with Juanita, we were out the door.  Hansen, the driver, jumped out and graciously opened the back of the car for the three of us.  Watching you bend to enter, your rounded hips so fetchingly outlined in your clingy, knit skirt, my mind was soothed from the cares of today.  Next, Jaz bent her fanny toward me, caressed by a light illusion-silk dress so diaphanous it ought to be illegal.  In the subdued light of the beach house, I hadn't realized just how transparent her skirt was.  With the sun streaming through it thus, and with a dark-brown hint of fanny crack showing that she had wasn't wearing panties, the look was nearly salacious.  Maybe, I mused, there's yet some hope for this weekend.

Hansen, the Paradise Transportation driver, whisked us out to the airport where a small jet was standing by, a charter from his company's service.  We would soon be airborne toward Miami, and, I hoped, toward some respite from the fears that this morning had brought us.  Even if that guy is a pro, I thought, he'll probably have a hard time following us to the airport and finding out where our charter flight is heading.  Now, I was doubly glad I went to the extravagance of traveling this way. 

<AIRLIMO.JPG>

Paradise Limo & Charter Jet at the Key West Airport.  Used with permission of Paradise Transportation, Key West, FL.

At the onset, it had been just a whim, taking a limo and charter jet instead of cheap transportation.  The car was out, because we would be bringing back, WaterWay, my new boat.  Taking delivery of it was the seed that planted the whole Miami shopping-spree idea. 

What was I thinking, spending money like this?  That's easy.  Having been no more than middle class all my days, I was ready for a taste of the good life.  Here I had two incredibly attractive young women interested in me, a man of fifty-two.  Yes, I do exercise.  I like to think of myself as reasonably good looking.  But I have no illusions about my own grandeur.  Before my novels were published, and the follow-on series deal and movie contract sealed up, I doubt the two of you would have dedicated much time to a fossil like me.  Back in my poor days, the young ladies at the University thought in terms of carbon 14 when it came to dating men of my age.  I knew clearly enough that, beyond my vivacious personality (NOT) and sparkling wit (SLIM CHANCE) you two were with me to help me enjoy the largess.  The deal seemed straightforward to me, and I had no question that I was getting value for value received.  So I was splurging a bit.  Still conservative at heart, though, I kept most of the bounty invested and earning returns, not spent in profligate projects.  But I had room in my soul for some fun, and now that my budget allowed it, I was determined to have it.

I was truly relieved when we were finally in the jet, seated, and the cabin door was closed.  It felt as if the plane's thin, aluminum body could somehow shield us all from the harsh threats this day had brought.  If not shield us, at least carry us far from the danger brooding in the dark behind the sinister, smoked windows of that Lexus.

For the first few minutes, we were occupied with taxi, take off jostling, and listening to instructions from the pilot.  Once things settle down for our brief flight, we were able to turn our attention to our own affairs. 

Both of us turned to Jazmand.  Time-to-tell-the-all was written on both our faces.

Jaz glanced blankly out the airplane window for some time, as if trying to collect jumbled thoughts.  Finally, she screwed up her courage and began.  "He's just some guy that keeps following me.  His name is Rashad Banton.  He got interested in me about two years ago," she explained, "when I worked for a time at an S&M club as a submissive.  He had ties to the owners.  I dated him for awhile.  But I was afraid of him.  I mean, I never thought he'd do anything like this morning.  I don't even KNOW that it was him, today.  But I bet it was.  I mean, who else?"

"Anyway, like I was saying, I was put off by his sadistic side.  I'm a natural-born bottom, OK?  But I don't bottom to tops who get off on hurting people.  I can only serve a master or mistress who can balance my interests and feelings with theirs.  Rashad gave me the creeps.  I felt like he could care less whether his sub got any pleasure from a scene, he just wanted to make sure he got his."

"So I tried to ditch him.  But he just wouldn't take no for an answer.  He kept following me around, turning up at this then that odd place.  I guess you'd call it stalking," she continued.

I was beginning to seethe listening to this, and Jaz suddenly looked over at me and visibly paled -- a look of pain disfiguring her lovely face.  I was not sure what was up, but I could see she was starting to cry.  Sliding into the seat beside her, I put my arm around her and brushed her tears away.  "Come on Jaz, you're not going to let an asshole like that get the better of you now, are you?" I asked.  "I know you're more of a fighter than that."

"It's not what he's doing to me that's getting to me," she said.  "It's how I brought it all down on the two of you that's making me sick with myself.  I thought you were angry with me.  I wouldn't ever have done anything I thought would put you guys in danger."

At this she broke down in sobs.  It's not surprising that she'd be distraught, I thought.  She probably just needs to blow off some steam about what happened.  Reassure her that she's not standing alone in this mess.

You jumped up and joined the fray, consoling our distraught lover. 

"Angry with you?  Furthest thing from my mind.  You're just too sweet to believe, sometimes," I told her.  Jaz, a sucker for warm strokes, always brightened when you laid a genuine one on her.

"But I never thought he'd do anything like that," Jazmand wailed.  "He is a violent man, I know that.  But I didn't think he'd come after me."

"OK, OK, honey.  We're going to get through this," I said.

You squeezed in and pulled her head onto your shoulder, brushing her disheveled hair from her eyes.  She calmed like a baby rescued from a lonesome crib by a mother's arms.

"Now," I said after giving her a moment to recover, "what's this about his being a violent man?"

"That's why I feel so bad about it," Jaz answered through renewed tears.  "He's a drug dealer.  He's in some Jamaican gang, I think.  I should have known better than to get close to you."

"Hold on, now," I commanded, getting a bit emotional myself.  "Let's remember who's acting like a law breaking asshole here.  Certainly not you, darling.  Now you listen, woman.  Mary and I both love you," I said in my mock-stern master's voice.  "We're with you whatever this jerk decides to pull.  I mean, there's no way I am going to just stand by and let you go to him," I declared, with real conviction in the master persona this time.  "But I think you're right.  It was probably jealousy over Mary and me that drove him from stalking to shooting.  Knowing that might just prove useful."

"Mary, what do you think?" I asked.  "How should we handle this?"

You responded with the rational, safe answer, "Let the police handle it.  They'll get him."

"I don't think so," said Jazmand.  "They'll nail Jack the Ripper before they get anything on Rashad.  Besides, the officer said they figure he just shot to scare somebody.  And you know how much good the cops are with stalker cases.  They basically tell you to wait till he kills you, then file a report.  I've been through that whole mill for the past 18 months.  It's useless." With that, tears veiled over her sweet eyes again.

"Well, Mary's certainly got a point, Jaz," I suggested.  "Letting the police do their job is probably the politically correct thing to do.  But you've got a point, too.  That heavyset cop, Isidore, will probably retire before they get around to doing anything useful to solve this.  Ten to one the car was stolen.  They'll find it ditched somewhere, no prints, nothing.  The gun certainly wasn't registered to him.  The crime lab won't be able to trace the bullet.  He may have done the shooting, or he may have hired a hit man.  In either case, he probably didn't just miss, he put the bullet in the door to make a statement."

"And besides, when did I ever take the politically correct course?" Wow, this brought a smile from both your lips.  "No, I vote we fix it ourselves.  I vote we fix him so he'll never come within a mile of any of us again."

"You plan to have him killed?" Jazmand replied with new concern. 

"No, no, certainly not.  I'm no murderer, and I don't trust hired help for work like that.  But I've been thinking this through for a while now.  What if we pull a mission impossible on this guy and get him to back off?  But it involves some risky business.  I'm not about to force anybody to play this game.  When it comes to this kind of team, we're strictly a democracy.  Unanimous support, or we back off and leave it to Key West's finest."

Jazmand knew me well enough to know I was serious.  I could look at her and tell that she was game.  You, Mary, didn't look so certain.

"What do you plan to do?" you asked.

"A reasonable question," I answered,  "and one for which I don't yet have all the answers.  We're going to need to learn a lot about our friend and his Jamaican connections to pull this off.  But the essence of it is, we hoist him on his own petard."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the captain's voice over the speaker interrupted, with the beginning of his landing preparation speech.  We looked at one another, a renewed sense of both love and adventure in our eyes.  We made our preparations to land in Miami and continue our planning, and, just maybe, our weekend's fun as well.

During our taxi ride from the airport, I explained a bit about our hotel.  "We have reservations at The Alexander.  It's a 4-Star resort about 10 minutes from downtown.  We have a two bedroom suite, two full baths, an elegant living and dining room, fully equipped kitchen -- which I intend to use only for drinks and fresh-brewed coffee -- and a private balcony overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway.  Aside from the location, looking down on the yacht basin where I'll pick up my boat, I like this spot for its subdued elegance, and for its slogan, 'There's something in the water.'  I think they mean this to praise their waterfall, their pools, Jacuzzis and private beach, and I find no fault in that interpretation.  I just carry the phrase a step or two further."  A quip I hoped sailed over the taxi driver's head -- it brought private snickers among the three of us.  I prattled on thus, attempting to entertain -- to sidetrack thoughts from the morning's intrigue.  It's not that I had any illusions of making it go away.  I just wanted to hold further discussion till we were out of earshot of others.

<ENTER_A-.JPG>

The Entrance of the Alexander>

Once we cleared the front desk, settled into our new accommodations, and freshened up from our travel, we turned our attention immediately back to the matter of Rashad.  No vote had been taken during our earlier discussion, and I was eager to see how you felt.  Jazmand, I was certain, had been ready to go.  Of course, she would be.  It was in her interest to get the creep out of her hair.  But you had seemed to have reservations about meddling in official police business.  So I turned first to you.  "Mary, you've had some time to think about things.  How vote ye?"

"Well, as I remember, we were going to hear some more details of your plans, Master," you teased. 

"Yes, that we were," I admitted, making a mental note not to let this little impertinence go unanswered.  "What I've got to offer is mostly in rough-sketch form just yet.  We'll need to stay flexible and tailor our plans as the details emerge, but here's the framework on which we'll build."

"This guy wants to own Jaz as his personal sub, right?" You both nodded in agreement.  "So we convince him that he can get what he wants if he plays his cards right.  We act like we're scared to death of him and we're going to do whatever he says.  Only we set up circumstances seemingly outside our control so he never quite arrives at the right time or place.  When we have him about ready to cut his right arm off to get past all the roadblocks, we trap him.  Here's how."

"We convince him Jaz is a nun in a tres secret and chic S&M society, a group whose training has rendered her one of the most desirable lovers in the world.  So far, we're pretty close to the truth," I added, with a little goose up her silk-clad rear.  "We lead him to believe, to rather discover, that you and I are part of her novitiate training.  We throw in lots of pomp, religious ceremony and shamanistic symbols, just to pique his Jamaican sensibilities.  He may not believe in the church or Voodoo, but if he grew up in Jamaica, he had to have been touched by the images.  They'll effect him."

"We convince him that he must go through a secret initiation to be allowed into the society.  No, better than that, we set things up so that he discovers about the secret initiation, and he comes demanding that he be allowed in.  In the initiation, we let him play the top, but of course, he's got some folks watching, so he can't get out of line.  Now, while he's doing his topping, we secretly video tape the whole thing.  We script the scene so that we catch him saying certain key phrases on the video."

By the attention that this little discourse was demanding, I took it that both you and Jaz found it at least mildly interesting.  And so I pressed on.  "The plot thickens.  In the other half of the initiation, he has to prove he has the courage and will-power to be a bottom.  He's set to replay the same script he ran with Jaz.  At first, things will seem to him to be going right as expected.  Again, we will be secretly taping his scene.  This time, we'll get him on tape begging for punishments, counting strokes of the lash, kissing his Mistresses shoes, her ass, her whip.  You get the picture.  Only Rashad's session won't wind up quite the same as Jazmand's.  We drug him.  Give him some of his own poison.  And while he's out, we put him in REAL bondage.  I mean bondage Samson couldn't break out of."

"Now, the real fun begins.  I've never busted a bronco before," I admitted, "but we're going to break this man.  We're going to take him out into pain and fear like he's never known before . . . Then we're going to take him beyond there . . . Take him out to where he craves it.  All the while, we're going to be making our video.  When we're through with Rashad, we will edit the tape, mixing his begging for punishments in the scripted first scene with the real punishments from the runaway scene that follows.  In the tape, Rashad will look like the most bizarre, panty-waisted freak ever to be born.  He'll beg Jazmand to fill his mouth with shit, then she'll do it and make him swallow.  I mean, really out-there stuff.  I don't know what all, yet, but I know we can come up with some lulus."

"As a side issue, we'll hire an investigation firm to build a criminal-activity file on Rashad.  If they really concentrate on him, that shouldn't be too difficult to do.  Before we turn him loose, we'll have a dossier ready to put him and a bevy of his gang-member friends permanently into jail cells -- put 'em away and weld the door shut.  We'll set it up so that, if it is ever released, it will look like Rashad's a snitch and he cut a deal to bust the others.  That way, he'll be praying he does go to jail if that file ever gets turned over to the authorities.  Otherwise, his own gang will kill him for sure.  We'll set things so that, if he does anything to any of us, or if we even have an unfortunate accident, both the smut video of him being a fruitcake and the crime file are delivered into hands where they'll destroy him forever."

"Now, I don't know this guy, so this plan may take a lot of rethinking, but that's my first cut.  What do you think?" I asked, glancing at the two of you.

Jazmand was quiet, deep in thought about Rashad, his personality, his temper.  She was weighing carefully the potential for pulling off such a dangerous ploy.  You, my dear Mary, were not so reticent.  Beaming your interest in the game, you declared, "Interesting.  Very interesting.  But I get to play a role as Mistress with him too.  Jazmand can't be the only one shitting in Rashad's big mouth.  OK, I was down on taking the law into our own hands, but make it a game like this, and it's a whole different affair.  If we can hone this plan so it looks like it will work, and put some safeguards in place to protect us if there's a screw up, I'm voting we go for it."

"Done," I said.  "You will get your turn as his Mistress."

Jazmand cautioned, "When you push Rashad that far, he can be very dangerous."

"I understand that," I said, "but then, so can we . . . So can we."

"We could just let the police handle it," Jazmand said.

"Jaz," I patiently argued, "you said yourself that the police weren't going to do anything till he has stepped well beyond the stalking.  You may not get a second chance with a guy like Rashad.  He may kill you, maybe without even meaning to.  He probably doesn't have any S&M education.  He could do you in a fit of passion, or a scene gone wrong, or another scare play like today, but this time his aim is off and the bullet hits you, not a door frame.  I mean, shooting up someone's home is not small-time naughtiness.  If you're right about this guy, Jaz, then he's a member of one of the most violent drug gangs on earth.  He's certainly killed before, and probably places little or no value on human life.  His only interest is in how to manipulate people in order to get what he wants from them.  His tools to do that are not just words, or even sexual passion.  He uses fear, threats, violence and murder as calmly as we use nipple clamps."

"Well," she countered, "I could just go back to him and let him have his way."

I saw you rolling your eyes to the ceiling. You argued, "Sweetheart, are you forgetting Abuse Survival 101.  Abusive men don't become docile giants just because you come back home and play daddy's-good-little-girl for them.  What Jim said is exactly right.  Abusive men are used to getting whatever they want whenever they want it, and they are totally willing to use any weapon they find to get their own way.  He's probably got hidden psychological trip-wires that set him off with women, and they don't even have a clue what made him go mad.  You go back to him, Jaz, and I got a real bad feeling we'll be identifying your body in the morgue.  No, Jim is right.  We gotta do something to derail him."

"God, I love the two of you," Jaz sighed, a new round of tears wetting her big eyes.  "I'd rather live with a rabid pig than go back to Rashad, but I really had to know you two wanted to take up this fight.  It's going to be risky business.  I don't want you doing it without thinking through the danger, and thinking of other approaches."

"Why don't we set it aside for a time, and get to the shopping?" I suggested.

"Ummm, that was why we came to Miami, wasn't it.  A woman's place is in the mall," Jaz quipped.

"Great!" I declared.  "While we were freshening up, I made a few calls.  Anthony Rueger is a personal friend.  He's also one of the brightest criminal attorneys in the South East.  On top of that, I first met him at an S&M munch here in Miami, so I knew I could be open with him.  I told him the whole plot.  Everything.  He has an investigative service that works for him.  Rashad's already got a tail.  If Banton figures out where we are, and tries to head over here, we'll know it before he leaves Key West.  I'll keep my cell phone with me.  For now, let's not unpack too much.  Leave things so we can go on short notice."

"The investigators will also be building a file on Rashad.  Contact names, evidence of illegal acts, enemy lists, the whole shooting match.  So we're off and running.  I figured these precautions wouldn't hurt, even if we couldn't agree on what action to take."

"OK," Jaz said.  "Sounds as if you've done a thorough job.  To the mall.  What is thy bidding, my Master?" this last part spoken in her best imitation of Darth Vader.

"Well, my pretty pets," I answered, "we're all going to get some sexy underwear, some custom latex, and maybe a turn in the toy store."

"Adult?" she countered.

"XXX or better.  Best Miami has to offer.  And this is the city of sin in the sun."

"But before we go, Mary, pull up your skirt and bend over."

Ugh!  you thought, remembering back to your teasing me about the vote.  Here it comes.  You expected a spanking or a goosing.  I gently tugged your lacy panties down to your ankles and tapped each leg, indicating for you to step free of them.  Waiting for the first blow to fall, you were surprised when my lips folded gently around your sex, my tongue probing into you.  You were dry, and I was thus given the incentive to dig into your woman flesh searching moisture like a parched, thirsty plant sending down deep roots.  My tongue borrowed into your sensitive opening.  In the full mirror across the room, you were treated to a clear view of your knit skirt, bunched around your waist, your buttocks brazenly on display and my face shamelessly buried between those twin hillocks as I feasted on your pussy.

As your feminine juices began to pour from you, I broke away.  "Jazmand," I commanded, "Mary is getting wet.  She must be licked dry before we can go on our shopping spree.  Get you face between her legs, young lady, and clean her up."

Jaz knelt behind you and began to nurse like a suckling babe at your love lips.  I believe if this woman had to choose between pussy juice and air, she'd drown happily.  Her sucking sounds were loud, salacious, titillating.  I pulled her lower body up so she was bent at the waist like you, face still wedged between your creamy buttocks, tongue deep in your feminine folds.  I slid the see-through silk dress up over her big rear.  She was already soaking, no panties to catch her flow.

"If we're going shopping for love toys," I announced, "we need to wear the right perfume.  Let's not leave till we all reek of sex.  But nobody cums.  Got it.  We're going to look, smell and act the part when we traipse into the Pleasure Chest." That said, I slid my hard cock right to the hilt in Jazmand's steaming pussy.  I stroked into her deeply, banging against her upturned butt, driving her face into your sex.  She moaned louder with each new stroke, and I knew I must let up or she'd fail the no-orgasm rule.  Of course, making her fail could be fun in itself, but that's for another time.  Today, while we're shopping, I want us all hot and bothered.  No orgasms yet, I thought

So, good as Jazmand's tight love canal felt to my thirsty cock, I pulled out of her.  I was dripping with her love dew.  I walked around to your face and instructed you, "Mary, look what Jazmand put on me.  I want you to clean Jazmand's sex juice off my cock so we can pull our clothes back into position and get to the Mall."

With what Jaz was doing in your vagina, you needed no prompting to suck cock.  You had me down your throat to choking depth before I could finish my speech.  "Ah, lord that's good, girl.  You are one fine cock sucker," I said in pure admiration.  Some men may say such things by way of demeaning a woman, but not me.  In fact, I thought, I'm a pretty fine pussy slurper, too -- a claim I plan to prove later.  But now, I must pull my hot meat away from you or it will be me that violates the no-cum zone.

And so, your panties still sitting on the living room floor, we were off to taste the thrills that Miami shopping would offer.

Chapitre 9

Miami is a shopper's paradise.  That's true whatever the target of your buying.  Be it the mundane; a new spring wardrobe, back to school supplies for the kids, sporting goods: or the exotic; a fully equipped dungeon, latex fashions hotter than fire, a live love-slave; Miami's got it.  Of course, it has illegal attractions of all kinds, to boot.  Rashad and his friends must surely know their way among those vendors.  But such was not our target.  Unusual items, yes.  But nothing illegal was on today's shopping list.

As we headed into town, we had a moment to talk further of our plans for the taming of Jazmand's tormentor.  I asked Jazmand about him, collecting all the details I could about his habits, strengths, weaknesses.  She showed us a picture of him still had.  He was a tall, handsome man with dark chocolate skin, muscular, but quick and agile looking.  His bearing suggested something feral, black-panther like.  I could easily see why Jazmand was attracted to him.  He was casually leaning on the front of a black BMW 735, and yes, it had darkened windows.  He was wearing a white muscle tee; tight, black stone-washed jeans, and black-leather belt and wrist band with gold, bullet-tip studding.  And speaking of studs, even in this quiescent state, a very distinct bulge reached across his groin and snaked its way down one pant leg.  The picture exuded cockiness, power, danger and raw animal sexuality.

"You know, Mary," I said in an aside to you, "I'm beginning to share your excitement about bringing Rashad under domination.  This is not just going to be a good deed done for our sweet Jazmand's sake.  It's going to be high sexual adventure.

"Yes," Jazmand answered, "if we pull it off.  If we don't, we better move to Siberia quick."

"OK," I allowed, "what about that.  I mean, what kind of threat are we up against in Rashad."

"Well," Jazmand mused, "I think he can be violent at times.  He's tough as nails.  He's got some powerful connections in the gang, I guess.  And he's got enough money to hire any kind of help he needs."

"I know that," I countered.  "Those things are quintessential to his line of work.  But what's he likely to do with his resources?  What I'm getting at is, will he know he needs to hire some help?  Take, for instance, tracking us after the charter flight.  Ten to one he doesn't know how to do it himself without so much violence the cops would be all over him.  Is he the kind to hire a detective agency?  Or would he just wait till we get back in town?"

"He won't hire detectives," Jazmand replied confidently.

"Good!" I answered.  "Score one for us."

"That reminds me, I should tell Tony to keep the investigation very discreet.  If we have the advantage of hired help, let's not let Rashad find out we've got that edge.  He might reconsider his loner approach."

I dialed Tony's private number on the cellular.

"Tony, this is Jim.  About that little search I asked you to conduct.  I want it done real quietly."

"You mean you don't want Mr. Banton to know you're asking about him.  I'd taken that for granted."

"No," I answered, "I mean I don't want him to know that ANYBODY is asking about him.  Can you handle that for me?"

"Uh . . . sure.  It may complicate it a bit.  Slow things down, you know.  We won't be able to use paid informants.  But we can do that."

"Then do it.  If it costs more or takes longer, that's OK.  Hey, and I really appreciate your help with it, Tony.  I owe you."

"De Nada," Tony chuckled.  "I'll remember to collect."

"That I don't doubt for one minute," I laughed in return, and signed off.

The taxi was pulling up in front of our first shopping stop.

"Master," Jazmand said, remembering my instruction to slip into our D/s roles while we shopped.

"Yes, Jazmand," I smiled, rewarding her for her obedience.

"I was just thinking that I have my 'Rashad Record' on my computer.  It was a diary I wrote about him.  I had just gotten my 486 when I met Rashad, and I learned to use Windows Works by writing a kind of blow-by-blow account of our relationship.  It isn't near complete.  I'd skip days or even weeks, then write when I had something interesting to say.  But it might give you some more details you can use."

"Excellent," I said.  "You will be rewarded for thinking of that."

With that, we turned our attention fully to our browsing and shopping excursion.  We were at a moderate sized, exclusive lingerie shop, awash with muted eroticism in its decor and displays.  Greta, the store's owner, knows Jazmand well.  Greta's collection of classy to trashy undies is superb.  There is no fetching window display in this shop.  This is not a store designed to lure the casual passerby.  It is rather an event among Miami's erotic cognoscenti.

At this stop, we would purchase starter corsets for you and Jazmand.  Not the Sears & Roebuck variety, but true binding tools for turn-of-the-century corset training -- the kind that laces to produce an impossibly small waist -- accentuating every curving pleasure zone of the feminine form.

Greta asked you to remove your dresses so she could get accurate measurements.  I'm certain the tape would not have been thrown off by the thin material, but equally sure that Greta does her best work if given the incentive of female flesh to caress.  It was a delight to see her suck in her breath as both of you, facing the lusty lesbian, slid your dresses off, revealing your bare pussies to her hungry eyes.  Without missing a beat, professional that she was, Greta lovingly measured the two of you, letting the back of her hand just brush across the sweeping curve of brassier-cupped breast, silky midriff, almost tracing the rim of Jazmand's navel.  Greta had spent quality time feasting at Jaz's charms in the past, and feeding her own sex back in return.  There was a wistful, not pained, but sad look on her face as she touched the beautiful black woman.  It was as if she knew that, in leaving Jazmand to go her merry way, she had lost her grip on something precious beyond words.

Greta finished her measurements.  She would need no more than two days to make the corsets.  She had her own shop, and could thus deliver custom foundation garments overnight instead of the usual 4 to 6 weeks for mail-order houses. 

We knew Greta wanted to spend some private time with us.  However, we had other stops for the morning.  Tempting though her huge breasts were, we had to move on.  Before we left, though, she asked that we take just a moment to look at something new.   From under the counter, she brought out a box.  Opening it and unfolding the delicate white tissue covering its contents, she showed us a pair of silk panties. 

"They have a very airy, lace front," she said.  "And look, from a distance you'll see that the pattern is a yoni.  And for comfort, behind the lace there is an incredibly sheer panel of open-weave silk." The rear panel is perfect for ass lovers like you three.  It is of the same see-through silk.  And the crotch is double thickness silk.  It is a tight weave, very absorbent and feathery to the touch.  After a day of wearing these, your puss and panties will be so fragrant you'll think you douched with estrogen," Greta said, giving you a knowing smile. 

"Here, Mary," she whispered, "step into these."

Holding the panties open for you, she knelt before your naked sex, close enough to feel your heat.  The flush that reddened her cheeks suggested that, indeed, she did feel it.  You stepped into the leg openings, and Greta slowly pulled the lingerie up your limbs, letting her hands caress your smoothness as she went.

"They're sexy beyond belief," I told Greta, as she grasped your full, silk-encased hips and pirouetted you.  The front view showed just a hint of bush through the thin gauze separating the lace from your skin.  The yoni floated like a divine watermark just above the silk panel covering your vagina.  The rear view was equally arresting.  The diaphanous back-panel gave just enough of a view of the cleft between your buttocks to make me want to see more.  I could follow that darkening valley down to within a centimeter of your anal opening, but my eyes were denied the true treat by the bottom panel, soft and absorbent, already steeping in your fragrance.

"What colors do they come in," I asked. 

Greta smiled, knowing she had a sale.  I suspect that, if I had refused to purchase them, she'd have bought them for you herself.  After turning you, ostensibly for me to better see the way the lingerie enhanced your beauty, her upper lip was actually trembling.  Jazmand was, though dear, used merchandise to her.  Greta was always on the prowl for new conquests, as if each new notch on her bedpost somehow renewed her worth.  She had been close enough to your hot body to smell your female scent, and she was now shaking with desire.

Too bad.  She'll not have you, I thought.  We bought two pairs in black, and two in white; matching sets for the two of you.   I told Greta that, regretfully, we had other appointments to keep.  She helped the two of you back into your dresses, then I asked her to remove your panties and repackage them for later.  This, she most willingly did.  I told her that I thought today's lingerie and latex treasure hunt would be far more fun with the panties stored in their tissue wrapping.  At each store, we could delight in the clerk's surprise as they helped you try on clothing and discovered your bare bottoms.  And where underwear was required for a try on, the clerk could always help you into these.  Greta flashed an approving smile, a token of her lusty thoughts.

Our next stop was a more conventional lingerie outlet in Bayside Marketplace.  From the more outré of their collection, we choose for you a flare-leg brief in white satin-weave nylon.  It had cute scalloped leg bands, but the only thing that set it apart from other undergarments was the fact that it had a split in the back.  This provided sufficient modesty, but could easily be opened so that anything from a douche nozzle to an erect penis could enter your nether hole while you remained fully clothed. 

We were alone as we tried it on you.  I slipped behind you and whispered "I will slide my hard cock right through that opening and fuck your pretty ass so good.  While I'm pumping in and out of your rectum, I'll let my hands play in the wetness spreading through the front on your briefs.  I can almost feel my arms wrapped around you, cuddling up under your breasts, hands flying over your nylon-covered pussy.  The back of your neck open to be kissed.  My flesh buried to the hilt in your hot ass, feeling your rectum milking me." I wanted to keep on, to tell you all the sexy thoughts your presence demanded.  But I knew that we must move to our next destination.  These delights would have to wait.  And so these panties were also stored for later use, and, naked beneath your clingy knit dress, juices sticky on your inner thighs, we pressed on in our treasure hunt.

Not far from the Bayside Marketplace, and still on Biscayne Boulevard, Omni Mall was our next stop.  Here, we visited Fredericks.  We were after a bustier.  We did not find quite what we wanted.  However, a charmeuse camisole and tap set caught my eye.  It had a matching mid-thigh robe.  It wasn't on the list, but I knew it would look stunning, and I couldn't resist getting one for each of you. 

I chuckled, "And most women complain they can't get their men to go shopping with them.  They could if they shopped for the right items."

There was also an illusion-silk nightgown and robe set -- accented with lace -- black -- elegant beyond a dream.  This was a must.  To be dressed in such regal fashion and then put in bondage and made to submit to all manner of sexual invasion.  To know how utterly sexy you looked as you submitted your body to training and enlightenment.  Just thinking about it sent shivers up my spine.  My cock had been straining against my pants so long now it hurt.  I, too, was wet to the core.  What sweet agony, this waiting.  As each minute passed, my need to have you increased.  New ideas flooded into my mind.

Back in a taxi, and en route to what we hoped to be our last lingerie shop, we again were in quest of the bustiers we'd hoped to get from Fredericks.  My mind was by now filled with a storm of erotic images and thoughts.  The two of you seemed caught in the same mood, and we nestled in the back seat of the taxi, occasionally kissing and teasing.  I thought for a moment about Rashad.  Is he yet trying to find out where we went?  Will he soon be here in Miami, stalking us with his ugly Uzi?  Thank God I had Tony put a tail on him.  I was startled from this reverie by the ring of my cellular phone.  Besides the shock of the sound, the possible threat it might indicate immediately quickened the pulse of the three of us.  But it was just Tony checking in and telling me they hadn't found much on Rashad yet.  My heartbeat began to slow to normal again.  I hung up, wondering why he would call to tell me they weren't finding much.  I made a mental note to later ask Tony why he thought that worth reporting.

We pulled up before our next stop, a store off Flagler Street in the heart of the downtown shopping district.  It was lunch time now, and the store was nearly bare of customers.  The manager, an attractive woman with distinguished silver-gray hair, choose the three of us to chase away her boredom in this quiet hour.  "I'm Madame Brighton," she said in a crisp British accent.  "May I be of assistance?" She extended her hand to me. 

The gesture was so formal, I  could not resist the proffered parody.  Grasping her hand, I bowed deeply and took it to my lips in a lingering kiss.  I was amazed to smell the wondrous, familiar scent of woman on her fingers.  Had she been playing with herself, or with one of her customers?

"Well, my word.  You are the formal one, aren't you?"

Ignoring this in what I hoped was British fashion, I carried on.  "Madame Brighton, allow me to present Lady Mary and Mistress Jazmand, my two servants.  I will need some very special garments to outfit them for their ministration." I figured this little charade would either get me in with this commanding lady or get me thrown out of the store.  Either way, we win -- that was my take of it -- a newfound friend or some high merriment.  Fortunately, the jest caught Madame Brighton in high spirits.  She seemed quite willing to play along.

"Well, then, what is it these servants need?" she queried. 

"I have been shopping all morning for new uniforms for them," I replied.  "I have found the most elegant panties, and a wonderful charmeuse camisole and tap set, and the most royal of nightgowns.  I've ordered corsets for waist training.  They'll be in Monday.  We still have an array of latex items and some leather to find, but just now we are in need of some really fine bustiers.  If you could help, I'd be most grateful," I told her.

I had thought this would be grand sport.  A little diversion to cut the pre-lunch boredom. 

Madame Brighton, however, was not easily derailed.  She took my entire soliloquy in stride.  She simply said, "Perhaps you've brought these young women to the right place.  Please follow me." She led us out the back of the shop, through a hallway, and into an adjacent building. 

I was stunned.  I'd thought I knew the D/s scene in this area, but here was a fantastic collection of exotic lingerie, leather, latex, and bondage gear.  Every fetish was represented.  And I do mean every fetish.   

The collection ran from the light-hearted toys an experimenting suburban couple might choose to the heavy-metal weapons that gay bikers embrace.  Along one wall were cat-o-nine-tails of various sizes, leather slappers, paddles, whips, canes.  There were leather, Velcro and even steel restraints of every kind.  In one alcove, she had a huge collection of enema gear.  There were 4 quart bags, enema nozzles, colon tubes from the size of enema hoses to the size of fire hoses, custom nozzles including a wonderful strap-on mounted on a latex panty.  Of course, there was the usual collection of dildoes in every size, configuration and color.  There was even bondage furniture, stocks, a rack, pillories, whipping benches, an examination table with stirrups, several SCAT potties, and a specialized latex waterbed designed for enema administration. 

The collection was indeed impressive.  As I always do in such settings, I felt my insides begin to churn as I looked at certain of the items.  With some, I was thinking how I would use them on you.  With others, I was recalling their use on me, and the quivering mass of responding nerves and flesh I'd become at the touch of such instruments of pain/pleasure.

I knew the moment that I looked around that this would be the last shopping stop of the day.  I saw the look in your eye, Mary, as you watched me admiring the four-quart clear-latex enema bag with its giant hose and enormous, flesh-like nozzle.  I knew that, soon, I would dress you in the panties with the split rear, slide this huge cock-nozzle into your waiting, trembling rectum, and enema you till you ran clean and your sex stopped steaming. 

It was all too much.  I needed to get out and clear my head before deciding what to purchase.  It was, after all, lunch time.  Perhaps that would provide the needed break.

"Madame Brighton," I said, "I can see that we must spend a great deal of time shopping here in your specialty section.  However, we should have some lunch before making such demanding decisions.  Would you care to join us.  Somewhere close by, so that we can return quickly."

"Why, I'd be delighted," she said.  "There is a Mexican restaurant near here.  The food there may make these ladies more appreciative of things to come."

I thought that Madame Brighton's eyes had followed ours to the enema gear.  I could now see that she was a perceptive woman, probably a domme of some ranking.  I wondered how she had come to be here without my knowing of her.  That, I would probe over lunch.

For the next few minutes, Madame busied herself giving directions to her help and setting things in order so she could leave the store.  This completed, she led the way to El Rancho Grande.  She ordered for herself, and I ordered for the three of us, instructing the waiter to provide a large helping of refried beans with your tostadas.  A round of Dos Equis Mexican beers, and we were ready to settle in and talk.  I knew that neither you nor Jazmand had recovered your natural bowel function after the large enemas of Friday afternoon.  With the gas and bloating this lunch would pile upon the load already in your intestines, you would be begging me for enemas by the end of the day -- a request I fully intended to fulfill.

But enough of gastroenterology for now.  Time to learn a bit about this stately woman we'd just met.  I asked Madame Brighton how it could be that a woman of her bearing and obvious interest in the D/s community had escaped my attention in my own back yard. 

She simply smiled and replied, "That's the result of my being too busy for my own good this past year.  You see, I'm from London.  I had a fetish shop there for years, but I've always longed to live in Florida.  So, I purchased the lingerie store a little over a year ago, along with the adjacent building where the fetish showroom is now.  The place was run down, particularly the adjoining building.  I had quite a job before me planning and supervising its renovation, putting in the connecting hallway, and so forth.  And I had a terrible row with your customs agents about bringing the stock from my London shop into your country."

We chuckled at this image . . . Madame Brighton standing before a somewhat cowed customs officer, demanding that he immediately release her racks, pillories, whipping benches and cane collection.  I don't doubt that the customs officials were wary of pushing this woman too far.  Whatever the motivation, they did eventually release the entire shipment, and M. Brighton was able to get on with outfitting her store.

"I'm finally getting the shop on an even keel," she went on, "and I'm quite anxious to get back into the social whirl.  I miss my friends in London.  I haven't played this whole year.  That's why, when the three of you came in, and you, Jim, began to tease with your courtier's bow, I decided to invite you into the inner sanctum without any appointment.  You see, I've been keeping a very low profile with that part of the shop -- only letting in people know to me.  I wanted to learn the local customs and sensibilities before I became too open with such potentially disturbing wares."

I was truly taken with the charm and bearing of Madame Brighton.  She kept the three of us in gales of laughter with her stories of her brushes with customs, and with tales of some of the more eccentric requests she'd had from British customers and lovers over the years.

By the end of our lunch, we felt that she was a close and trusted friend.  I gave her two names, and some phone numbers so that she could contact local organizers in the D/s scene.  I told her that there was a munch scheduled for a week from next Wednesday, and I invited her to attend.  She said she thought she would.  "Good, I said.  We'll plan on being there too."

Before the luncheon ended, I wanted to ask directly about the scent of sex I'd detected on M. Brighton's delicate hand.  I felt I knew her well enough at that point, but still tried to come at this in as delicate a fashion as I could.  She was, as I'd expected, completely comfortable fielding my inquiry.

"Just more evidence of loneliness, my dears," she said.  "That, and the fact that the new issue of Skin Two magazine arrived today.  It was quiet this morning, and I slipped into the bath to glance at the magazine, and I'm afraid things got . . . Well . . . Out of hand, you might say."  Her smile kept us totally at ease with the discussion.  "I do hope you're not disappointed.  You might have expected a more sordid story from a woman of my reputation," she teased.

Small talk continued for a moment, but was interrupted when the waiter approached with our check.  M. Brighton deftly grabbed it from his tray before he so much as reached our table.  Try as I might, I could not prevail on her to let me pay for lunch, or even to make it a Dutch Treat. 

"Absolutely not.  I've been starved for attention too long.  You're not going to deny me the opportunity to buy three such charming people lunch," she insisted.

"Very well," I relented, "let's get back to your shop, then, and give you a chance to recover some of what you've just spent."

Recover, she did.  I bought a black-latex catsuit for each of you and a masculine version for myself.  I got a clear-latex skirt for both of you.  I found a harness in black leather, an affair that left its occupant hanging from the ceiling with all their most vulnerable spots completely exposed.  We ordered a copy of the special latex bed, the waterbed equipped for enema use.  It, and a whipping bench I arranged to have delivered to Key West.

Next, we turned our attention to the enema gear.  I knew by now the beans would be having their desired effect on you.  You know the old rhyme:

     Beans, beans, the musical fruit,

     The more you eat, the more you toot,

     The more you toot, the better you feel,

     So let's have beans with every meal.

I slipped a list of additional items to M. Brighton, then brought you over to the enema gear, leading you by the hand, Jazmand following.  "Mary?" I said.

"Yes, Master," you responded, loudly enough for M. Brighton to easily hear.

"What enema set do you want used on you for your next big event, dear?" I asked, savoring your embarrassment before this elegant, matriarchal woman.

You blushed beet red, gazed down at your feet for a moment, then murmured, "That one, Master."

"What's that, Mary?  I didn't hear you.  Which one do you want?"

You looked up, an air of delicious resignation on your face, tinged with just a bit of pride.  You would shout it from the rooftops if need be.  This was, after all, what you wanted.  Your mind was sealed.  Almost as if it were coming from a ventriloquist, you heard a your own firm voice saying, "That one up there.  The big four-quart clear-latex bag with the enormous, cock-sized rubber nozzle.  I want you to give me enemas with that one, Master."

Chapitre 10

When we got back to The Alexander, Madame Brighton's package was already there awaiting us.  This would be the additional things I'd ordered on the written list, things that neither Jazmand nor you were aware would be available for tonight's play.  I love surprises -- nice ones, that is.  I arranged with the desk clerk to have the large parcel delivered to our suite, telling her that we would be in the bar for a time, and to just have the package placed in the closet of the front room.  I also asked that she have the bellman turn off the air conditioning in the suite.  She was, perhaps, mildly puzzled by these requests, but agreed to comply.  I simply explained that I was arranging a surprise for my friends.  This seemed to satisfy her, at least enough so that she accepted a tip for herself and one for the bellman as compensation for no further questions.

What with our getting tired out from Friday evening's water play, and Rashad's rearranging of our Saturday morning plans, our original intent for the weekend, expanding your horizons toward the mastery of four quarts, had been somewhat delayed.  Time to get back on track.  This afternoon and evening would be devoted to that task.  The half hour in the bar would give us time to talk over plans, and to unwind after the day's hectic activities.  As the two of you were finishing your drinks, I excused myself to go to our room and prepare things.

Within minutes, we were again united in the suite.  To get the party underway quickly, I instructed that we all three prepare ourselves by taking two quart cleansing enemas.  I didn't want us to just creep away to separate baths and do this.  Of course, three enemas in two bathrooms is a difficult piece of mathematics anyway, so there was this practical limit to consider.  Much more, though, I wanted it to be the first step in recovering the sense of oneness we had felt the night before.  Thus, we undressed and gathered in the Master bath to prepare three bags.  For this round, I brought out three brand new 2 1/2 quart pink-latex pumpkin bags from Madame Brighton's collection, your first hint that there were delights as yet unknown to be discovered as the evening progressed.  The appearance of the unexpected toys created a palpable sense of anticipation in the two of you.  What would be next?  You asked, of course.  Just as predictably, I gave no more than a smile in answer.

With bags filled, and curiosity piqued, we moved back to the living room.  From the coat closet, I fetched my second treat, a heavy IV stand, which I positioned behind the long couch facing the large-screen TV.  I placed a tape in the VCR, and set the remote on the coffee table in front of the couch.  To the right of the sofa, a full-length sliding-glass door opened onto the balcony overlooking the docks of the Intracoastal Waterway.  I opened the glass, allowing a mild Florida breeze to sweep the last remnants of refrigerated air from the room.  With all the lights out in the late afternoon light, the thin-gauze inner curtains of the balcony door lent just enough scrim-like privacy to the dusky room to keep our activities from prying eyes.

We were nearly ready to watch our movie.  In keeping with the evening of surprises, I would not tell you what it would be.  I only said that, before it even started, we must each tend to lubricating our target for the next act.  I directed that we stand and form a circle, hand in hand.  "Whoever your left hand is touching is your target," I explained.  "Now, let's lube our target enemate." 

Mary, you were my choice.  Jazmand was to your left.  Already, her greased finger was sliding into me.  I dug out a glob of petroleum jelly from the jar on the coffee table, and pushed my slickened finger slowly, tantalizingly into your inviting ass.  With patient, insistent probing, I worked away the tension from your sphincter, preparing you for the delights to come.  You were rooting around in Jazmand's ample rear, passing every delicious sensation I was giving you on to her.

"Good.  Now insert nozzles."  With more than a little regret, we withdrew our busy fingers, pulled nozzles from bags, and gently pushed them into the waiting, thirsty ass to our left.  "That's it!" I said.  "Let's kiss."

The three of us tightened our circle.  Facing toward one another, our three lips met for a lingering, lust building kiss.  Passion was beginning to flow through this circle in an almost mysterious way.  However, the heat we were feeling was just a hint of what was to come.  We broke our kiss and sat on the couch with legs drawn up under us.  Now it was time for the movie to begin.

A push of the button and the TV/VCR sprang into life.  As the opening screen filled with a bogus studio logo, WaterWay Eternal, I fired the starting gun, "Now, open your enemate's clamp."  I snapped your enema to life while Jaz opened mine.  My cock delighted to the silken touch of your flesh as you leaned from the left end of the couch, crossed over my nozzle-impaled body to start Jazmand's enema.

Soon the logo faded and the screen flickered to life with a picture of you and me kissing.  We were in a bathroom, standing near the door.  The room, you quickly recognized as the bath off the Master bedroom at my Key West estate.  Aha.  The hidden cameras I had mentioned as we left Jazmand last night to expel her enema while we carried on in the adjacent bath.  Now we would see how she had entertained herself, and us, via this tape.

As we broke our televised kiss, I turned my head to look across the room to where you now recalled Jazmand had sat enthroned.  The camera panned to follow the action, a little piece of preprogrammed robotics of which I am rather proud.  There before us on the TV screen was lovely, dusky-skinned Jazmand, hands clutching her enema-distended belly as she rocked on the padded toilet seat.  To anyone familiar with what she was feeling, her pregnant pose was the sure beginning of an incredibly lusty performance. 

Now off camera, my voice offered the first explanation of what these images were to display.  "Jazmand, Mary and I will leave you alone to expel your enema, dear.  But make a sexy show of it.  This room is equipped with hidden cameras.  Your every sound and act will be recorded, and the instant replay will have a prominent role in an upcoming act, so do a smashing job of it, my darling."

She did not disappoint.  As we sat, feet drawn up, watching with rapt anticipation, Jazmand began by massaging her swollen abdomen, occasionally letting a hand stray as low as her soaked thatch, scooping up some of her slipperiness and spreading it across the taut flesh of her tummy.  With each stroke, she became wetter, and the area of flesh getting her musk grew wider.  Soon, her hands were spreading love syrup over the twin swells of her breasts.  The dark circles of her areola showed a sheen of her sex dew.  Her face betrayed the obvious rapture her self pleasuring was generating.

I felt the first pressure and cramping build within me as my own enema brought me ever closer to the Nirvana Jazmand was experiencing on screen.  Soon, the water forced past whatever the blockage was, and rushed deeper into my waiting body, eliciting a sigh of relief/pleasure from my heated core.  I looked to my left and could see you were lost in similar feelings.  To my right, Jazmand was already shamelessly masturbating to match her televised performance.

Still, in the tape, no water had splashed into the bowl on which she sat.  As her heat rose, so did she.  She crossed the room, being picked up by the robotic camera following a heat source.  The enema bag that had recently emptied two quarts of steaming water into her bottom was now hanging to dry in the sunken tub.  She retrieved it and refilled it.  Hanging it from the shower curtain-rod, she pushed the oversized nozzle deep into her backside, then sat back on the toilet and opened the clamp.  As the water sprayed into her already full innards, she went to work in earnest at masturbating her slippery pussy. 

Her left hand, still fragrant with your juices, she held by her nose, reveling in the intoxicating perfume your feminine outflow.

As the swollen bag dwindled in girth, her already bloated middle expanded like some giant weather balloon.  Soon, her belly button was protruding as much as her rigidly erect nipples.  Orgasmic bliss was written all over her face.  She took her left hand from her nose, and grabbed the nozzle buried so high in her rectum.  She began to furiously fuck her own ass with it.  All the while, her fingers on her clit worked at an equal pace.  The deflating bag let out a soft "Guk!" sound, much like the monosyllabic language of the flamingoes, its signal that she'd now taken four quarts.  In triumph, she threw her head back in abandon, growling to an orgasm that had her every vein pulsing, distorting the smooth skin of her body.  Her lips were curled back in pleasure/pain.  Torrents of water washed out of her in spasmodic rhythm, gushing in time to the beat of her climaxing body.

Her attainment was complete.  Four quarts of hot, churning water had disappeared into her ample rear.  First with the two of us, and again on tape at her own hand, she had reached states of release that could not be described short of religious ecstasy.  She had been at one with the universe, worshipping -- with her beautiful body -- the creator that had made her and all she worshipped with.  In a palpable sense, the creator had been there with her, worshipping, drawing the exultation from her soul.

And her performance had kept the three of us enraptured while two hot quarts of cleansing water drained into each of us.  We couldn't really say how long the bags had been deflated, but our pumpkins no longer had their ripe, bloated form.  Now, they hung, no bigger around than my arm, deflated, ribs standing bare.

Taking care not to spill, we slipped the nozzles out of our asses and rose to release this first cleansing load.  At my direction, we all went to the larger bath, which I suppose was intended to indicate the Master bedroom, since both bedrooms were of similar size and decor.  I had straws at the ready, and we drew to see who would be first to release.  The lot fell to Jazmand.  She sat with pride and immediately began a course of self pleasuring similar to what we'd just seen in her video. 

"Jazmand," I instructed, "Don't cum.  Nobody cums yet."

"Yes, Master," she answered, with not a little regret sheltered in her voice.

With that, she let out a long, high-pressure burst of enema water, shuddering from the pleasure of its release.  The stench of her shit began to fill the room.  I drew close to her, knelt before her and took the straining nipple of her right breast into my mouth.  You also approached, and carefully knelt to kiss her.  This was our time to acknowledge that my shit stinks too.  We would have no barriers between us for this night.

With the first burst of water out of Jazmand, I tore off a bit of toilet paper and gently padded the brown water and shit from her perfect little rosebud.  I let you climb on the mud-filled toilet next, knowing you were not yet accustomed to forced retention.  Jazmand immediately started Frenching you, sucking a deep sigh from your pressurized lungs.  I kissed along your navel and let my cheeks press on your turgid tummy.  Shit, water and gas sprayed out of you in a noxious, noisy cataract.  The refried beans had done their dirty work. 

After your spraying and farting ceased, I patted your rounded rear clean with paper, then moved my own overflowing ass onto the throne.  Jazmand missed not a second.  She sank her open, inviting mouth slowly onto my erection, bringing her face down to within inches of where the dirty flood from the two of you now filled the toilet bowl.  Unable to bear the pressure together with the exquisite feelings her cock sucking generated, I let go of an equally putrid downpour. 

Next, Jazmand, then you, then me again.  Round and round, each time with deeper, more impassioned kissing, licking and sucking, till we were all three well drained of water, but now full of unspent desire, our bodies hypersensitive, yearning for more sexual stimulation.

After cleaning up, the latex costumes were next on the agenda for the evening.  We opened the days' treasures, with appropriate oohs and ahs.  With all the sexy things, decisions were not easy.  We wanted it all at once.  I was sorely tempted to have you in the nylon briefs with the access slot in the rear, and Jaz in those silk panties with the see through back.  I could make long, passionate love to you while she had to watch.  Then we could pull her panties down and expose her wetness.  We could punish her for being so horny, and watching us.  But latex it would be, and latex would provide us all the heat we needed to head toward core meltdown on a warm Florida night.

We toweled all the perspiration and water off, then lovingly applied baby powder to one another.  I slipped into a latex tee-shirt and latex jock.  Black leather wrist-bands, wide and ominous, added to the mystique of the look.  Meanwhile, the two of you helped each other squeeze into the skintight catsuits.  The ones we'd chosen were two part, with a back-zippered blouse and panty-hose like bottom snapping under a belted waist.  This allowed the user to peel off the bottom half when access to genitals became an absolute must.  Over the form hugging suits, you fastened the latex skirts.  The look was superbly kinky, the kind that just makes your stomach roil when you first see it.  Plus, the practical benefit was that, even if you shed the bottom, you still were completely clad in latex with the full skirt, only now all your most secret parts were open to anyone inside the folds of the black-rubber canopy. 

The thought of the warm, rubber-and-pussy-perfumed ambiance I'd find up there had me primed like a top-fuel dragster, up to the line.  Have you ever felt that wound up?  Like the engine is floored, you're standing on the brakes to hold back the earth shaking roar of 1,250 horses, watching the yellow lights blink in sequence, waiting for the green.  It's knowing that soon, so very soon, the smell of rubber will be everywhere and you'll be hurtling along, all your familiar, stationary surroundings turned into a rattling, quaking blur.

We lounged on the latex-covered mattress in the Master bedroom . . . Kissing so deep . . . Sucking little sighs and panting breaths from one another . . . Feeling the incredible sensuality of latex-encased flesh . . . Rubbing, a breast, the softly curving rise of a bottom . . . A tightly sheathed thigh . . . Tracing the indentation of a pussy, denied my touch by the thin, sensual covering.  The warm Florida air washing over us . . . Perspiration making the latex slippery, sexy on our skins . . . Adding just a faint touch to the symphony of scent . . . A beautiful aria sung so lightly now that it is only the faintest of impressions, but without it the entire piece would soon fall flat.

Thus lost in romantic images and fantastic thoughts, we drifted, necking, cuddling, kissing, tasting.  How long.  An hour.  More.  I only know the sun was gone.  Slipping on a robe for modesty, I rose and went to the living room, closing the heavy privacy curtains to the balcony.  The two of you were still wrapped around each other, mouths pressed tightly together, when I returned with the IV stand in hand.

I said nothing, but went to the bath and prepared my old four-quart bag. attaching a double enema nozzle to it.  The new bag, the one you had requested to be enemaed with, I would save for just that purpose.  This would be Jazmand's time to show you how to hold four quarts without it driving her over the edge into orgasmic bliss.  Frankly, I didn't think that, with the intensity of your petting, she could do it.  Not to worry, though. I knew just how I'd handle it when she failed.

Telling you not to break up your love lock, I stated that I was back, and that it was now time for Jazmand to demonstrate her four-quart retention principles for her Mistress.  She made a muffled sound of acquiescence, the best she could do with her mouth full of your probing kisses.  I unsnapped her latex bottoms and slid them down far enough to expose the perfect valley of her rear.  She was so worked up from all the kissing and necking with you, so wet from sweat and love juice, that she hardly needed any lubrication.  Nonetheless, I lovingly slid my KY covered finger in and out of her, massaging her open for the enema nozzle. 

I pushed the tip of the big rubber nozzle into her and, with a screwing motion and no small amount of coaxing, worked the first deflated balloon of the enema nozzle into business position.  With the nozzle in place, I grabbed the inflator bulb, and gave it three healthy squeezes.  The balloon, now just inside Jazmand's anal opening, sprang to life and grew to the size of a tennis ball.  Pulling the nozzle back to secure the inner balloon tightly against her anal sphincter, I inflated the outer balloon, sitting just outside her lubricated opening.  Now the nozzle was firmly in place.  It could not pull out nor be forced too deep inside.  There it would remain, forming a leak-proof seal, until the inner balloon was deflated.  Installing the enema nozzle had given Jazmand a medley of sensations.  Each new feeling in the black girl's rear brought more sounds of pleasure from her.

With the plumbing of her ass done, I draped the tubing of the enema nozzle along her crack and pulled her latex pants back up to hold all in place.  Jazmand's challenge would be to withhold her orgasm in the face of the swirling excitement of your petting session.  I would not complicate her task with any stimulation of her genitalia, nor did I think I'd have to.  I was certain, as agitated as she already was, that the pressure of four quarts of water inflating her like a balloon within her tight rubber casing would do the entire job.  Jazmand would violate the "No-Fly Zone" and thus fall victim to more delicious punishments in retribution.

To ensure that she understood the challenge, and that her thoughts would be focused on it, I announced the rules before beginning.  "Jazmand!"  She barely stirred, mumbling acknowledgment through her impassioned kisses.  "You are to take the entire 4 quart enema this time without having an orgasm.  Do not climax until I give you permission.  Do you understand?"

"Mmmmmm-hunnn. Ohm Unhann." She moaned through her lesbian love-lock.

I took that to mean yes, she understood.  That being the case, there was no need to further deprive her the intense, erotic stimulation of the warm water filling her as she made out so intensely with you.  I opened the valve and the huge, bulging four-quart bag began to empty into Jazmand's exquisite ass.

Immediately, when she felt the flow begin to invade her rectum, her moans and cries took on a new, insistent fervor.  She began mewing in almost catlike fashion.  She was lying on her left side, facing you.  Her right hand had been at your breast, but the enema brought her attention lower.  She dropped her hand to your fanny and pulled your body into her.  Her torso took on a rocking motion, her burgeoning belly moving against your midsection. 

Her ass, thrusting back then drawing near you again, gave the appearance she was fucking herself on the nozzle.  In reality, though, it followed her every move, relentless, pouring pint after pint of hot agitation into her bowels.  Already the bag was about halfway deflated.  Two quarts yet remained to bloat the girl while she clung to her composure, fighting the desire to just give in and let the flood of water wash her over the edge of orgasmic bliss.

Your hands were roaming her body, searching out every telltale swelling of her latex-covered form, every evidence of the heat building in her.  You traced the bulge of her belly, her slim-waisted form now transformed into the look of an expectant mother.  The bag now held little more than a quart.  Surely she would soon give birth to something.

The internal pressure in Jazmand's bowels was now quite substantial.  The water, which had flooded her so rapidly at the onset, now flowed in at a slow but relentlessly steady pace.  Jazmand, awash in sexual feelings from her lips to her hips, stretched beyond belief by the huge enema, was panting and purring as if she'd entered another world.

As the final pint of water filled her, her mewing took on a forceful quality.  No longer was she a kitten.  She was a lioness in full rut.  Her buttocks began to tremble in rhythmic undulations.  Her  sounds alone were nearly enough to bring me over the edge.  "Mmmmmmuuunah.  Uuuummmmmmaah."

"Jazmand!  Don't cum!" I ordered in a very stern tone.

That was all it took.  Her abdomen, ballooned full of enema, had stretched her latex catsuit tight against her dripping sex.  Every breath was sending rippling currents of ecstasy through her.  Now, focusing her energy on resisting the irresistible, she let loose.  "Oooohmmmmm-Naaaaaghhhh!!!! Ooowwwwuu-Nah, Ooowwwwuu-Neah," Over and over, reverberating as her body trembled, a wind-shaken leaf at the end of the vine-like enema hose.  Jungle beat, in heat, singing the song of the ages.  Language of the universal truth. "Ummmmuh, uuunnah."

I pumped my pants full of cum with nothing but her sex show to set me free.  Fortunately, being separate of the physical embrace, I was able to regain my composure in time to keep the scene moving.  "Jazmand," I said, "that was the most incredibly HOT thing I've ever seen.  Now, honey, we've got to break you two apart and get you to the toilet."

As you separated, Jaz was still shaking with the aftershocks of her enormous climax, still making unintelligible little mewing sounds like a contented kitten.  We helped the agitated beauty stagger to her feet, and hobble toward the bath, moving ever so cautiously so as not to lose the huge load flooding her guts.  When we reached the toilet, I unsnapped her catsuit bottom and pulled it slowly down, fighting to bring it free of her swollen, pregnant looking belly.  With her ass positioned over the toilet, holding herself in a near squat, I deflated the inner balloon of the enema nozzle.  It popped from her like a cork from a champagne bottle, driven by a torrent of nearly clear water.  At the same time, you reunited with her, continuing your lesbian-love show, this kiss opening the second act.

"Feeling the rush of enema spraying from her, the intensity of your kiss sucking the soul of her lust again up into her throat, all this brought her right back up the peak from which she'd just descended.  Her legs began to visibly shake as she started to orgasm once more.

"Jazmand, sweetheart, you are such a sexy sight," I told her.  "Look at here, your show was so hot you made me cum in my latex jock.  Look, I'm covered with jiz for Jaz." 

I peeled it down to prove my point.  Jazmand broke away from her kiss for a moment.  She saw my cock, still throbbing hard, and all covered with slippery jism.  Her eyes met mine with a plea for permission, to which I nodded assent.

Both of you moved your mouth to my sodden sex, lapping up the spoils of your carnal show.  I was totally beside myself.  All systems on sexual overload.  Jazmand spraying out her release, flesh quaking in orgasm as she sucked my cum-soaked cock deep into her throat.  Your tongue teasing around her lips and down to my against my love-swollen balls . . . Too much . . . Way too much.

Only by the most stalwart force of will was I able to pull my throbbing cock from Jazmand's demanding suction before it exploded again with the load of cum building down in my nucleus.  I had to break away, or we would fuck and suck ourselves into oblivion again before completing the lesson plan we had established for you.  I did it.  Pulled away.  Jazmand's slippery saliva left a sheen on my member, highlights sparkling over each pulsing vein.  My balls ached with desire to spray her mouth full.

"Jazmand," I said, struggling for the control needed to speak, "You just put on the most incredibly sexy show I have ever seen in all my days.  One problem though, darling.  I told you not to cum.  You disobeyed me.  So, now you're going to have to be punished for your rebelliousness."

"Well," I continued, "at least you showed Mary that 4 quarts can be done.  Now, you just have to show her you can do it without popping a gasket.  Mary, how would you like to see Jazmand to have her next treatment."

"Well, Master," you said, "I would love to see you use my new dildo nozzle on her."

Jazmand had been squirming on the toilet seat, still spraying out an occasional burst of residual water.  She really came alive upon hearing your prescription for her.  Clearly, she had been waiting for a chance to feel the invasion of this monster in her sensitive flesh.

When the last dregs of the four-quart flood had drained from Jazmand's small intestines (anything over about two quarts generally forces past the ileum and begins to fill the small intestine) we cleaned her and slipped the latex pants from her legs.  She still wore her top and the full, rubber skirt.

I removed the enema nozzle from the four-quart bag, and replaced it with the new nozzle we'd gotten from Madame Brighton's shop.  It was the diameter of a big, fully erect penis.  It even had veins molded into it to add to the sensations as it slithered into Jazmand's now sensitized anal opening.  It was made of a slippery-surfaced rubber about the same stiffness as an erect male organ.  It was at least 14 inches long.  The length was important.  That way, there would be plenty of nozzle to grasp even when it was bottomed out, deep in her waiting rectum.  With this thing, she would get a righteous ass fucking right along with her next enema.  I could easily see why you were so eager to watch our submissive slave put on a show on the end of this thing.

With the huge dildo attached, we filled the bag with a fresh charge of steaming water, just short of feeling hot to the wrist.  Next, we led our trembling charge back to the latex-covered bed.  We hung the bag high on the IV stand.  I positioned Jaz on her hands and knees in the middle of the bed.  This time, we'd give her a fighting chance of holding her orgasm back against the tremendous pressure of the big enema.  We would have no kissing or licking of her body.  The only thing that would touch her flesh would be the big cock-like intruder splitting her rear.

I hiked her rubber skirt up and bunched it around her waist.  Her precious moons were open and thrust upwards, inviting invasion.  "Mary, use some KY jelly, and lube Jazmand's ass and put some on this thing too," I said, holding the dildo nozzle out to you.  "It's best not to use petroleum jelly to lubricate rubber toys."

You went to the appointed work with obvious delight.  Soon, both Jazmand and the dildo had a generous coating of KY.  You noted how the slippery stuff smelled strangely similar to the musk of the black girl's cunt.

With Jaz prepared, her chest heaving in anticipation, I placed the monster nozzle against her tight rosebud.  "Jazmand, take a deep breath," I instructed.  "Good girl.  Now, breathe out and push like you're trying to spray out a load of enema water." 

Jazmand did as commanded, and, as she opened herself to the invader, I pushed it into her alluring ass.  Three inches of the massive tool slid easily into her. 

"Ungh-mmmmm," the girl breathed.  "Yesssss.  Enema me again, Master.  Mistress.  I love it when you fill me soooo full."  Jazmand was already beside herself, and I hadn't even opened the clamp, releasing the hot flood of water into her sensitized bowels.  I wondered, privately, if she'd be able to contain herself this time.

"Now remember, before I open the flow valve, Jazmand; you are not to let this make you cum.  You understand, don't you?"

"Umm-hunh!" she groaned, as I thrust another 3 inches of tool up her backside.

With a good six inches buried in her rectum, I opened the valve.  Hot water rushed into her now empty bowels.

"Eeeeeeewwwwwwww!!!! Jaz moaned, as she clenched her eyes shut and grimaced.  I knew she wanted the cock-nozzle pumping in and out of her just like my own cock was lusting to do.  I knew also from her shallow, panting breaths that she'd never take four quarts without cuming if I did that to her.  So, tempting though it was to butt-fuck this beauty, I refrained.  I just gave her the immense enema.  That should be enough. 

On and on the water rushed, expanding her midsection again to that six-months-pregnant look that is so sultry on Jaz.  I talked to her through her ordeal, telling her how sexy she looked.  "Honestly, Jazmand, if anything could look sluttier than you getting a big enema, it would be on the Federal Controlled-Substances List . . . Oh, girl, you are the very best . . . You look so pregnant . . . Eeeeewww, naughty girl . . . Big tool up your pretty ass . . . Tummy swelling . . . See how you are."

Jazmand was in enema heaven again, legs trembling, panting and moaning, bucking her hips back to get more of the big dildo into her.

I let her get just enough stimulation from the dildo so that she could take the full four quarts.  I had to give her just enough excitement to help her ignore the pain of the massive enema stretching her abdomen.  There's a very fine line between what hurts, what feels good enough to want more, and what takes you over the line to release.  We had to walk that line. 

You were standing there in your full catsuit, watching Jazmand's lewd show, shamelessly rubbing your fingers over your latex-covered mons.  I would have been doing the same to my overheated tool, but I knew I had to keep my full attention on Jazmand's torment.  Too excited, and I'd never make the tightrope walk needed to get her through this enema without one or both of us exploding.

Finally, barely audible over Jazmand's rasping breath, I heard the 'guk' sound of the last water leaving the big bag.  Jazmand had done it.  "There, Mary.  Check the bag," I said.  "I think she's done it!  She's got four full quarts of steaming water and six inches of cock-sized nozzle up her hot heinie, and she still hasn't cum.  You see, it can be done."

"Aughhhh!  Ummmm!  Just takes, ugh . . . Practice," Jazmand grimaced.

"Great," you fired back.  "When can I start practicing?"

"Well, not just yet," I laughed.  "I think the two of us owe Jaz a treat for being such a good enema slave.  Don't you agree, Mary."

"Ummmm.  Treating her sounds good to me," you replied.

I slid onto the sweat soaked latex bed, face up, under Jazmand's kneeling form, my mouth in line with her dripping sex.  You straddled my waist, face toward the black girl.  Grasping my rigid erection, you positioned it for insertion.  I didn't know which hole you would pick, and didn't really care.  You chose the rear, wanting, I guess, to feel what Jazmand was feeling with the huge rubber cock parting her ass cheeks.  Slowly, teasingly, you sank your weight onto my straining flesh.

Feeling your tight ass swallow my heat, I began thrusting the nozzle into Jazmand while I went wild with my mouth on her woman flesh.  I drank deeply, thirsty for the release that only woman-tang could provide.  Her ass hole was just an inch from my face, and I was cross-eyed watching as I poked that huge piece of rubber ever deeper into her. 

I set up a rhythm in her core, pumping the big piston in and out like a plunger, agitating the huge load of water filling her every crevice.  She could feel the flood squashing around in her, making strange gurgling sounds, generating unspeakable feelings in her burning center.

Jazmand was right at the edge of orgasm when this began.  As soon as the ass fucking started, she bellowed out a primal scream that I'm sure was heard a block away.  Without waiting for her to fall silent, you glued your mouth to hers in a torrid soul kiss, muffling her continued groans.  Your body started shaking up and down, your ass snake dancing on the straining meat filling your seat.  You and I both added our cries to the song of release being poured out by Jaz.

How long we danced I do not know.  I came to when I felt a drizzle of enema squirting past the pole in Jazmand's asshole.  The water was nearly clear, barely scented with the fecund soil of her inner reaches, but it was a clarion call that the time had come for her to let out the flood inside her.  We untangled ourselves, dripping of cum, and once more helped the belly-swollen girl to the bath. 

After assisting her expulsion, we were all exhausted.  It was all we could manage to crawl back and collapse on top of the latex-covered bed.

Chapitre 11

It was Sunday, the traditional day of rest.  It was not a day for

shopping.  During the night, the wind had swung out of the West.

Already this morning, the horizon hung heavy with roiling

thunderheads.  At the darkled junction where the Western sky

rested upon the earth, flashes of lightning were slicing into a

frightened land.

Before the storm could break upon us, we grabbed a communal

shower.

In robes, we ordered breakfast in the room.  As we waited for its

delivery, I busied myself in the kitchen, making coffee.  The

suite was filled with the seductive aroma of Colombian beans

being ground and drip processed in a Melita filter.  Coffee,

pastries, and fresh Florida fruit for breakfast.  We discussed

our plans for the day.  By now, the storm's leading edge, a

jagged line stretched from side to side of the sky, was hard upon

us.  The wind of the squall broke over us, gusting to and fro,

dangerously close to the whirling precursor of a tornado.  Rain

was beginning to pelt our balcony, soon slanting in near

horizontal sheets, driven by the whipping wind.  The thunder was

a continuous roar.  An electrical storm as only South Florida,

pinned between ocean and gulf, can brew them.  Several times as

we ate, the lights flickered.  Once, they went out for the better

part of a minute.

But, as is usually the case with such intense tempests, the

violent part of the assault soon passed.  Still, the sky stayed

dark and brooding.  Rain, gentler now but still insistent,

continued to pour down.  Occasionally, the caliginous sky outside

grew suddenly, brilliantly blue-white, and the air was split by

the crashing roar of another nearby lightning strike.  The line

squall had been but a brutal messenger.  It had issued an

imperious announcement of the stormy day to come.

Today would be a day to stay in -- a perfect day for Jazmand to

share with us Rashad's Record.  I announced my intention to have

her do so.

"It's not very good writing," she protested.  "I'm not like you.

I never wrote anything.  I probably wouldn't have passed Senior

English at FSU if I hadn't flirted with the professor."

I smiled at her self deprecation.  I knew Jazmand to be very

bright, and a gifted communicator.  I was certain her diary would

give us valuable insight into the character of our adversary.

"It's hard to just read it aloud," she went on when I didn't

reply.  "I really didn't write it to share.  It's got a lot of

personal stuff in it."

"Jazmand," I reprimanded, "All good writing is personal.  Mary

and I love you.  We want to know what's in your heart.  And after

all the stuff you've seen us do, what could possibly be in here,"

I continued, waving the diary, "that would embarrass you in front

of us?"

"Umm.  We have done some stuff, haven't we," Jaz admitted, a soft

smile brightening her face.  "Still, I'd feel better if you read

it.

"No!  Jaz, you are going to read it.  And you're going to answer

our questions about it.  If we have to tie you up and punish you

into doing it, we will -- but you are going to read it."

Another flash of smile.  "Could you . . . tie me up and make me

do it?"

I had thought I knew this woman well, but this, I hadn't

expected.  Was she really embarrassed to read this?  Did she need

bondage and discipline to absolve her from guilt of authorship?

Or was she merely making a game of it to heighten the erotic

tension of a rainy day.  I honestly didn't know, but finding out

would certainly provide a divertissement for three lusty souls

shut in by a storm.

"All right, I said.  That sounds like a fine plan to me.  Mary

and I will put you into bondage and MAKE you read your diary to

us.  We might even make you DEMONSTRATE some of the more . . .

Interesting points."

We led Jazmand into the Master bedroom.  There, we slipped her

robe from her shoulders, leaving her nude and facing the bed.

You dressed her in one of the black illusion-silk nightgown-and-

robe sets we had gotten yesterday.  You put on a matching outfit

yourself. -- the black lace framing your neck -- kissed by your

blond hair.  Jazmand's dark hair cascaded seductively around her

lacy gown.  Jazmand's slightly dusky complexion was almost

fragile white next to the black silk.  What a beautiful sight.

Snidely Whiplash would have been beside himself searching for a

length of rope.  So was I.

I dressed in the latex jock, leather chaps, and a fringed, suede-

leather vest.  I donned the leather wrist bands.  Everything in

black.  The look was sufficiently sinister, I thought, admiring

my work in the full-length mirrors covering one wall.

Binding our beauty was a bit more of a challenge.  We would have

to leave her able to read.  She'd need to be comfortable in her

bondage, even if she had to stay immobilized for an extended

period.  Certainly, she should be presented in such a way as to

look both beautiful and vulnerable.  Finally, her bonds shouldn't

interfere with any discipline we might need to administer in the

enforcement of her assignments.  I'd been giving all this thought

as we dressed.

The leather sling seemed the perfect instrument for her torture.

However, before we could use it, it would need to be securely

hung from the overhead.  I made a quick inventory of the bedroom

to see if I could accomplish this without hardware or tools.

Fortunately, the high ceiling had exposed-wood beams.  In one of

these, there was a large eye bolt.  Perhaps there had been a

hammock or hanging plant or some artifact of considerable weight,

now removed.  I thought it would provide a secure mounting, and

decided to give it a test.  Once attached to it, the sling

carried my weight without the slightest complaining.  It would

do.

I attached the chain mount of the sling firmly to the eyebolt.  I

mounted it high enough that, with the bed pushed across the room

and under the sling, there would still be clearance enough

between the sling and bed for one of us.  The sling would hold

Jazmand in a sitting position, legs splayed apart and

immobilized.  It gave firm support to her buttocks, but was open

where her most private parts would rest.  Lying face up on the

relocated bed, we would have full access to her charms.

We moved the bed, making Jazmand's climb into the sling more

feasible.  We helped our lover climb in.  As she sat back into

the sling, we took care to ensure that the material of her

nightgown and robe was clear of all her most tender flesh.  The

silk hung down adding a tent of modesty around her middle.  It

was an alluring touch that begged to be explored.

Soon, we had our charge securely in the sling and swinging,

suspended, above the bed.  We fastened her ankles to the leg

restraints included on the spreader bar at the foot end of the

sling.  I attached wrist restraints to her arms.  They had

bracelets of leather with lengths of light chain attached.  The

other ends of these fetters, I made fast to the heavy chains

suspending the sling.  She would have enough freedom of motion to

read, and to shift positions occasionally for comfort, but not so

much that she could reach her leg restraints or otherwise free

herself from her bonds.

Perfect.

"Jazmand, you look so sexy," you told her.

"Here," I said, handing her the diary.  "Now, you read."

"Yes, Master," Jazmand replied, obviously pleased to be

compelled.  And then she began:

     Saturday, June 18, 1994

     One more day working at the Washington Ave. Dungeon.  I'm

     getting to really like it.  It's more than just a living.

     Good money.  Real good money.  Over $1,600 last week.  Even

     some good times.

     Like today.  I met a strange -- I don't know, kind of a

     haunting man.  Rashad Banton.  He's from Jamaica.  I think

     he might be in one of their crime gangs.  I wouldn't want to

     get too close.  But he was really sexy.  It was interesting

     to do a scene with a guy like that.  Not like some of the

     guys that come in.  Real losers.  Guys where I deserve every

     penny I get.  I'm the only girl there now that will play

     subbie.

     Even being the only girl that will play bottom, I don't get

     to do it that often.  Most of the customers want a dominant

     girl.  Not many are willing or able to pay the double fee

     for a submissive, even is that's what the want.  It's $500

     an hour to the dungeon for a submissive, and half that is

     mine.  Only $250 for a girl to play domme.

     The neat thing is, even with a guy like Rashad, they still

     pay me my full fee.  It doesn't matter if he's sexy enough

     that I'd do it with him for free.  Ha!  Good thing they'll

     never read this diary.

     Rashad wanted a submissive, and he wasn't afraid to pay the

     tariff.  We talked over what he wanted to do before the

     scene, and he had some pretty wild ideas.  I think, if I'd

     just gone along with his wish list, he'd have left me

     permanently marked.  Whipping.  Tight bondage.  Bamboo cane.

     I told him no way.  I told him he couldn't do anything to me

     that would mark or bruise me for the next customer.  I got

     to be able to work when we finish, I told him.  He

     understood.  "Jammin," he said.  His mix of accented English

     and patois was kind of cute.

     For the scene, he bound me tight over the padded whipping

     bench.  I liked that he felt up my bottom before he started

     spanking me.  It got me ready for the punishment.  And he

     kept whispering these sweet nothings about how pretty my ass

     was, how ready for a spanking I looked, how hot he was going

     to make my cheeks, and all this.  Real nice.

     Then he hit me.  With his hand.  Slap after slap.  Stinging

     at first.  Then worse.  And he traded in for his belt.

     Heavy Leather.  Really Hard . . . Smack . . . Smack . . .

     Smack . . . Me crying.

     I mean crying, no faking.  But he laid off then and started

     rubbing across my burning ass, purring to me about how hot I

     was.  And the fucker puts his hand down in my pussy, and

     comes away saying, "Looke here.  My dawta's all wet."

     Well, damnit, I couldn't help it.  I was wet.  What he was

     doing, it was getting me real hot.  It hurt too.  I didn't

     like it, and I didn't want it to stop.  I got the feeling

     right then that this man might take me to that special

     place.  It's real strange.  It's terrifying to go there, but

     once you've been there one time, you know you'll have to

     come back.

     Then he's smacking my burning ass with the belt again, and

     now he knew I was getting wet from it.  He knew, so I didn't

     care what he saw.  I was grinding on that whipping bench,

     trying to get my clit down on the leather.  Only he had me

     tied so tight I couldn't.  Just lay there, ass up, and take

     the whipping.  No way to make it stop.  No way to make it

     better.  Just leave it all to him.

     Did he know anything about what he was doing to me?  He had

     to see it, but did he care?

     Then he stops again, and he's kissing along the small of my

     back.  And he's telling me, "Here, baby, let me lick away

     each mark."  Where was the warden?  Damn.  He's not supposed

     to ever mark me.  Why were they letting him do this?

     Then that hand again, down in my snatch, rubbing my juice

     all over me, up over my butt, on the marks.  He juiced up my

     asshole real good.  First just rubbing my cum on it.  Then

     pushing in a finger.  Then out and he gets more juice.  In

     again.  Out and lube.  In again.  Two fingers.  Oh God, it's

     getting real good.  Three fingers.  Fucking into me.  Then

     the belt.  Down on one cheek, then the other.  Making my

     butthole jump on his fingers -- Spank -- Fuck . . . Spank --

     Fuck . . . Left -- Right -- Squish up my ass.

     I turned right into jelly.  This submissive feeling just

     washed up into me, on fire in my butt, and I turned to a

     cumming, crying blob of flesh, putty in this man's hands.

     On his hand is more like it.  Three fingers deep, fist

     fucking my ass.  And he was getting off on it like nothing

     I've seen before at the club.  I mean a bulge in his pants

     the size of an elephant's trunk, and he was cuming too.  I

     could see it, that bulge pulsing, pumping.  Then the wet

     spot in front as his cum filled his jeans.

     We just stayed like that for a while.  Rashad was telling me

     all these nice things, how sexy I looked and all.  We both

     felt it.  Something special had happened between us.

     I didn't start bitching at him till he cut me loose from the

     whipping bench.  Then I let him have it both barrels.  I can

     be a real hell cat when I want to.  He'd marked my butt real

     clear.  How the hell was I going to work?

     All he says is, "Yuh fe me ooman.  I dun paid em fo a week a

     yuh time.  Doan work."  The way he says it.  Real Jamaica

     cool.  "Doan Work!"

     So I ran in and checked with Felicia.  Sure enough, that

     crazy Jamaican had given them ten grand, and half of it

     mine!  Most money I ever saw at the club.  And that's why

     the warden wasn't around.  Shit, they'd have let the bastard

     kill me for money like that.  They probably hoped that's

     what he'd do.  Me dead and they wouldn't have had to pay the

     split.  Damn.  Some fucking pig-sty place I was working.

     I was mad and I was glad.  I mean, here I could've been

     killed . . . But I wasn't.  Instead, I got one of the few

     major orgasms of my B&D pro career.  And a week off.  And

     $5,000 bucks.  And this whacko, sexy hunk, Rashad chasing

     after my tail.  Wanted to fuck me forever.  Said so.  Asked

     could he see me the next day.  I said, "Not unless you go to

     the ice plant.  I'm going to be cooling my ass down there

     for a week."

     The bastard just chuckled and said, "Make yuh kinda hot,

     doan I?"

     Well, what was the point lying to him about it.  He knew

     what he'd just seen.  There was something magnetic between

     us and I could feel it even now, pulling me into him.  But I

     was scared.  There had been a look in his eyes for a while

     when he was beating me, before he started to finger fuck my

     ass.  He looked wild.  Looked like he might just go on

     forever, harder, more vicious, till he had me half dead or

     worse.  I was scared.

     I told him to give me his number, and I might call him

     before I went back to work.  He did.  Acted the perfect

     gentleman.  Thanked me for the best time he'd ever had, and

     bowed out.  As he was leaving, he said, "Do call mi.  Mi a-

     go make it worth yo while."

     Tuesday, June 21, 1994

     Third day off today.  I could learn to live like this.  I

     spent the morning shopping.  Had lunch with Maggie in a new

     little seafood place that just opened in Bal Harbor.  I've

     given this guy, Rashad a lot of thought.  He really is

     attractive.  He's also got money.  And he's kinky hot as

     they come.  But reason has won out over all that.  Mama said

     there would be guys like him, and this time I'm going to

     listen to her.

     Thursday, June 23, 1994

     I called him today.  I wasn't going to.  I don't even know

     why I did.  I was just walking around in my living room,

     pacing the floor like a caged cat, and then I saw the card

     he'd given me.  Then the number had been called, the phone

     was in my hand, me listening to it ring.  Strange.

     When he answered, I felt like a teenage girl -- Yep!, gone

     boy crazy all over again.  We set a date to meet Saturday

     night for dinner.  I don't really have anything to wear if

     he wants to go someplace nice.  It's a good thing I got all

     that money for his little fun.  I'm going to have to go

     shopping.

     Friday, June 24, 1994

     Went shopping today.  I got a white fit-and-flare evening

     gown.  It has puffed, full-length sheer sleeves and a curvy,

     sweetheart neckline.  The most dramatic touch, the whole

     back is cut away.  Face it, I know he's an ass man.  If this

     gown doesn't have his eyes dangling out of his head, then I

     don't know men.  I checked out the look, poking my butt at

     the dressing room mirror, clowning around.  Mmm, you sexy

     thing, I thought.  I almost wanted to rape myself, I looked

     so good.

     Saturday morning, June 25, 1994

     I took a long bath in those jasmine crystals this morning.

     Started with the water so hot I could barely stand it.

     While I was soaking, I took an enema, just to make sure I'd

     be clean for him if he wants me that way.  The first one

     felt so good that after I was done letting it out, I fixed

     up another bag, got back in the tub, and did it again.

     Thinking of him putting that huge tool of his up there, how

     full I'd feel if it was him and not just hot water.  I

     shaved my legs.  Just luxuriated.  Soaked in the tub.  Added

     more hot water and soaked some more.  I rubbed myself down

     good with that jasmine-scented skin softener.  No perfume.

     Just that skin-wide jasmine fragrance.

     I took forever getting dressed.  Tried on five or six

     different combinations of lingerie before I settled in on a

     look I liked.  Chances are he'd be happy with any of the

     looks, so long as I let him peel them off of me.  But I

     wanted to feel sexy inside my own head.  If I feel it, I

     know I'll project it.

     And I don't think I'd really felt it since Wilson left me

     three years ago.  I mean, it's one thing to get up to thirty-

     eight, three kids, getting dumpy, PTA committees, then the

     old man takes off after some 18 year old floozy in the

     typing pool.  Sure it hurts, but you know what happened.

     You got hit by that bane that afflicts so many men, terminal

     testosterone poisoning.  But there I was just 23, and Wilson

     leaving me -- not for some sexy teenager -- for another man.

     I'm telling you, diary, that shook my confidence something

     terrible.  Sure it hurt.  But it embarrassed me too.  And

     most of all, it caved in my faith in myself and in love.

     Here I am, all gooey inside about a man again.  Fuck Wilson.

     That's what the fairy wants anyway, isn't it?  Fuck him and

     his new boyfriend that left him for some truck driver two

     months after Wilson left me.  Maybe I was wrong ever

     marrying a white man.  Maybe Gloria was right -- they can't

     be trusted.  At least, it's worth a try with Rashad.

     Sunday evening, June 26, 1994

     Rashad's gone home now.  Has to go back to Jamaica for a

     couple of weeks.  In a way, I'm glad.  Yes, diary, you know

     it already.  He swept me clean off my feet.  I'm getting all

     drippy down there even thinking about him now, considering

     what I'm going to write.  He gave me a live orchid.  Other

     guys have brought roses, the usual.  He's not the usual.  A

     cymbidium, he said it was.  One of the easiest species

     orchids to grow.  He said he got me that because it was a

     great orchid for first timers.  He raises species orchids as

     a hobby.

     But about the man, and what happened, what can I write, dear

     diary?  I've been fucked.  I mean, that man FUCKED me.  No

     beatings this time.  A wonderful dinner, some dancing, and

     then a night of sex beyond anything I've ever dreamed.  His

     cock is even bigger than I'd guessed.  I keep looking at the

     Polaroid he took, and I get all cummy again each time I

     remember how it felt.  Tell me size doesn't make any

     difference.  It may not be everything, but it sure is

     something.

     I could feel his cock hitting my cervix when he fucked me.

     It drove me crazy, just knowing I was so full of man meat.

     When he slipped out and pushed into my ass, it was like

     entering heaven itself.  I know lots of girls don't even

     like anal.  Or if they do, they want it real gentle.  I

     started off that way, but not any more.  I like it to hurt a

     little.  The hotter I get, the nearer to the big O, the more

     I want my ass pounded to the brim with a big ramrod.  That's

     the way Rashad likes to fuck me.  Building up his strokes

     till he's slamming his meat soooo deep into my ass.  He's

     the first guy that hit the high end of my poop chute before

     he ran out of cock.  It felt like he was stretching my

     intestines, and I could sense the pressure all up through my

     chest, echoing through my tits.  He just kept on, a little

     bit harder, and a little harder still.  And as his butt

     fucking built up, it was like my tits, clit, pussy, ass,

     mouth, every part of me got all linked up.  Each one was

     firing off cum signals to all the others.

At this point, Jazmand broke away from her story.  We were both

lying on the bed, the tent formed by Jazmand's nightgown pulled

aside, gazing at the perfection of her bottom, so fetchingly

displayed in the sling.  She interrupted our reverie with, "I

have a picture of him, you know.  Not the one I showed you the

other day.  The Polaroid he took, that shows that big tool of

his.  Shows my ass being pumped full of him."

"You have it here," I asked.

"Sure do," she replied.  "Wanna see."

Hummm, said with a hint of the tease.  Time for a little decorum

if I want to play Master, I thought.  "Jazmand," I said sternly,

"If this man is going to be using us for target practice with his

Uzi, then don't you be withholding any evidence.  ANYTHING that

might help our cause, you share.  Do you understand?

"Yes, Master."

She hadn't expected a rebuff, caught up as she was in the heat of

reading her own writing.  I decided to soften the blow.  I wanted

above all for her to know how much I cared for her, especially

after hearing how the last white man in her life, Wilson, had

misused her.

"Listen sweetie," I consoled, "You said Rashad's Record was

really personal, and now I see that.  But Mary and I do love you.

We want to know about your past, even the demons that hide in the

shadows of your nightmares.  And we definitely want to know about

Rashad.  Including what every part of him looks like.  Remember,

we're ALL going to have to deal with his big tool all too soon."

"And one more thing," you said, picking up instantly on the

current of my comforting speech.  "Don't you put yourself down as

a writer.  You weren't even trying to write for an audience, but

that work just blew me away.  Wonderful.  You have got hidden

talent, girl."

"More kinds than one," I agreed, glancing back to Jazmand's

exposed sex.

"Thanks, guys," Jaz said, flashing her winsome smile.  "His

picture's in my purse."

<ooooo.jpg>

Rashad's Big Tool Stuffing Jazmand's Ass

Jaz could hear us suck in air as we looked at the torrid action

in the picture.  Our eyes kept darting from the photo of

Jazmand's cock-filled ass to her open backside, hanging just

inches over our heads as we lay on the bed.  I was imagining how

horny looking that scene must have been, her pretty haunches

split by his monster tool.  Him so hot, pumping her with wave

after wave of sloshing cum.

"Jaz, you deserve a treat for this," I said.  I started her sling

swinging gently, then positioned myself where I could tongue her

sex as she swung above me.  You crawled up between my legs and

began to languidly lick my love pole.  Neither of us was putting

our main focus on oral delights.  We wanted more of Jazmand's

story.  Our licking was meant to heighten our response to her

words, not supersede it.  Between slurps I managed to instruct

her, "Now read."

"OK, Let me see where I left off.  Yeah, here it is."  Aside from

little reverberations in her breaths, her voice carried on as if

nothing were going on down at the base of her sling.

     It's not just that he's got a huge dick, or even that he

     knows how to use it.  Sure, those things help.  But there's

     probably plenty of horses on a stud farm with all that going

     for them.  What really got to me, he's good at dirty talk.

     Stuff like, "Come on bitch, suck.  That's it.  Good girl.

     Oooohhhh, that's so good.  Suck it mama, suck till you choke

     it all the way down.  Yeah, mama, make daddy cum.  Suck up

     all that cum.  I've got a big, hot load cooking for you,

     pretty lady.  So sweet, mmmmm -- your mouth sliding on me."

     But there were other things . . . things that weren't so

     good.  Like his crime connections.  He didn't say he was a

     drug smuggler.  Of course, I don't expect he would.  That'd

     be pretty stupid.  But he dropped little hints.  Like the

     one about the guy that was giving his family so much

     trouble, and he went to see some friends about it.  He said

     the guy had to go.  Couldn't work around South Florida

     anymore.

     I asked him where he went, and he was real vague.  "Away."

     That's all he would say.  "Him and his frens don't badda mi

     no mo."  He wouldn't talk any more about it.  That worried

     me.

     Monday, June 27, 1994

     Back at the shack now, mainly playing the domme.  I know how

     to go through the motions.  The Johns think they are getting

     the real thing.  Sometimes it's a little bit of fun,

     switching like that.  Especially when I'm ordering some guy

     around, and inside I know I wish the tables were turned -- I

     was tied up -- he was wielding the whip.  But mostly it's

     just boring.  I can see I'm going to miss that crazy

     Jamaican.

     Monday, July 4, 1994

     Watched the fireworks show tonight out over the water.

     Pretty.  Pretty lonely.  So much beauty and grandeur, and no

     one to share it with.  I hope he calls me when he gets back.

     Wednesday, July 20, 1994

     He finally called today.  Said there was a little business

     trouble down home, and he just got back to Miami.  We set up

     to see each other this Sunday.  I wanted it to be on a day

     off.  I'm going to make dinner for him, and we can watch a

     movie here.  I think I need to get to know him better.

     Maybe I was too quick in deciding I didn't trust him because

     of that beating scene.  Maybe that's just a kinky side of a

     good man.

     He wouldn't say much about the business troubles.  Just more

     hints it was something I shouldn't ask about.  I'm going to

     press him on that when he comes over.  Give him a couple of

     glasses of wine first, play a little Mata Hari with him, and

     find out what makes this guy tick.

     Sunday, July 24, 1994

     Another full day of preparing myself for the Mystery

     Jamaican.  Scented bath.  Legs all silky shaved.  Two enemas

     again.  He bores deep.  I don't want him drilling into a

     trash pile back there.  Besides, it makes me feel so sexy

     doing it to get ready to be ass fucked by him.

     I made a spicy shrimp dish, salad, rice and ambrosia for

     desert.  Everything but the rice, I did in advance, and

     stored it in the fridge.  The rice cooker took care of the

     final touch, so I didn't have to slave in the kitchen.  I

     could turn my attention to learning the mysteries of this

     man.

     He didn't tell me much.  Not even after 3 glasses of wine.

     He dropped a few more hints about him being bad company,

     nobody to fool with.  But, every time I pressed for details,

     he either changed the subject or fell silent.

     He did fuck me again, though.  Most guys make love to me,

     and I guess I like their gentle loving.  But Rashad fucks

     me.  He takes what he wants from me and makes me love it,

     beg for it.  He's the consummate tease.

     Like tonight, he started with me still dressed -- just

     touching me, running his hands over my breasts, my tummy, my

     ass.  Each inch he touched, he told me poetry about.  Almost

     like he was reading it from some book.  Beautiful words I

     can't remember, but I remember how they made me feel.

     Alive.  Tingling alive to every touch.  Opening up to those

     hands.  Breathing in his scent.  Ready.

     And when he KNEW I was ready, panting, my panties soaking

     wet, he started to undress me.  Then he just scooped me up

     like I was a toy, and carried me off to bed.

     He fucked me.  Slow this time.  Almost sitting still in my

     pussy.  Touching my cheeks, brushing the hair back from my

     brow.  His finger tips were like some Shiatsu masseur's,

     running through my scalp, along the nape of my neck,

     sweeping away any tension.  He wanted me even more open than

     before.

     I opened.  There was this little fear back in me somewhere,

     saying, "How open does he want you?"  If this game went on

     too long, he might open me past the point of no return.  But

     his fingers on my scalp.  His kiss on my lips.  His big,

     twitching cock, wanting me so much, filling every inch of my

     vagina.  No choice.  I opened.

     And then he pulled it out, before I could cum.  I was right

     there, ready to give myself over to the feeling of him,

     pressing up into my cervix.  Pain pleasure.  I was pouring

     out that juice that comes out just as I'm ready to explode,

     and he pulled out.

     He switched around and put that big, pussy-slick tool right

     to my lips and he just said, "Suck, pretty girl."  Smelling

     my excitement all over him, I sucked.  And he sank his face

     right into my cum-soaked pussy.  He didn't fuck my face.

     Good thing, too.  With a dick that size, he'd have had my

     dinner in his lap if he did.  I had to get used to it.  Take

     it a little bit at a time.  But I like to play right at the

     edge of the gagging.  I like the smell of man when I get my

     mouth down deep on him and my nose is pressed into his pubic

     hair.  I tried to do it with Rashad, but his cock is so fat

     and long, I kept gagging with it at the back of my throat.

     Thank God Rashad didn't push it.  If he'd have grabbed the

     back of my head and started thrusting in, things could have

     gotten pretty ugly.  But he just let me find my own pace.

     Just kept talking me through it, dirty sweet nothings.

     After warming up to being his little cock sucker, I could

     get maybe 7 inches into me.  I was holding my throat

     straight like a sword swallower, so it could slide on down.

     Each stroke went a little deeper.  Soon, I'd have him all

     the way.  And he was already spewing precum -- so tasty --

     man in my mouth.  Soon, I'd have him over the edge.

     But he pulled out.  He told me I was so hot, every inch of

     me, he couldn't let any part go unfucked.  He rolled me over

     on my tummy and hiked my rear up in the air.  Walked up to

     the edge of the bed, and put that steaming stoker up to my

     ass.  I pushed onto him and had three inches up in me before

     he even started to thrust.  He didn't go easy on my rear.

     Not like he'd done with my pussy.  He pushed into me steady

     till I felt him hit bottom, bringing a gasp of air out of my

     lungs as he slammed home.  That thing is sooooo big.

     He kept building up his pace, and his huge tool growing even

     longer, reaching so deep.  I thought he was going to pump me

     full any moment.  I was building to a climax too.  I wanted

     to cum right with him.  But he surprised me.  On one

     backstroke, he pulled clean out.  Oh!  I felt so empty.  He

     pulled my face to him and said, "Clean it.  Take it all,

     princess."

     It wasn't all that dirty.  I'd taken two enemas before he

     came over.  But it was spicy enough.  I could smell the

     enema scent along with his cum and my pussy.  Not strong

     enough to gag me, just enough to drive me wild.  Doing this

     for him was so dirty.  It lit a bonfire under my

     submissiveness.  I went ecstatic on that big cock.  And he

     bent over so he could reach my sex, and dug two fingers up

     into my pussy.  This gave him a perfect grip on me so he

     could work the palm of that invading hand on my love button.

     Lord almighty, I went of like a skyrocket.  I got every inch

     of that monster cock into my throat -- twitching and

     pulsing, pumping out his cum into my stomach.  I had to pull

     back so I could taste some of his love cream.  When I got

     that taste, I went over the top again.  Listening to all his

     dirty talk.  He really knows something.

     Monday, July 25, 1994

     Dear diary, I can't find words for the feeling of fullness

     when Rashad stuffs that thing up my ass.  Like when grandma

     used to give me those huge enemas on the farm.  She'd been

     giving me enemas ever since I can remember, when I stayed

     with her in the summer.  I was thirteen when grandpa died.

     After that, grandma was lonely.  Maybe that was part of it.

     She had one of those old fashioned 3 quart bags, and she'd

     fill it twice and get most of it in me.  I knew she was

     doing it because she loved me and she thought a good

     cleaning was important for a young girl's health.  I would

     orgasm every time when I got so full feeling, somewhere

     midway through the second bag.  Then she'd let me go to the

     toilet and let it out.  I'm sure she knew it was making me

     climax.  Maybe it was something she needed too.  Grandpa was

     gone, and she couldn't give him orgasms any more.  She

     masturbated to handle her own needs.  I heard her one night

     when I got up late to get some water.  But maybe she needed

     to give feelings to someone else, too.  We never talked

     about it.  Never could have.  But I know she knew.  And

     Rashad knows too -- how he's making me feel.

     One thing's bothering me though -- this Jamaican crime

     thing.  He drops these hints that he's some kind of Jamaican

     crime boss.  But he won't follow up on the hint or explain

     what he said -- not even if I ask.  I tried to talk to him

     about what he does for a living.  He wouldn't give me a

     sensible answer.  He made jokes, talked in circles, all

     sorts of ploys.  It was worse than asking a campaigning

     politician about taxes.  I wish I could figure out how I

     feel about this relationship.

I could see that the diary was turning away from the superheated

sex description and into the musings the episode had inspired.

The licking we had been doing, gentle though it was, had us ready

for more, not less.  It seemed a good place to pause in Rashad's

Record, and explore the inner workings of Jazmand in a more

direct manner.  "Jaz.  Beautiful.  You're as good an erotic

writer as I know, darling.  But hold up there.  Mary and I owe

you a thank-you for your reading, and then there's the matter of

discipline for withholding that Polaroid of Rashad fucking you in

the ass.  I think we can handle both issues in one treatment."

That said, I reluctantly slipped from under Jazmand's wet bottom.

I got up and went to the bedroom bureau.  There, I retrieved some

fresh toys to add to our afternoon's play.  You had joined me to

see what new turn things might take.  I moved to you and slipped

your robe from your shoulders.  I knelt and grasped the lacy

fringe at the bottom of your nightgown, then rose, lifting your

skirt over your hips as I came up.  I pulled the soft garment

over your head and folded it across the nearby quilt rack.  I

held before you a black-latex panty.  Projecting from the front

of it was a huge black-rubber dildo, a close equal to Rashad in

size.  In the panty's crotch there was an insert, rubber, molded

to fit you and translate your every thrust with that dildo into

sensations in the root of your sex.  I planted a lingering kiss

on your clitoris as you stepped into the panty, then drew the

garment up to cover the dew I'd left behind.  I slipped the black

silk robe back on your shoulders.  There!  What a sight!

Hand-in-hand, we went back to the bed where Jazmand hung in her

sling.  I made some adjustments.  She had been sitting in a near

upright position.  One at a time I released and refastened the

chains that supported her upper torso.  I positioned her so that

she was now leaning back in an almost horizontal pose.  I

lengthened the straps that supported her head.  Now her head hung

backward, putting her throat in the classic straight-shot

attitude of the sword swallower.

On my knees on the bed, I moved to position just the tip of my

erection at Jazmand's lips.  "Mary," I said, "You give our sweet

Jazmand an ass fucking like she just described.  You be Rashad

for her, dear."

You lubricated the big tool with some KY from the tube at the

side of the bed, then climbed onto the sheets, walking on your

knees, and moved into position.  When you pushed the dildo

between Jazmand's ass cheeks, it didn't seem to meet any

resistance.  It slid right into her as if drawn by some vacuum

inside, needing to be filled.

"Mary," I said, "You fuck her in the ass hard enough to move the

swing, and that will move her mouth on me.  Jazmand, you have to

get butt fucked till the swing's motion alone brings me off, and

I'm going to resist cumming for all I'm worth.  How's that sound

for sweet punishment?"

"Mmmmff!" was all she could say.  Your pushing the didlo into her

had already forced the first several inches of my cock into her

hungry mouth.  Perhaps the ease of entry impelled you.  Whatever

the motivation, you began immediately to pummel into Jazmand's

opened rear, spread wide for you by the bondage sling.  In and

out you drove with a fury, rivulets of sweat forming on your

forehead, cascading down your face and between your heaving

breasts.

It looked to me like my cock was four feet long.  It was ramming

down Jazmand's gullet, through her entrails, and, coming out her

ass, it was skewering your sex.  Jazmand, body run through, was

just sliding up and down on my sensitive flesh pole.

Watching this was a sublime experience.  You, so feminine, yet

this monster cock sticking out, entering the object of your love.

She, open, submissively yielding to you.  Trying to thrash

around, but held by her bonds.  Little yelping sounds -- muffled

by my meat now deep in her throat . . . Feeling her throat

muscles milk my cock . . . Feeling each thrust of the dildo into

her as it echoed through her body . . . Watching all this.

How long can this tension mount?  Maddening . . . No way to hold

. . . Close my eyes . . . No! . . . See . . . See how you're

trembling, legs about to fail . . . Slamming salami up Jazmand's

ass . . . Quivering -- sweat dripping -- cumming.  You're cumming

. . . Fucking dildo's working both ways . . . Smashing that clit

tickler back into your sex every time you bottom out in her

backside . . . Watching her body bob around my spewing cock.

Listen to her.  She's cumming -- gurgling cream in her throat --

sex on fire -- heaving sighs -- raspy breaths -- panting . . .

Too much . . . No, never enough . . . Go on forever . . .

Timeless at last . . . Pour some more in . . . Still more . . .

No, not enough . . . No more to pour . . . Poor me . . . Poor

Mary . . . Poor jazmand!

Rich Jazmand.  Full of love.  Finally open.  Grandma used to open

her, but there were secrets.  Rashad used to do it, but he played

games.  No secrets this time, though.  Now, now we can talk.

Chapitre 12

Author's notes:

You may remember, this story was written for an on-line sister in water love whom I've chosen to call Mary.  It was written at her request for her enema training.  She had e-mailed me (the author -- WaterLuv@etzine.com) and asked if I could help her learn to enjoy watersports more fully without premature orgasms spoiling the fun.  This story is a training routine toward that goal.

Throughout the tale, from chapter 3 forward, there are specific instructions for Mary to act out.  Her Master's orders are always [enclosed in brackets] as shown here.  Wherever bracketed text occurs, Mary, my on-line enema subbie, has already acted out the story and e-mailed me a dripping wet, sexy description of how it made her feel.  There are more of those bracketed instructions in this chapter.

Perhaps some of you would like to follow in her steps.  If so, print this so you can read it in the privacy of your bed and bath.  Others may wish only to read, content in the knowledge that what they are reading is not mere fantasy, but a real scene, enacted in many hot variations, by adventurous people here in the many places the Internet touches.

If you are playing Mary's role, note that this chapter includes the use of alcohol and Valium in an enema.  Alcohol is a potentially addictive substance.  Excessive alcohol (more than you would comfortably drink) in an enema is very dangerous.  Valium is a prescription drug carrying warnings not to mix it with alcohol.  Also, this chapter describes a high-volume enema.  As you read and play, recognize the line between fantasy/fiction and reality.  Please use your common sense, and don't do anything that would put your safety or legal rights in jeopardy.  If you haven't a whit of common sense, then use mine, and don't enact this chapter!  You have been warned.

Finally, throughout this work, there are sections where I relate my own thoughts, usually indicated by a comment such as 'I thought' or 'I mused.'  Personal reflections are set off in italics in the original text, and are related in the present tense.  However, for the Internet's ASCII version, no italics are available, and I have not used the _this_is_underlined_ convention.  To me, it confuses more than it clarifies.  I trust the reader can take all this in stride.  Now, to Mary's tail . . . er tale.

=====================================================

I was up before dawn toady.  I hadn't planned any such Monday morning diligence.  But a notable artist had painted an elegant sunrise to bid farewell to yesterday's tempest.  Having spread this glory in the pre-dawn sky, He had called secretly to me in my sleep, wanting me to witness the refinement of His heavenly tapestry -- the beauty unfurled in the disappearing clouds on the horizon . . . It had to portend a good day.

Unwilling to issue any more than a covert wake-up call to my two sleeping beauties, I set about preparing morning coffee for three.  Perhaps the rich, sweet aroma, wafting through the suite, would steal sleep from you, too.  After all, fucked and sucked to near oblivion, we had collapsed by no later than nine the night before.

My ploy worked.  In time to see the fringe of red before the rising sun cleared the cloud bank, you and Jazmand were up.  We shared coffee and intimate teases on the balcony, overlooking the boat yard where, if all went as scheduled, I'd take delivery of the new yacht today.  We decided to forego the hotel's restaurant this morning, excellent though it was, and hike to somewhere on the waterway's edge.  A morning walk in the rain-washed air would do us good.

I was in high spirits by our return.  What a grand entrance the Alexander has.  I all but danced through the garden, round the fountain, threatening to jump in.  And the two of you did no better.  Urging me on, daring me to take the plunge.  Feed a ham, will you?  In I went.  Then out -- dripping wet -- and into the stuffy elegance of the Alexander's lobby.  Hiding behind the two of you to avoid undue notice from the desk clerk.

But he was waiting for me.  He didn't miss two such beautiful women entering.  He knew you, and guessed correctly that I must be the shadowy figure at your side.  "Mr. West!" he called.  "I have four messages for you.  One of 'em is urgent."

"Thanks," I sheepishly replied, taking the messages while trying not to drip too much on his polished-marble floor.  You've got to remember to act your age, I thought.  But quickly followed by a mental note -- A good law, yet one made to be broken.  I may grow old in spirit, but I damn well won't do it without a fight!

Back in the room, I stripped off the dripping clothes.  That done, and in a robe, I sorted through the phone messages the desk clerk had handed me.  A call from the boat yard, the Key West police, something for Jazmand about her condo, and finally, the urgent one -- from Rashad's tail.

Tony Rueger's investigator in Key West, Bob Templeton, had called only minutes before we returned to the hotel.  He should still be in his office.  I dialed his number immediately.  "Templeton here," the voice crackled.

"Morning Bob," I said, introducing myself.  "I'm returning your call."

"Right, Mr. West.  Good to talk to you.  I guess I'm working for you, now.  Well, you asked that we let you know if Mr. Banton made plans to leave Key West.  He's booked a flight to Miami.  Arrives there at two this afternoon.  Just thought you'd want to know."

I certainly did!  I didn't want to know what manner of dirty tricks they'd used to get such information, though.  Wiretap?  Something illegal?  I steered the conversation on a different tack.  "What else have you been able to learn about Rashad?"

"Well, he does seem to have connections to Jamaican drug smuggling.  He's definitely not a street dealer or runner.  Must be a boss of some kind.  We've been able to gather quite a file on him, given the short time we've been working.  I don't think much of it would be good in court, though.  Of course, Mr. Rueger should have the final say on that."

"Right," I said.  "But tell me why you feel it's not court-admissible evidence." 

"It's documentation enough, Mr. West, but it's almost all circumstantial or hearsay.  There's little or no hard evidence in the packet to date.  Most of it is what Mr. Banton has told others about himself and his doings."

"Well," I countered, "given my secrecy restrictions on gathering evidence, I'm not surprised by that.  On the contrary, I'm pleased with your progress.  I didn't think you'd have anything worthwhile this early in the investigation."

I hung up, encouraged that the investigators were already beginning to accumulate data on Rashad's underworld activities.  There was something else about the call, though -- something troubling me.  However, I couldn't figure out what, and there were the other calls to return.

I dialed the Key West police and asked for Detective Johnston, whose name was on the message slip.  His "Johnston" boomed through the receiver.  He explained that he'd been assigned to the shots-fired investigation.  He wanted to let me know that they had found a car matching the description of the shooter's, and that it had Florida tags with the NLT prefix.  "It was stolen a month before the shooting," he said in his powerful baritone.  "Looks like a professional job.  Look," he added as an afterthought, "we've got you as a straight-and-narrow citizen, but if you're in some kind of trouble with organized crime, now's the time to tell us.  It might save your skin."

"Thanks, detective," I chuckled, hoping that he wouldn't hear the tension in my lungs.  "But I can assure you that I haven't turned to drug running or diamond smuggling in my old age."

"No . . . You haven't.  We've already checked you out," he admitted.  "But what about those two ladies you're hanging out with?  You know one of them has a rap sheet down here and in Miami?  She might be bringing her trouble with her, Mr. West.  You sure she's worth it?  Maybe you better just back off."

"I'm sure she's worth it, detective.  But thanks for the warning and the concern."  I felt his worry was genuine.  And more than a little bit justified.  This might be a dangerous game we were playing.  Had that bullet been a warning shot?  If so, who was it meant to warn?  What was it meant to say?  What would come next if we got the wrong answers to these questions?

With Jazmand now in the forefront of my thoughts, I dialed the third number -- the one about her condo up in New Smyrna Beach.  The condo was an investment she'd picked up with her profits from the dungeon job.  It was a pleasure to turn to its sale, and away from disturbing thoughts about cars with blackened windows and Jamaican hit men.

I called Jaz to the phone, and she spoke briefly with her Realtor, Nancy Hertzog.  Nancy had a possible buyer for the Smyrna Beach condo, which Jaz had been trying to sell for months.  Jazmand would have to leave this morning for a meeting and walk through in New Smyrna, just south of Daytona Beach.  Sweetie that she is, she looked to us for approval, which we immediately gave.  She'd be back no later than Wednesday evening.

Jaz went to pack and dress for the trip, while I handled the last of the while-you-were-out slips -- the boat yard.  On top of Jazmand's hopeful word, more good news.  WaterWay, a Hatteras 112 Custom Yacht, was ready.  I could take delivery this morning if I wished. 

I do wish!  I thought.  With Rashad on his way to Miami, this is a perfect time for us to scatter -- you and I out to sea, whereabouts unknown.  Jazmand secretly off to points North.  Rashad was slow enough tracking us last time.  Let's see how long it takes our junior Sherlock to solve today's mystery.  I was rather pleased with the way fate had dealt our cards. 

Thoughts of the boat filled my mind.  The standard 112 foot Hatteras comes with a master stateroom amidships, running the full 24 feet of her beam, His-and-Her lavatories, and a whirlpool garden-tub.  I'd traded off footage in the saloon for additional space in the master stateroom and its bath.  Quite opulent.  But the boat was far from a floating luxury hotel.  Under her sleek exterior, she had the muscle to outrun all but the swiftest of small craft.  I had opted for the most brawny engine combination offered.  Her triple 1893 shaft-horsepower Caterpillar diesels deliver a whopping 5,679 SHP, pushing the yacht at 28 knots, full throttle. 

strand1.jpg <insert picture of the cabin cruiser>

Hatteras yachts have a well-earned reputation for guts.  The boats were bred to tame the rough sea off Cape Hatteras -- treacherous waters that have fully earned the grim name -- Graveyard of the Atlantic.  Hatteras yachts have acquired a high level of refinement.  Their appointments are as elegant as they come.  But nothing is done at the expense of seaworthiness or speed.

With most of our things already packed, we made short work of stowing the balance of our goods and checking out of the hotel.  I had called a taxi, and we took it to a nearby hotel.  Jazmand continued on in the car, heading to Miami International for a commuter flight to Daytona.  You and I simply doubled back in a second taxi, and stopped at the boat yard.  If Rashad tried to trace us, his job would not be an easy one.

By the time we had the baggage unloaded at the yacht basin, some of the apprehension I'd felt this morning was beginning to lift.  The boat was superb, beautiful lines, plenty of room, cushy appointments.  I could see we would beat Rashad by several hours.  Things were on the mend.  We had completed the signing process, all the paperwork in order, and gotten our gear aboard when . . . Over at the Alexander . . . Sudden fear! . . . A black BMW! . . . Darkened windows . . . Squealing tires . . . Rashad! . . . He's already here!

I knew he couldn't see us aboard the boat.  Our stern was already swinging free of the dock, and the yard people were loosing the painter.  We backed WaterWay into the channel and began to slowly move out toward the open sea just as Rashad came back out of the hotel lobby.  Even from this distance, he did not look pleased.  Nor was I.  I wondered, Why is he here four hours ahead of schedule!  Did he take an earlier flight, or make the reservation as a ruse, then drive up?  How much has he guessed of our game?  Has he discovered I'm having him tailed?  Most disturbing, I realized that I probably wouldn't find immediate answers.  I might have to wait till the game played out. 

Now, the lure of the open sea called loudly.  I looked forward to the anonymity it would provide.  But much more, I looked forward to some time alone with you.  The past few days had been so taken up with Jazmand, as it were a pilgrimage into her soul.  Now, I felt a strong need to explore your depths in equal measure.

After the gale of yesterday, the Atlantic was choppy.  I was glad we had taken some Dramamine with breakfast.  I didn't know your tolerance for motion sickness, and didn't wish to test your limits or my own in this area.  The morning breeze was gentle out of the West.  It carried the sweet and the sordid scents of land far out over the sea, mixing there with the fresh odor of the waves.  It was, in every way, an excellent day to be out here, away from Miami and raging bulls like Rashad.

It is not characteristic of me to put to sea without having filed a trip plan.  The boat yard had asked about our expected time at sea, our itinerary, and our intended point of return.  I had told them only that "We'll take the boat off shore and try her in the swells of the Atlantic for a bit.  We don't know where we'll explore.  We may return here by late afternoon, or put in somewhere else along the coast.  If Rashad traced us as far as the boat yard, a thing I doubted he'd manage, I wanted to be certain he'd be launched in a useless direction from there.  So, as we sat to consider our course, there were only two options excluded from the list.  We would not go back to the boat yard, and we would not put in at any harbor along the immediate coastline.

I suggested that we might open WaterWay's throttle and run for Deerfield Beach.  From there, we could turn into the Hillsboro Canal and head inland to Lake Okeechobee.  We could hang out for a few days at Belle Glade.  It seemed unlikely that Banton would be searching for us there, unless . . . unless he learned we'd picked up the boat.  I wasn't certain of the canal's draft or beam limits, though.  Another option would be to make a quick run across the hundred miles or so from Miami to Grand Bahama.  You suggested that we could drop down around the tip of the Florida Peninsula, and head up the Western Coast, perhaps stopping in Fort Meyers, or venturing as far north as Saint Petersburg.  Thinking through these options, I decided that Grand Bahama best fit my desire to be far from Florida soil.  Perhaps I was just being paranoid, but I had a nagging feeling Rashad might have eyes other than his own looking for us.  I thought the chances of this vigilance extending as far as Grand Bahama were acceptably remote.  You agreed.  And so, without turning back to look at the shrinking shoreline, we pointed our bow East-by-East-North-East and opened the throttle on the new boat.

The engines came up to a commanding roar.  She briefly shook her pretty tail at the land and then leapt on top of the chop, hurtling forward before the offshore breeze.  For a time we just sat on the flying bridge, enjoying the thrill of the rushing air, the rhythmic pounding as we hit each approaching swell, the sense of flying just above the warm waters.  For any of you who've driven a true speedboat, 28 knots doesn't sound very impressive.  True, there is a unique excitement in skimming the surface of a lake at 50 MPH plus.  But there is a special feeling, too, in climbing up atop ocean swells in a craft over 110 feet long and weighing 320,000 pounds.

We raced along for a short way then I backed off the throttle to cruising speed.  For the better part of an hour, we sat quietly, taking in the beauty of the ocean morning.  Then, as it were hypnotized by the thrill, the gracefulness, and the constant replay of it all, we fell to talking about things of the sea.  "I have always been a sailboat fan," I said.  "But right now, with our need for haste, I'm thankful for the horsepower in this baby.  Back in Santa Barbara, twenty years ago, in what seems like a previous lifetime, I lived abroad a 38 foot Choy Lee."

"How was it, living in such cramped quarters," you asked.

"It was a delight," I replied.  "The boat had plenty of space for two to live comfortably, even to shower and cook -- as long as you liked each other.  And the Santa Barbara Marina had an on-shore bath including hot showers.  Only marina occupants got keys, and it was always kept spotless."

"I was young and not making all that much money.  I couldn't afford the exorbitant real-estate prices of Santa Barbara.  Even a shack in the slum section went for a quarter of a million.  But Santa Barbara was the only town along the Southern California Coast that allowed live ins in their harbor.  If you had a lease on a slip in the harbor, you could live on your boat.  The challenge was in getting a slip.  I could have put my name on the waiting list, but with the attrition rate at that time, it figured to be 250 years before a berth became available.  I wasn't confident I could wait that long. 

Fortunately, I stumbled onto an opportunity to short-circuit the process.  Marina regulations allowed for the passing of slip leases with boats when they were sold.  A beautiful, teak-decked Choy Lee was available, with its slip in the Santa Barbara Marina.  I could not have afforded it plus an on-shore apartment.  But, living aboard, I could handle the payments.  It gave me a way to invest in something with more than the zero return of renting."

"Have you had any experience sailing?" I asked.

"Just a bit," you answered, snuggling up to me in the brisk wind.  "A boyfriend ages past had a boat and sometimes took me out on the gulf.  It was a 12 meter sailboat.  He raced it -- with some success, I think."

"Really?" I replied.  "And what about him?  Your relationship.  Any success there?"

"None.  He turned out to be married.  He'd been lying about that, but I found out.  Then came the promises to break up, which I didn't want to hear.  I had cared for him, but I didn't want to play home-wrecker.  I believe deeply in marriage as a forever bond.  And any man that doesn't see it that way isn't the man for me.

"The bottom line," you continued, "he was a manipulator.  When he realized he could no longer yank my chains, he dropped me for another affair.  My guess is his wife knew about the whole sordid mess, but decided to put up with him for some reason."

"But I did like his sailboat.  There's a seductive feeling to sailing.  I guess there is to the speed and pounding of this boat too, but it's not the same.  The sailboat slides so quietly through the water.  You hear and feel the subtleties.  The lapping of the waves on the hull, whistle of wind in the rigging, the gulls, the groans of taut ropes.  Here, you hear only the roar of the big engines and the slamming as we crash through each wave.  It's like comparing slow, sensuous sex with masturbating on a jack hammer."

"And they say it's the men that think about only one thing," I joked.

"Well, what can I say.  Mia culpa.  In high school, my best girlfriend was Suki Osumi.  Suki and I had a torrid, junior-year lesbian affair.  I was going through the hormone wars of my teens at the time.  Suki'd tease me about it.  She used to point at my pussy and call it the Gland Canyon.  A little play on her Japanese R-and-L confusion.  She said I was always in heat.  Trouble was I was always the one to initiate sex.  Suki loved everything I took us into, but she never, never was the aggressor."

"Talk about R&L puns," you continued, "I remember that Suki had a beat up old Ford.  When it started overheating, I told her to tell her mechanic that the problem was a reeking ladiator."

"Keep dealing puns like that and you R going to L," I said, chuckling along with your lighthearted spirit.  "But what happened to that relationship?"

"Her dad . . . He was some kind of diplomat . . . He got recalled to Japan.  If he hadn't been, we might have just settled down.  I might still be eating sushi.  I doubt it, though.  Not that I didn't love Suki.  We still write.  She's a full-time lesbian now, living with an American woman in Japan.  I guess she developed a taste for a certain kind of fish.  But I just don't think that a long-term lesbian relationship would keep me fulfilled."

"Oh?  What would be missing?"  Finally, we were alone and you were talking about yourself.  I wanted this to go on and on.  Maybe we should skip Grand Bahama and head straight to San Salvador, some 437 miles from Miami, I thought.

"I'm not sure," you replied.  "Perhaps its the excitement generated by being pursued.  It's nice to feel a man's hot desire for my body, sometimes.  Of course, if I don't feel the same toward the man, it can get to be offensive.  But I wouldn't want to live in a relationship where my lover never made me feel sexy -- wanted -- you know?"

"I copy," I admitted.  "I've been there.  But there's more.  Go on."

You knew what was unstated, but saying it was not easy.  There was risk.  One who knows you too well can use that knowledge to twist a knife into your very soul.  You were wondering if you should trust me that much.

I waited.

"Well," you began, thinking to offer just a morsel of the truth then retreat, "maybe there's just not enough passion there to keep love alive."

"Love doesn't rely on passion," I responded.  "Love is a decision.  Once decided, passion -- true passion -- flows from love.  You know that.  Why couldn't you decide to love Suki?"

Silence.  Again, I waited.

"Um . . . I don't no," you lied.

"Yes, you do.  And I need to hear you say it."

Resignation, and a touch of fear in your eyes, you began, "Sometimes, I . . . I just need to . . . To be submissive.  I can go for months feeling fine about being the top, but then that servile need begins to grow.  The need builds.  It gets so strong -- I can't ignore it -- can't keep being the aggressor.  Suki couldn't top me, and I needed somebody who could -- would -- take me that way.  Make me reach heights I didn't think I could scale.  That's why I wanted you to train me," you said.  Your face held a look of concern.  Had you been too honest too soon?  But there was something else subtly written in your eyes.  A look like -- There!  It's finally out.

"So why not a Mistress?" I pressed.  "There are plenty of lesbian lovers who can take care of that need."

"I know, but . . . Well, I just don't know.  It's what I need," you muttered.

Those eyes, still downcast, were staring into my lap, watching the swelling in my pants.  You knew you were affecting me.

"Yes, I know, darling," I said, hugging you to my chest.  "I know how it feels to push so far out you're just a quivering mass of submissive flesh.  You get totally lost in the experience.  It is sublime, isn't it.  It's what you need now, too."

"You've been watching me play," I continued, "and you've been playing too, with Jazmand and with me.  But it's not the same as bottoming.  I know your need has been building.  I was counting on that.  You've been very good, and now -- we're alone at sea."  If this sounds sinister enough, I thought, there will be just the right amount of fear behind the proffered play.  I could see from the mix of apprehension and lust written across your face that I'd hit my mark.

We were nearing Grand Bahama, close enough to moor.  I brought the boat to a stop in no more than 200 feet of water, and dropped anchor.

Without another word, I rose, and led you by the hand, down from the flying bridge to the spiral staircase that goes below decks, into the Master stateroom.  I held you close, murmuring to you, "I know what you feel -- know what you need now.  And I'm going to give it to you.  Even more than you have dreamed.  Yes, I know your dreams.  Umm-hum, girl!  You're not such a dark secret, you know."

She's been so edgy, I thought.  Caged animal.  The near miss with Rashad -- the exhilaration of the high-speed ride -- all magnifying the sense of tightness in you.  I had been watching it build in you the entire time we'd been together.  Now, I reasoned, was the time to release all that pressure.

I let my fingertips trace the line of your cheeks, circling your temples, rubbing the tension away . . . Slowly . . . Giving you time . . . Time to relax.  And I felt it -- felt you letting go.  Fingers tracing along your cheeks.  Masculine presence -- so near now.  Touching the curve of your neck -- etching lines of excitement along your shoulders and down -- down within a whisper of the swell of your breasts.

Peeling each piece of clothing from your body.  A slow, sensuous strip-tease.  Exposing -- inch-by-inch -- your precious flesh.  My breath sucking in as your bra came into view.  A sigh through your parted lips as your nipple felt the warm touch of sea air.  Nude from the waist up.  Jeans that zip in the rear -- their zipper coming down.  The touch, that hand across your rear, drinking in the sleek texture of your undies.  Moving on, hands brushing the flesh of your flanks as your jeans slid down. 

[Strip and put on a loose fitting pair of panties.]

You were standing there, dressed only in the briefs with the flap opening in the rear -- your eyes following me as I paced around you.  How could I get my fill of your perfection?  Every curve -- every nuance of skin shading -- demanding my full attention.  And as I moved, your eyes timidly followed me, and my eyes boldly feasted on you.  My desire was obvious, tenting the front of my jeans.  Yours was more subtly displayed, but nonetheless clear to any trained observer.  And I am a trained observer.  Trained and trainer.  Intensely interested in you.  You are my all.  You are my mystery.  You, I must solve.

[Touch and caress yourself as closely as you can to the action in the following paragraphs.  Use your fingers as my surrogate hands and tongue.  Imagine that my urgent need is inspiring your every move.  After all, it is.]

I touched the hollow of your back, as if I might know all by exploring your flesh -- by guiding you to my bed.  I sat, holding you before me, kissing the warm, fragrant flesh below your breasts -- tonguing your navel -- hands separating your buttocks to pull you into me.  And then I turned you.  Your back to me now, your skin flushed, showing me your response.  I slid my hands over your ass cheeks -- opening the rear flap of your nylon briefs.  I bent forward and planted a tender kiss on your hidden rosebud.  My hands holding you -- cupped under your breasts -- urging your body to yield to my lips.

Soul kissing you -- so gently to start.  Lips just brushing your nether lips.  Touching, as if to say you are clean, you are loved -- every part of you.  But growing more insistent, an urgency rising in the embrace.  Tongue against entrance -- a contest of wills.  Mine to open you and know all -- the dirty with the clean.  Yours to hide the secret parts -- to show only the polished, public persona -- the benign portion that all comers can comfortably accept.  But secrets fall to desire.  Yours to be possessed, and in so doing, to possess.  Mine to enter and explore, to yield myself as your possession.

Seeking so deeply now, cupping a breast in each hand, nipples erect and straining.  You, opening yourself -- bent slightly at the waist -- your hips thrust back -- your heaving chest pushing into those massaging hands -- your knees touching as your buttocks flare apart . . . every fiber of you screaming, More!  Yes!  In answer, a hand moves down to your steaming pussy -- gentle at first -- tracing the delta of your sex lips.  But growing more insistent, exploring, forcing the nylon of your briefs into your wetness there.

I am drawing lines of connection.  Your breasts to your cunt to your ass, all being brought into direct linkage.  All building to that one central theme, to open.  To be utterly taken and thereby to lay an immutable claim.

Soft moans escaping your lips, mixing with my own threnody,  Sorrow in my cries?  Yes, for I knew that this was but the opening act.  You must be opened slowly, lest you fracture and all that's precious in you be lost.  And soon the curtain must fall on this delightful scene.

But not just yet.  There is still time and need for a few more lines.  There is time to move that hand from the wet nylon covering your vagina, and slide it up the open leg of your briefs, up where it can enter you, where fingers can tease directly on your clit.  With this handhold I can pull your anal opening onto my probing tongue, tasting the bitter-sweet depths of you.  My senses full of your mingled sachet.  Fertile valley.  Perfumed garden.  Mother of life.  Oh, man of need.  Woman, delighting to be needed.  Melding in the eternal plan whereby two unique beings mystically become one flesh.

Breaking away from you, I held you by the hips, pushing you to arm's length.  Your eyes were downcast, so full of desire, not wanting the delicious feelings to end.  You saw the huge bulge of man-flesh trapped in my jeans, staining them with its insistent offerings.  How could I hold you away like this?  The magnetic pull of male desiring female was so utterly overwhelming.  You could taste it -- a palpable mass, permeating the stateroom.

But you must be bound, I realized.  You can go much farther.  This, we both know.  And go you will.

"Mary, stand right there," I ordered.  "Do not move.  I must get some things."

What things, your mind flashed, a knot of apprehension growing to join the congested feeling in your groin.

I walked across the room to the bank of built-in teakwood drawers and cabinets along the forward bulkhead.  All the things I needed were already gathered in the center drawer, but I made a deliberate show of selecting this and that, taking my time.  I was aware of the buildup of concern.  It was written in your furrowed brow -- the way you stole glances over your shoulder.  You were trying to catch a furtive glimpse of what was to come.  I made sure my body blocked any view.  I could feel a unique sense of excitement swelling within.  If they can be mixed to perfection, fear and desire can lead to an experience beyond the sublime.

[Now you must prepare an enema for the next act.  Use a double or single enema nozzle if you have one.  If not, just use your favorite nozzle.  Get a water-based lubricant (KY or equal, or your favorite lubricant if no water-based type is on hand) and have these at ready.  If you have a latex sheet, cover your bed with it.  If not, use a soft, fluffy towel.  Prepare a VERY warm 2 quart enema for yourself.  In this sequence of the story, the enema contains 3 ounces of vodka and a Valium.  Provided you know what you're doing with these, can legally use them, and can tolerate them, you may make yours the same, or just use plain water.  You may add baking soda (2 tablespoons) if you have problems with bloating after an enema.  Bring your enema, the lubricant, and your other props to your bed.  Arrange a way to hang your enema bag about 2 feet above the level of your hips on the bed.]

I came back to your side, kissing your forehead, your eyes.  Again, the heat of my body reached out to you.  All that urgent maleness, needing you so fiercely.  Your knees went weak.  But for my hand in the hollow of your bare back, you might have crumpled on the bed -- seeking distance in which to recover.  But that hand did not permit it.  Instead, it drew you deeper into the engulfing spell.  Your eyes met mine, ardently drinking in the passion smoldering there.  Your lips parted, heaving a breathy sigh.  There was nothing but to kiss you.  Nothing else existed.  In a timeless moment, our lips met.  Our tongues entwined, dancing in wanton abandon.

[Let your hands and moistened fingers act out each embrace for me.]

That hand again, between us, forcing into the sopping wetness of your undies, cupping and caressing your womanhood.  Another hand, urgent, pulling your buttocks open, crushing you against my embrace.  You were aware of nothing else but your pulse roaring in your ears.  My mouth sucking breath from you -- pouring life into you.  A hand alive in your vagina, molding you into burning carnality.  Another hand -- fingers seeking your rear opening, pressing nylon up inside you -- clamping you between thrill and tumult.

But again, I broke away.  Holding you at arm's length, sitting on the bed, sliding down those now soaked briefs.  Your body was trembling, chest heaving in excitement.  Your flesh begged to be taken.  Yet you knew that this was but preparation.  You knew that you would be bound.  You would be tormented with erotic pain/pleasure.  You would be tested.  Your limits would be stretched.  The fear returned.  Your mind, awash with jumbled feelings, insisted that you protest, that you plead against going so far.  But your body betrayed your mind.  The pounding pressure in your pussy was in control.  No protest would be issued.

You came here to explore the outer limits.  Now you felt that you had gone over the edge.  You had been set adrift in some alternate universe.  All the familiar reference points were gone.  Up was no longer up, down was in its place.  You looked into my eyes.  Your fear was conquered, not vanquished, but relegated to a place where it could only inspire, not control.  You would travel with me.  What is it I had said?  "Love is a decision."  Here and now, you decided to love me.  You would deliberately put yourself down, submissively letting me take you through the warp of space to the inner limits where down becomes up and you emerge on top.

"Mary, give me your left hand," I said, breaking your wild internal dialogue.

You extended it as if it were an offering of inestimable value, which it indeed is.  Gently I took it to my lips and planted a tender kiss in your open palm.  Then, with the same gentleness, I snapped a padded-leather restraint around that wrist.  "Now, the right hand, darling.  You are so beautiful right now."  And it too was adorned with a wet kiss and a wrist cuff and chain.

"Now, my precious, let me cover the bed with this latex sheet.  Then we'll have you up on it.  There, now climb up on the bed.  That's it.  No, head that way.  Good.  Lie on your tummy.  Perfect."  [Lie, tummy down, on the covered spot on your bed.  Give yourself the massage described in the following paragraphs.  Of course, leave out the bondage unless you have a partner to do the massaging.]

Taking your left hand, I swung your arm up and loosely chained it to an eye bolt at the upper-left corner of the bed.  Then right hand to the upper-right corner.  With your arms spread apart and secured, I turned my attention to your body, giving you a back rub, kneading away the knots of tension in your neck and shoulders.  Slowly, massaging hands moved down, across the small of your back, encircling your waist, and lifting up.  Down across your sensitized ass-flesh, fingers soaking in the silkiness of your skin.  Sliding down along your seat.  Down legs, massaging the tender muscles.

After a bit of reflexology massage, giving me an ample opportunity to appreciate your dainty, feminine feet, I wrapped an ankle restraint around each ankle and fettered your legs to opposite corners at the foot of the bed.  There.  You were splayed face down just as Jazmand was when our adventure began.

You moved to test your bonds.  You could shift, but not far.  The restraints were quite unbreakable.  You realized you were now totally in my power.

I stood, moving back from the bed to admire my work.  I peeled down my jeans.  I was concerned lest my aching hardon rend the zipper of them.  I had in hand the slit-back nylon briefs I'd taken from your hips.  I held them to my nose, delighting in the powerful musk our loving had left on them.  Your head was turned to me, and you watched as I drank in your smell and the sight of your supine form.  Each subtle curve stirred delight in my hot loins.  Every time I inhaled your perfume, my rigid member jerked its approval.

[If any of you dear readers who are playing along would like to mail me the undies you used in this exercise, I promise to replace them with a brand new pair of similar kind, and to use your pussy-perfumed panties just as is related here. <grin> ]

You were lovely -- your femininity heightened by your vulnerable position.  Your ash-blond hair, all curls about the gentle curve of your neck.  Your pixie smile a flash of sunshine to my spirit.  Your eyes, filled with the beauty of wisdom and caring.  Your ample breasts, their prominence heightened on your small frame.  The purely feminine sweep of your ass, flaring in such an alluring expanse below your small waist.  Too much butt, in your eyes.  You're one of those I-can't-wear-a-bikini women.  How can I teach you how wondrous your lavish bottom looks to me?

Perhaps we can start here, I mused.  Reluctantly, I set your pussy-scented panties aside.  Moving back over to the bed, I helped you lift your middle while I slid two pillows under the latex sheet and positioned them where your upper legs would rest on them, lifting your rear into a provocative pose.  [Place two pillows under the covering on your bed, positioned just as above.    Get the nozzle and lubricant, and place them near where your face will be when you lie back down.  Now, lie, face down, with your thighs supported by the pillows.]

"Umm.  Mary, you look so desirable, bound ass-up like this," I declared.  "So ready.  Let's test, though.  See if you are ready for all that is to come."

"One more touch before we begin," I continued.  I reached down to the toy pile beside the bed.  From it, I retrieved a small piece of latex.  I reached up to your face, caressing your cheek.  I could see the concern in your eyes.  What is this, you were thinking.  Rather than leave you guessing, as I continued stroking your face I announced, "It is a blindfold, dear.  Your vulnerability is so enticing.  But it is not yet complete.  Blindfolded, you will look so incredibly exposed, don't you agree?"

"I really don't want to be blindfolded.  Please don't blindfold me," you pleaded.

"What's this?  No Master?" I challenged.  "Such impudence to use in arguing that I change my mind about your treatment.  This is not likely to go unanswered, Mary.  Remember your position.  You are -- you know -- bound and helpless in my hands."

Ummm, I relish the way you squirm in your bonds at these words.

"I'm . . . Sorry, Master," you answered.  "It's just that I hate being blindfolded."

"I know, darling.  But it is necessary.  It will be good for you.  You'll see.  But you don't have to do it.  We can stop right here if that's what you want.  You know that." 

You knew -- and you understood what would be lost if you decided to quit at that point.  You'd come this far.  No.  You would not turn back.  With no more protest from you, I slid the latex strap over your sweet face, locating the wide part to cover your frightened eyes, and tying the two ends over your curls.

Standing back again to admire the image before me, I was swept up in the beauty of the scene.  "Then let the games begin," I said.  "Now, we need a safe word.  If you say 'Zanzibar,' the play will stop instantly and I'll release you.  However, I must caution that a safe word is not to be used lightly.  Using the safe word is to be a last resort when some distress gets so intense you truly cannot go on.  You understand that unnecessary use of it will bring your training to an abrupt end.  You won't arrive where you want to go.  Courage.  Perseverance.  These are the requisites if you are to reach the high peaks.  Hillary and Tenzig would never have made the top of Everest if the had quit at the first discomfort, Mary."

"I understand, Master."

"Yes, I'm sure you do.  On the surface, at least, you do.  But let us deepen your understanding."

[Act out the following.]

With that, I turned my attention to the alluring curves of your ass cheeks, letting my right hand caress its rounded contours.  You did not see my left hand as it reached for the KY jelly.  You were first aware of it when you felt its cool slipperiness applied to your anal opening.  I rubbed it round and round, lubricating the whole valley between your fine, feminine hips.  I pressed into the opening, exploring your insides with my whole finger.  Wiggling in you.  Loosening you. 

I could feel your beautiful ass open itself to me.  I slid a second finger into you, twisting the two around and around, letting you grow accustomed to the girth boring into your core.  Then a third.  Fucking your ass like you saw me do to Jazmand.  I could tell from your soft moaning that you loved it as much as she did.

Then out!  Nothing inside but yearning where that aching fullness was a moment before.  And not a sound in the room.  Your Master -- tormentor -- lover.  Gone.  And you cannot see where. 

I wondered what you were thinking.  So many conflicting thoughts.  Waiting for . . . for what?  What will come next?  Fear.  Alone here.  Who might see.  Ass cranked up in the air like a mare ready to be mounted.  What's that?  Is that someone moving, somewhere distant, but on the boat.  Could we have been boarded.  What if the Coast Guard were to walk in.  On and on, the thoughts must race.

You are an executive back in the real world.  You give an order, and people jump to your bidding.  You are not untouched by feminist philosophy.  I could imagine the internal dialogue as you lay nude, in bondage, blindfolded, rear end raised into lewd invitation.  I knew, though, that this was what you wished to explore.  As we traveled this road together, I was certain you would enlighten me as much as I would train you.  Together, we would delve into a whole storehouse of volatile issues -- feminism, maleness and male pride, submissiveness, dominance, the mystical way bondage frees, submission empowers and sovereignty enslaves.

I took my time preparing things for the next phase of your training, letting my thoughts danced on in my head.  I wanted you to lay there awhile, blindfolded, nostrils full of the scent of the latex sheet.  I was certain that, when I returned, it wouldn't be visions of sugar plums dancing in your head.

I came back into the stateroom, again letting my eyes feast on the sight of you, bound and ready.  You were shifting, testing your fetters.  I could see from your expression that you were feeling a tumult of emotion.  Fear mingled with anger and self-regard, these were written on your face.  But pride in your performance, and raw lust, they were there too, and they held sway.  This will be a most interesting afternoon, I mused.

"Thanks for waiting for me, Mary," I said, teasing at your emotional limits.  "I've brought something for you.  An ENEMA.  I'm going to feed the ENEMA NOZZLE into your pretty ass now, my pet.  And then I'm going to pump my sweetheart full of steaming, sexy water.

Blindfolded, you had no idea what kind of nozzle, how big a bag.  I was counting on your emotions and fears to amplify reality for me.

[Grab the nozzle end of your enema kit, and put it into your well-oiled rear.  Follow the action below regarding taking and retaining this enema.]

I sat on the bed beside you.  I had to fight the impulse to stretch out and resume our petting and kissing.  This was not the time.  Instead, I guided the business end of the double-enema nozzle retention nozzle to your nether lips, and easily slid its tip inside you.  It took some work to feed in the first retention balloon, even in its present deflated state.  You were not sure what was being done.  You could feel something rubber, the sliding of KY-coated fingers, a twisting motion as I screwed it around to get it into you without its doubling back on itself. 

With patience, the job was done, and your little rosebud well stimulated in the bargain.  I turned the valve on the inflator bulb and gave it three full squeezes, causing the balloon inside your anus to expand to the size of an orange.  I closed the valve on the other inflator, and in likewise fashion, blew up the outer balloon, positioned just outside the delicate folds of your anal opening.  The retention nozzle was now sealing you tightly.  Its inner balloon was pulled against the tense ring of your anal sphincter.  The outer balloon ensured that the inner one couldn't move away from its sealing position.

"Now, sweetie, daddy's put something special in your enema water today,"  I said.  "Something to make his little girl feel better.  Oh don't worry, now, sugar-plum.  It's perfectly legal.  Nothing like that bad boy, Rashad, would play with.  Just a little something to make daddy's sweetheart feel better, that's all.  You'll take it all for daddy, now honey.  And don't let any naughty feelings start up.  If you do anything naughty while daddy's giving you your enema, he'll have to punish his little girl.  And we don't want that, now do we, dearest."

"Unh-uh." you groaned.  "I don't want to be punished."

"Good.  I know my little girl will do just fine."  And with that, I opened the clamp.

I could see you were taut with anticipation.  What was in this water?  How much would I force into your small body?  How would it make you feel?

Two shocks hit you.  First, the water was hot.  Not hot enough to hurt, but sufficient to grab your attention and focus it squarely between your quivering hips.  Second, it was not rushing into you.  The bag, you see, was hung quite low.  This enema was meant to relax your internal organs.  I wanted no cramps to interfere with the slow absorption of the additives in this first cleansing wash.

What additives?  I had dissolved one of your Valiums, and added 3 ounces of vodka.  Since the two are complementary, you would feel quite a kick.  I told you all this.  I also told you that I had added a decoction of psilocybe cubensis mushrooms.  (Warning, reader.  Possession of these psychedelic mushrooms is illegal in all states with the possible exception of Florida, where a ruling by a Federal Judge MAY make simple possession legal, and where there are no state laws governing its possession.)  The psychedelics were not really in the brew.  I would never do such a thing to you without your prior agreement.  I was counting on the placebo effect.  With your nerves as jangled as they were, this enema would be psychologically psychedelic to you, and that would assist in expanding your limits.

I sat and watched as the two-quart bag almost imperceptibly collapsed, its steaming contents migrating slowly into your intestines.

"Mary, darling, daddy wants you to tell him how this feels," I commanded.

"OK, daddy," you answered.  "It feels hot.  The water feels real hot.  It feels kind of good.  Doesn't really hurt yet.  Sometimes it hurts -- when you do this to me, but this one doesn't hurt . . . not yet."

"It hurts when I do what to you, Mary?"

"Sometimes it hurts when you give me enemas, daddy."

"Oh, my sweet little Mary, I don't want to hurt you.  Sometimes, daddy has to do things that don't feel good at first, but its for the best for my little girl.  It's to make her better.  Always remember that, Mary.  Always to make you better."

"You need this, Mary.  You need the enema daddy's giving you.  It's going to make my sweet girl feel so wonderful.  Just give yourself over to the feeling inside.  Let go and feel."

Oh, daddy, I do feel it.  Like I'm starting to float.  Unghhh.  It hurts a little, daddy.

"Now, there, that's daddy's good little girl.  Let me rub your tummy and help you take your enema, sweetie.  There, that's better, isn't it."

"Umm-hum, that's better, daddy.  I like that.  I feel the hot water all inside me now.  It's getting me excited daddy.  Making funny feelings."

SLAP!  I spanked your ass with an open palm.  "Mary, daddy told you not to do naughty things.  You hold that back, darling.  Your time will come, but not now."

Mary, I thought, if you could just see the dance you are doing in your bondage, tummy obscenely swollen, bag emptied into your hot ass, you'd cum on the spot.  But you couldn't see, and so you didn't yet know that you'd taken two quarts.  You'd already managed it without an orgasm.

"Mary, the mushroom soup Master put in your enema, honey.  They're to open your eyes.  They can help you see, even through a blindfold.  Relax, darling.  Just drift in the warmth of the water inside you.  Let all your fears and your tensions go into the water.  Master's going to take care of his little girl.  Really clean her out."

"You can feel your body getting lighter,' I intoned.  "The pressure inside is perfect for you.  You don't want it to go away.  The enema pressure, it makes those sexy feelings.  But you are in charge of them.  You can yield to them, or you can hold them just within reach.  You feel yourself being carried up by the warm waters.  Floating along in bliss.  You are being carried to a high place -- a place that lets you see."

"Relax, my dear daughter.  Relax and give yourself totally to the feeling inside.  You are more relaxed than you've ever been before.  Relaxed and ready to travel.  Let the enema in you carry you to the place of vision . . . the place where you can learn.  And learn from me, my daughter.  Yes.  Give yourself over to the feeling and learn.  Learn to expand.  Learn freedom in bonds.  Learn power in submission.  Learn release through control."

With this gentle, loving patter, I soon had you hypnotized.  These thoughts would remain with you.  You had made wonderful progress.  The look on your face was utterly sublime.  Pleasure beyond pleasure.  You were floating in a sea of love, nurtured inside and out.  I removed your blindfold.  Your eyes were closed and a wondrously placid look was on your face.  For 30 minutes, I let you float along in this trance. 

Then the time came to call you back to the here and now.  "Mary, darling.  You have done very well.  Master is so proud of his little girl.  Now, honey, you will remember all the things you learned from this lesson.  The next time the pressure makes you want to do naughty things, you will be able to resist.  Resist, my darling daughter, till there is no resistance left, and the thing which you need is no longer indecent.  Wait till it is not naughty, but right, perfect, inevitable."

"One more thing, Mary.  After I call you back here, you will continue to be hypnotized.  You will be open to my suggestions, and you will feel the psychedelic effects of this enema for another 8 hours.  You will not remember that I told you to do this.  But, if I say the word Zanzibar to you, the hypnotic episode and psychedelic effect will stop immediately.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master, I understand."

"Excellent.  Now, Mary, when I count to three, you will be awake and fully aware.  You will feel more rested than you have ever felt.  And you will remember all that you have learned while floating with the water.  One . . . Two . . . Three!

Your eyes came open.  With a look of deep, passionate love, you absorbed my presence beside you.

I asked, "How does your enema feel, darling?"

"Wow," you answered, "I've . . . I got.  I don't know how to say it.  It's like I've been floating away on this incredible journey, and all of a sudden, I'm back here.  And the colors in this room -- the sun streaming in -- it's all so beautiful.  I could never have imagined.  Ummmmm.  But I really am full.  I do need to let this out, Master."

"Yes," I said, "I bet you do.  Let's get you to the head."

I released your bonds and helped you to your feet.  I held you to me, your arm over my shoulder, my hand behind your back.  I led you to the Master head.  You minced along, legs wobbly, bent with the weight of the water in your intestines.

It took ten minutes for the low-hung bag to empty itself into your bowels.  You held its charge inside you for another thirty minutes.  By the time the last of this enema is expelled, you will have had it in you for nearly an hour.  And no climax.  Not bad for a first step, I thought.

I eased you onto the toilet seat, then knelt between your spread legs.  I looked deeply into your eyes, and let the passion I saw there stir the coals smoldering in my own loins.  Your lips were parted, begging to be kissed.  I had no choice but to answer their call.  Torrents of water began to splash from you, but our kiss went on, driven like flotsam before the escaping flood.  I held your face to mine, drinking deeply from your mouth, exhalting in all I could sense of you.  I pressed against your turgid tummy, helping you expel the heavy load of water.

I would have had that kiss go on forever.  The intimate sense of sharing such a private thing as enema expulsion -- it was a blow torch intensifying the heat of my desire.  But you emptied so quickly.  All too soon, it was over.  No loss, though.  Now, I can fill you again, I realized.

"Good girl, Mary.  You took your enema so well.  You kept your control all the way through it.  I'm really proud of you.  Now, let's get back to the stateroom.  I'm going to give you another enema.  Four quarts, this time.  And this time, as the last of it goes into you, you will be allowed to climax.  You do want to climax, don't you, darling?"

"Oh, I . . . I rea . . . really do, Master" you stuttered.

I smiled and kissed you gently, reassuring you that I understood your lack of composure.  Folding up a wad of tissue, I lovingly patted your bottom dry, and flushed the mess we'd left in the toilet.  I reluctantly broke away from our hug.  I stood, and took your hand in mine, lifting you up for an encore embrace.  Then, hand in hand, cupping my other hand around your buns,  I led you back to the bed.

[After expelling your first enema fully, prepare the next treatment.  Get an ample supply of petroleum jelly (Vaseline or equal) for this one.  You next enema will be a four-quart filling.  If you own a four-quart bag, great!  Use it.  If you don't, then prepare a standard two-quart bag and another 2 quarts of your solution in a pitcher or gallon water-jug.  You can use the same solution as before, or, if that already got you tipsy, use plain or soda water.  For this enema, use a dildo nozzle if you have such a sexy thing.  If not, c'est dommage.  Use your douche nozzle and liberally coat it with imaginary girth.  Take all your toys back to the covered spot on your bed.  Get back in your rear-raised position and act out the following in as much detail as you can manage.  Where kisses and caresses are concerned, let your fingers do the walking.]

Again, I laid you out face down on the rubber sheet.  I attached your wrists to the headboard restraints and your ankles to the foot-board chains.  You were spread eagle, rear raised over the same pillows as before.   As I pulled back to admire my work, I saw how your most secret flesh was wantonly displayed.  I was so overwhelmed by the sight that I couldn't stay detached.  I knelt between your legs and kissed your most private opening, nestled in the fertile brown valley of your ass.  I lingered, letting my tongue explore you, reveling in the fecund scent left behind by your recent enema.

I drew away from you, and delighted in the enema redolence left on my lips.  In heavy doses, the smell is fetid.  In very light sprinklings, it is like some super-sultry, earthy sachet.  Almost like the womanly scent of pussy.  I had enough on me to be caught just between, and the interplay of the two was maddening.  Your smell on my lips would haunt me as I went to prepare your next enema.

"Mary, darling, I'm going to go get things ready.  I'll soon return with your big enema.  This time, you get four quarts, and you get that enema outfit you picked out at Madame Brighton's.  You remember, the one with the giant dildo-nozzle.  I'm going to fuck you up the ass with that big thing, Mary.  While I'm gone, think about how it will feel, dearest.  More magic mushrooms for Mary, and a big cock-nozzle pumping pleasure into her behind, ass-fucking her sooo deep."

With that, I was gone, leaving you bound and trembling with desire . . . desire tinged with fear of the massive enema to come.  You lay there wondering, would the second phase of this psychedelic expedition be bearable?  The first scene had been such a wondrous experience.  But this was to be double its size.  Double!  And that nozzle.  Sure it looked attractive -- like manhood personified.  But being reamed with it -- having it jamming in and out of your guts -- guts full to bursting with all that water.  You were afraid, and the fear only served to enervate you.  Already, you were wet with anticipation.  It would do no good to plead for mercy from your Master.  Your own fine nectar, dripping down onto the latex sheet, would testify to how much you wanted the treatment.

"Here we are, precious.  Four more quarts of hot enema-water for my pet.  Same mix as last time, only twice as much," I said, enjoying the expression this pronouncement painted on your brow.

I set to work oiling your rear opening.  This time I used Vaseline, scooping a huge glob of it from the giant sized bottle by the bed, and forcing as much as I could into your upturned ass.  A water based lubricant would soon wash away in the flood, and make fucking your ass painful, even dangerous.  Again, I started with a single finger pushing in and out, but I soon opted for two fingers . . . scraping around your buttocks to collect smeared petroleum jelly, then pushing the slippery stuff inside you with a spatula-like motion.  You were grunting and wiggling your pretty butt to get the most of this, making my task the more difficult.  Not to worry, though, I thought.  This way, I can take longer with this delightful task.

With you VERY thoroughly lubricated, and lubricating, I might add, I turned my attention to greasing the nozzle.  I used the liberal coating of Vaseline now smeared all over my right hand to slicken the monster.

"Well, Mary, all loosened up, are we?" I teased.

'Mmmm.  Very loose, Master," you affirmed.

"That's good, honey, because Master has a small problem, and your open ass is just what he needs to solve it.  You see, dear, I need to clean my greasy hand, but I don't want to lay this well-oiled dildo down and get anything messy.  Suppose I just stick it in you and let you hold it for me while I wash up.

"Uh, OK Masaaahhhhrr!" you growled, as the nozzle slammed into your hole, at least 8 inches of it disappearing down your upturned rear.

With the nozzle securely in place, I toweled the bulk of the petroleum jelly off my right hand, eyes riveted on the enticing sight before me.  Your rectum was trying to reject the invader.  Bit by tiny bit, your anal canal was forcing it back out by peristalsis.  The movement -- in little twitches and jerks -- was so sexual.  I felt almost jealous.  I wanted that milking action around my own dripping hardon.  But first things first.

"Thanks for holding the ENEMA penis for me, darling," I said.  "You look so wildly sexy with that big thing slipping back out of you.  But it wouldn't do to let it all the way out, now would it?"

"Nuuh Mas -- tuh, you breathed through quivering lips.

"Let's see how deep it can go, pretty one.  You tell me how it feels, dear."  With that, I pushed it slowly into you.  At least nine inches of the monster sank into your up thrust ass.

"Ough.  It feels . . . It feels BIG . . . Hitting meoughhhh! . . . Way up inside."

"Let's see if some water will help you take more, honey.  Spiked water to heat you from the inside out."  That said, I snapped open the clamp.  The bag was hung a bit higher this time, and the rush of hot water so far up in your bowels brought an immediate, deep sigh from you.  "Remember to tell me the feelings, sweetie."

"Oooooohhhhh, I don't know what to say.  Its hhhhhot.  Way up in me.  And I . . . Feeeeeeel the push of that dildo hitting the . . . Baaaaaaack of my anal canal.  I . . . Loooooooove this feeling," you breathed, punctuating each downward stroke with an earthy moan.

"Good, darling.  Hold that thought as the pressure builds.  And you are not to climax until I tell you.  When you finally cum, it's going to be more glorious than any orgasm you've ever had.  Better than any you've even imagined."

"Ummmmmmm!  Oh it feels pretty . . . Fuuuuuull now.  I'm getting so . . . Fuuuuuuull.  Umah!  I feel it stuffing . . . Myyyyyyyyy right side now."

"Good girl.  You take it all for your Master.  You submit your lovely derriere for my delight, and you'll get pleasure back a hundred fold."

"Oooh Mmmaster!  It . . . Preeeeeeeessure.  Soooo much.  I . . . I think I'm . . . I'm . . . "

NO!  Mary, Don't let it make you orgasm.  Use the control you learned.  Open your insides.  Concentrate, my darling.  Let the water push up into your small intestine.  It will all fit, and you'll be so delightfully distended.  You'll look so pregnant.  Have you ever been pregnant Mary?"

"Yessssss Mastah.  I-gah . . . I huh . . . Have . . . Please? . . . Soooooo heavy! . . . No moooo! . . . No! . . . More! . . . Moooooar! . . . Huunh! . . . Ooooohhhh, just -- fill me.  Give it to meeeeeeeee Mastaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh."

"That's my love, take it all, honey.  Yes, you've got it.  Look at your belly bulging.  Hold it for me."

"Moooah . . . Meual . . . Meual . . . Meual . . . Nahhhh!" you mewled in panting breaths as the feeling of the gallon enema took you totally into its grasp.

"Oh, such a pretty, perfect girl.  That's my darling.  So submissive.  So powerful.  You've got it all in you now.  I'm pushing this big dick up your asshole, Mary.  The cock that pumped all this psychedelic pee into your bowels.  Now give yourself to it.  Let it FUCK you up your HOT ASS, girl"

You began to move your rear on the impaling monster.

"Feel every subtle part of its texture.  Now stretch your vision, darling.  Feel the heat of my love coming through it, pouring into you.  I'm topping you off, dear.  Fuck yourself on this nozzle just like I want to fuck your ass right now."

You bucked back against the dildo, swallowing most of its massive length, then forward and back, fucking yourself with abandon, mewling and scratching the latex sheets.  Wave after wave of spastic tension rippled through your abdominal muscles.  The cry you let out was pure ecstasy expressed, wailing on and on.  Now high and plaintive, expressing the pain of all existence, now low and throaty as life in you regrouped for another assault on the peak. 

How long you went, I cannot say, for I too was transported into the deeper reality of the fantasy we were living.  I had not touched my cock, but your unrestrained orgasmic dance had.  Surge after surge of hot, sticky cum was pouring from me.  I rose and pushed my spurting cock at your lips, feeding it to you, and you lapped it up -- sweet, warm milk for a hungry kitten.

As you continued to suck on me, I slid my head under your body, held above the bed by the pillows under your thighs.  I found your waiting sex with my lips.  You were so sopping, fragrant, special smell that only comes with cums.  Wondrous.  It picked me up, digging into you and working your sex for more, a man possessed.  My hand was on the big nozzle, fucking madly into your ass with it.  It felt like I could pump your incredible orgasmic nectar from your cunt into my thirsty throat, and I drank of you as if my very life depended on your abundance.  I had to have more and more.  All of you.  And give all of me to you.  Pouring out more cum into your sucking lips.  Wonder and joy.  Where is it all coming from.  That miracle place of the endless supply.

We rocked along in this glorious 69 for ages, eons.  Over time, the flood of our juices began to subside.  Still, we clung, locked together, full of each other, bodies twitching in fabulous aftershocks.

Was it days, weeks, months?  When we finally separated, the clock testified that it had been only 1 hour and 10 minutes since your gallon enema began.  The clock must have been wrong.  Surely, the hidden powers of the Bermuda Triangle had taken us to some timeless place where two lovers can exist in eternal embrace.  But here we were, back on earth now, and you with this 7 months pregnant look.  Back on the time line, and it was time for you to let go of the enormous pressure within your bowels. 

[Be careful as you get up to let out this enema.  Don't bend too tightly at the middle.  Don't make any sudden moves.  Don't put any pressure on your bloated tummy.  And most of all, hold tight.  Don't make a mess.  If you do have an accident, remember who the Master will have clean it up. <loving smile> ]

I slid from under your sweating body, and gently helped you to your feet.  I held the bag in one hand, and cupped your buttocks with the other, holding them together around the big nozzle.  Only its girth could hold back the flood within.  Thus corked, I helped you hobble to the head.

"That was the most incredible, wondrous, sexual experience I've ever had," I told you.  You were too full to answer, nearly nauseous from the pressure in your bowels.  She really opened herself to me, I thought.  But can I open myself to her.  What if I show her all that I am?  Will she respect me in the morning?

Chapitre 13

Monday we had spent in training and play, anchored off West End at the Western tip of Grand Bahama Island.  Tuesday, we took the launch to shore and enjoyed the sights and sounds.  That afternoon, we weighed anchor and turned West for a return to the mainland and all the clouded threats brooding there.  The past two days had been blissful, leaving us both in an exuberant frame of mind.  There was a distinct sobering of our mood as we swung back toward the USA and its dangers. 

We had been in touch with Jazmand in New Smyrna Beach.  Her trip had gone well.  She had an offer on her condo -- almost $10,000 more than the Real Estate saleslady had suggested she ask.  She had only to await financing approval, a thing virtually assured by the buyer's net worth.  Better still, Jaz had heard not a peep from Rashad.  It seemed our disappearing act in Miami had sufficiently derailed his tracking efforts. 

After tying up the few remaining details for the sale of her house, Jaz was set to catch a return flight to Miami Wednesday morning.  However, in our last telephone contact, I suggested she revise her plans.  Daytona is about 200 miles from Grand Bahama.  WaterWay could cruise the distance easily in 8 hours.  Leaving Tuesday afternoon as we were, we would make the last leg of the journey, near the Florida coast, under cover of dark.  We'd be in Daytona around midnight.  I arranged for Jaz to meet us at Daytona Marina and Boat Works, knowing that their facilities are open 24 hours a day.  We'd depart again after collecting our friend, and anchor of shore for the night.  No need to make things too simple for our would-be stalker, Rashad.

By 1 AM Thursday morning, we were at anchor and bedding down for the night.  Even though this was a reunion, we were all too tired to do anything more than immediately turn in. 

Despite the late-night activities, we were back up shortly after daybreak.  Over breakfast, prepared for us by Jaz as a welcome back, we discussed the day's plans.  We had much to talk about, most of it deadly serious.  We would need to engage Rashad soon -- steering him toward our trap.  The planning was intensive, and soaked up our attention for most of two hours.  Still, through its distraction, Jaz was perceptive enough to notice a change in the way you and I were treating each other. 

"Y'all seem so close now," she said wistfully during one of the lulls in the Rashad planning session.  "What happened while I was away?  You must have gone a step or two more with Mary's training.  Damn, wish I'd been there.  But I had to be off making a lousy 20 grand selling my condo.  Can't fate be cruel?"

We promised that, as time permitted, we'd tell her all about what we'd done.  On the surface, this seemed to placate her.  But there was an undercurrent of change in Jazmand that left me disquieted.  Is she jealous?  I wondered.  Does she really love me, or maybe you, or our triangle?  Is it more than just the good times I provide?  Will the newborn closeness between Mary and me threaten the teamwork the three of us need to handle Banton?  Important questions as we set sail toward a potential showdown with so dangerous an adversary.  Important -- and difficult to answer.  Perhaps, like my previous concerns, only time would tell.  But such worries will have to wait a time when I can afford them more thought.

During our on route conference, here's the plan we hatched.  We wouldn't go straight back to Miami.  Too dangerous.  A call to our private detective, Bob Templeton, confirmed that Rashad was still there, apparently searching for our trail.  Templeton's men had overheard him making inquiries at the Alexander and the cab company.  Fortunately, our cab swap had worked.  He'd bought tickets for Daytona beach -- leaving this afternoon.  He'd been able to track Jaz, who stayed in the original car, but not us.  That being the case, he probably knew nothing of the boat.  My hope was that he would concentrate on chasing his target, Jazmand.  If he did, that would leave the two of us relatively free to move about, separate of Jaz.  We could do the work needed to set the trap without too much concern about being kidnapped or killed in the process.  With due diligence to ensure her safety, we could even let Jaz act as a decoy, keeping him hopping about and out of our hair while we engineered a snare for him.

So if not Miami, where.  Surely, Rashad would soon learn if we went back to Key West.  Bimini Island, just 48 miles east of Miami, made best sense, I thought.  Reasonably close, yet thoroughly isolated from the mainland's activities.  Its harbor would make a great base of operation, at least until such time as Banton might discover my purchase of WaterWay.  That was something to consider.  If he did learn of the boat, he could easily have all ports watched for her distinctive appearance.  I should find . . . What do the spies call it? . . . A safe-house.  Also, I should plan what to do with WaterWay while ashore perusing Rashad.

That decided, we began a leisurely trip from Daytona to Bimini.  Around noon, we anchored offshore of Fort Pierce, FL for a swim and then some lunch.  We used the time to lay plans and make contact with the people we'd need to implement them.  I called Harvey Stone, a friend in Real Estate, and asked him to lease a suburban Miami furnished house for me.  I gave him specifications -- three bedrooms and three baths, lots of privacy, maybe a fenced yard, in a low traffic area, quiet.  He went right to work.

Next, I checked in with Tony Rueger.  "Tony, this is Jim West."

"Hi Jim,"  Tony replied.  "Checking in for an update?"

"Right.  I picked up the new boat, and we've been on a shakedown cruise," I said.  "Now it's time to get back to business.  How's it been going?"

"Well, it's like Templeton told you earlier," Tony answered.  "He's gathered a good deal of information on Rashad, but none conclusively linking him to actual crimes.  Most of what he has is hearsay.  What we've been able to trace goes right back to Banton's own mouth.  Of course, given the fact you want our investigation to be covert, I didn't expect this to be a cakewalk."

"Tony," I suggested, "maybe we could check into the car the police recovered -- the one the shooter used.  It was stolen, according to Detective Johnston of the Key West Police.  You tell me.  Would grand theft auto be a start, or is just a ticket to pass through Florida's revolving prison door?"

"Well," Tony mused, "It's worth checking.  GTA doesn't do much in-and-of itself.  But it might just lead to something bigger."

I gave Tony the details on the car.  He indicated he'd follow it up.  I also asked him about some top-notch protection for Jazmand.  "Tony," I insisted, "I'm not just looking for muscle.  Jaz needs to be able to move around without Rashad having the faintest idea she's got any company.  We know now that Mr. Banton will be watching.  I don't just need some fighters.  I need some stealth fighters."

Tony chuckled at the metaphor, then said, "I've got just the security service for it, Jim.  I'll get it lined up.  You just let me know when and where Jazmand will arrive, and I'll take it from there."

Next, I checked in with Detective Johnston in Key West.  His typical "Johnston here," boomed through the ship's phone as if he were shouting in my ear.

"Detective Johnston," I said, my voice rising in response to his, "this is Jim West.  I've been out to sea giving my new boat a shakedown, and I thought I'd better call in.  Is there any news about the guy that shot at my house?"

"Yeah, West, I was just about to call you," he continued.  "Preliminary reports on the slug in your door frame are consistent with an Uzi.  Of course, it'll probably be six weeks or so before we have a positive ID on it from the lab.  Those boys only move fast for coffee and donuts, you know.  Ha, ha! . . . Ha, Ha, Ha!"

I was thinking I wouldn't have to work hard to dislike this man.  The next thing he said cinched that position.  "West, we need you in here.  Can you drop in this afternoon some time?  Got some things we're concerned about."

"Can't we cover it by phone?" I pleaded.  "I'm still at sea about 300 miles North of you.  And I've got some other business that I really must tend to."

"Look, West!  The phone won't do," he thundered.  "We have reason to believe you're running your own investigation.  You stay out of police business, West, if you know what's good for you.  Don't you think you're in enough trouble already with this hit man using your girlfriends for target practice?  You be in here no later than tomorrow!  You hear me?"

"Detective," I said, "We're not the criminals in this, we're the victims.  If you have charges to bring against me or my friends, then issue a warrant.  I'm out of town for now.  Until you catch the people in Key West that shot at us, we have good reasons to stay that way.  Good day."  I hung up before he had a chance to launch a rebuttal.

Great!  With everything else we have to worry about, now this guy Johnston wants to clip our wings,  I thought.  And how did he find out about our 'investigation'?  How should we deal with him?

I called Tony again, and told him about the exchange with Johnston.  I asked him to have his detectives discretely look into how the Key West police learned about our investigation, and just how much they knew.  If too much, we might have to pull the plug on the whole operation.  If just a little, maybe we could redirect their understanding of our activities onto a dead-end road.  Tony understood perfectly, and went right into action on it.

Oh well, I thought, when you don't know why you ought to turn back, press on.

Press on we did -- to Bimini harbor.  The Biminis -- rich, slightly fetid odor of human activity in all its decadent wonder. These tiny Islands were as much a Mecca of life in the vast Atlantic as is an oasis a Mecca of life lost in the sandy dryness of the Sahara.  We anchored close by North Bimini's sedate, rustic beauty.  We were close enough to Alice Town.  We could easily go ashore if the need arose.

We did not go ashore, though.  There was much to do without looking for mindless activities.  Once relieved of sailor's duties, we immediately set to work planning our surprise for Rashad.  We would need a building to serve as the secret society's training center.  The center would require outfitting, something Madame Brighton could handle for us.  As we talked about these things, we soon realized that we needed names for our center, our secret society, and the overall operation.  We settled on Operation Resupination because it was unique enough to avoid confusion, sounded a bit like Rashad, and described just what we were planning to do to him.  Also, it held a hidden reference to the orchid, that flower that, to me, represented Jazmand's feminine folds, and which seemed to be a recurrent theme in our relationship with her.  That suggested to us the next name.  We would call the Secret Society The Orchid Management Society.  We were betting Rashad wouldn't connect the name to orchid's Greek root, orkhis, testicle -- orchid (from the slope of its root).  In its first action, the Orchid Management Society would bring his run-away testosterone production under control.

We thought about putting the Real Estate office on the search for a building for OMS, but decided the job deserved our personal attention.  We'd start as soon as it was safe to move about in Miami.  Since Operation Resupination would be carried out in the OMS building, we decided to give its central chamber the cryptic nickname of The OR Room.  Rashad would assume that it was meant to conjure up images of an operating room, and that thought wouldn't be too far from the truth.

Which brought up the next item.  How would we get Rashad out of Miami for a time?  The way we'd left it with Tony Rueger, we would meet him and his protection people somewhere in Miami.  I reasoned that our Hatteras dealer's marina would be safe.  Rashad hadn't discovered that I owned WaterWay.  Even if he did, it would take him some time to track back from where I took delivery to where I bought her.  So Allied it would be.  I phoned Tony and made arrangements to meet there.  He would have the protection service with him.  We'd have Jaz well disguised, and the protection guys would drive her back to Key West.  Once there, she would set up very visible housekeeping in my estate.  We'd just wait for Rashad to discover her whereabouts and head South from Miami.  When Templeton reported Rashad leaving Miami, we'd have her return North the same way she left -- disguised and with the muscle boys in attendance.  She could even wave to Rashad as they passed on the causeway and he'd never be the wiser.  This little ruse should buy us several days at the least while our Jamaican sleuth scoured Key West for his target lady.  It's easy to find something that is there.  It can take forever to realize that you're looking for something that isn't there.

Next, the writing of the disciple's handbook.  I won't spoil the revelations to come by telling you now what it said.  Just know that, over the next two days, we wrote it . . . and that doing so was a source of much fun.  If Operation Resupination goes well, Mr. Banton will be a position to describe its contents firsthand.  These kinds of things are always more interesting from a first-person viewpoint, don't you think?

By Friday evening, all was in place to head into Miami and harm's way.  Rashad had not returned from Daytona.  He hadn't been able to track Jaz back from there.  He was stuck looking for someone who isn't there.  This would be a good test of how long he'd look before giving up, and where he'd head once he became discouraged.  With Templeton secretly following him, we'd know the minute he despaired of the hunt.  Bob reported that Rashad had discovered Jazmand's reservation for a Wednesday morning flight to Miami, and that he also knew she had canceled the booking.  It might not be too long before he'd deduce that she'd gone South by some other means, and hop back to Miami.

With Banton safely detained 270 miles away, we set out on the two hour trip to Miami Saturday morning.  Jaz, who had been so bright and alive throughout the planning sessions and the writing of the OMS handbook, now fell into a funk bluer than the Gulf Stream waters.  You tried to minister to her, hugging her to you and assuring her she'd be safe through the whole operation.

"Yeah," she murmured.  "The plan's solid enough.  I know I'll be OK."

"Well," you said, "you look awfully depressed."

"Umm."

"Come on, honey," you continued.  "You know how much I love you.  I can't let you leave us in Miami if you're going to be like this.  We'll get tickets to go skiing or something."

You were teasing with her, trying to cheer her up.  It didn't work.  Jazmand buried her head in your bosom and began to sob.  You hugged her tightly, soothing her hair back, shushing her like a loving mother.  When her emotion was spent, you gently whispered, "Jazmand, darling, you're not shut out  I love you.  Jim loves you.  As long as you'll have us, we'll be here for you.  The only thing that's changed is me.  I'm more a part of the three of us now."

Jaz wrapped her arms around you and kissed you deeply, pouring her fears into the passion of her embrace.  Fears of losing you.  Fears of loosing me.  Fears of facing Rashad.  So much going on.  Such a kiss going on.  Jaz pulling you into her tear-wet embrace.  It started as tenderness expressed.  It turned to need.  I saw your knees begin to buckle  -- you falling back into your chair at the planning table . . . Jaz down in your lap, kissing, touching all over.  It had been one week . . . She needed to know . . . Would the magic still be there.  And I was at her rear, kissing, tasting, assuring her in the most intimate way I know that she is precious to me.  But we were nearing port.  The embrace, fueling the fires within the three of us, would have to be a harbinger.  It could herald things to come, but things in the uncertain future, not things of this day.  In this day, in the next few minutes of this day, we would meet Tony and his Protection Agency guys for lunch. 

Just before pulling into the Allied dock, we got a call from Templeton.  Rashad had apparently decided that Jazmand must be back in Miami, and he was at the airport waiting for the next flight.  He'd be in Miami in less than three hours.  And Templeton would be on the same plane.  The timing should work well.  By the time Banton left the Miami airport, Jaz and her guards would be well along the way to Key West.  We tied up and headed to our lunch meeting.

Over sandwiches and beer, we explained the plans.  Lunch was all pleasantry and enthusiasm for the fun of the hunt.  Parting was another matter.  Knowing how distraught Jazmand was, how needful of our love, delivering her into the hands of the protection service, however competent they might be, was painful to us both.  But we screwed up our courage and went ahead with the necessary action.  The most difficult moment was when Jazmand rose from the table to leave with Bert Rankin and the men.  She was near tears.  She kissed me, then you -- not the embrace of a departing friend but the open-mouth kiss of a lover.  There was an undercurrent of interest in the restaurant at two women behaving so, one of them white and the other of uncertain racial background.  Despite being overrun with Yankees, the Old South is not totally gone from Florida's sunny shores.  However, propriety was not the center of our attention at this parting.  You and I, and Jazmand I'm sure, were busy avoiding a public outburst of tears.  In the end, the need for decorum prevailed.  With a will of steel, you tore yourself from her clinging arms.  You mumbled a few words of well wishing, lost in the background noise of the restaurant and your choked-back emotion.  And she was gone, off to her adventure in Key West

We were off to our tasks in Miami.  Once clear of the charged atmosphere of our parting with Jazmand, the day seemed to brighten visibly.  The sun, having scaled the craggy summit of an Atlantic cloud bank, was now bringing its cheerful heat to South Florida, as if Miami needed the thermostat turned up.  We caught a ride with Tony as far as the Realty Office.  Harvey Stone, my Realtor friend, had three possibilities for a safe house.  He took us to see the first.  It met all our criteria for accommodations, space and so forth, but it wasn't secluded, not the way we wanted our base to be.  Coming and going would be quite public.  The second house was worse than the first. 

I was beginning to wonder if I'd made a mistake in trusting this project to Harvey.  After all, there was little in it for him, financially.  He knew we also wanted a building, and that I'd probably buy that.  That was probably the only reason he'd become involved in showing lease property, bypassing the rental department of his firm.  I was hoping that the old third-time-is-a-charm saying would prove true.  It did.  Our last stop was love at first sight.  It could hardly have been better if we'd designed it using a magic wand. 

The house had the airy, open look of a California beach home in the Malibu hills.  The furnishings were modern, tasteful and all looked new.  Everything was done in eggshell and cream with accents of bright color in throw pillows, area rugs including one exquisite Oriental in the living room, and wall art of various types.  The front entry and living room was all glass.  Through its open view, the red of bougainvilleas painted the white of the front fence and lent a warm glow to inside the house, even reflecting off the high, cathedral ceilings.  But privacy was equally ensured by that red bastion, standing guard along the front of the property like a line of Royal Guards at Buckingham Palace.  And the fence's height, equal to that of the plume on a tall soldier's helmet, made the barrier a much better defender against prying eyes than soldiers would have been.

There were three large bedrooms, each with its own attached bath, and a fourth, very generous communal-bath in the hall.  These things are important to the three of us.  I thought the bidet in the master bath was a particularly nice touch. 

The kitchen, all white with large, Italian ceramic-tile, was another delightful plus for this house.  The cooking surface and built in microwave/convection ovens were in a maple-butcher-block island in the center of the room.  The kitchen was spacious and not, like so many houses, cheated of windows.  There was a huge expanse of glass, looking out into the back yard. 

And that back yard provided an exquisite view.  It was full of fruit trees, citrus, palms, and even a collection of hardy orchids and elkhorn fern perched in the fish-scale bark of the large palms.  The taller palms and one huge live oak added a rustic touch -- their generous beards of Spanish moss swaying lightly in the breeze.  The centerpiece of the yard was a large pool and hot tub.  Of course, because of the pool and more importantly, the hot tub, there was a high, redwood privacy-fence around the entire area.  An unusual and very useful feature was the rear drive and entry to the attached garage.  A motorized gate in the fence allowed automobile access to the back of the house from an alley running behind the property.  Our goings and comings could be quite private if we went through this fence and overgrown, vine protected alley.

We thanked Harvey profusely, him standing back grinning.  The sly fox had known all along this was the place.  He'd only been playing with us when he took us to the first two, close enough to spec. to support the joke, but certainly nothing to compare to this house. 

Harv gave us a lift to National Rental Cars, where we would pick up a Mustang convertible for our stay.  On the way, I gave him our requirements for the OMS building.  You were amazed at his dead-pan response as I detailed our needs for restroom facilities, soundproof walls, veiled access and the like.  I hadn't told you that, like Tony Rueger, Harvey is a friend I met through my activities in the Miami D/s lifestyle.  He knew exactly why I wanted such a building.  He was more than happy to help us find it.  If we ever opened it to the public, Harvey would be standing at the head of the line, waiting to get in and have a stern Mistress train him.

As we completed the picture of our desired building, Harvey was going through his mental list of commercial property, drawing a blank.  When I was done, he said, "Jim, I don't have anything listed, but I think I know where the ideal building is.  I'll go see if the owner is interested in selling it.  I should be able to let you know something in a day or two, assuming the owners are in town."

Harvey dropped us off at the National Car Rental office, him with his marching orders for the OMS building, and us with ours.  We picked up the car and headed immediately for our new base in Miami.  It would need a name.  I jokingly suggested Bougainvillea Flats.  You picked up on that, and offered The Orchid House as a more manageable alternative.  And so it became -- The Orchid House, our first stop in the rental car.

There was much to do.  We had a furnished home, but there were still many things needed before it would be livable.  You began making a list of supplies.  We had another Miami shopping spree ahead of us today.  Not like the last one.  No nearly so much fun.  There were all the essentials to get.  Things to fill all these bare cupboards.  But there is a fun in doing so, like kids playing house -- a sense of all the potentials of a new start. 

We also paid a visit to Madame Brighton.  We had a delightful time there, catching up on her affairs and bringing her into our conspiracy to derail Jazmand's stalker.  I left her with a long list of items we would need for the OMS building.  She was utterly taken up by the project, and promised she would, to the degree we let her, take a very personal interest in all that we did.

On the erotic side, you might think that Madame Brightons' shop would have been the zenith for this day.  An exhausting day of chores followed.  K-Marts are not nearly as much fun as sex marts.  Yet there is that jollity of debating what color this, what size that, what's needed, what would just sit on an unvisited shelf -- life's little decisions and arguments over them.  It's the stuff that reminds you there is ground to walk on.  Still, so much flat earth left me eager to once more take you up the heights of ecstasy.  Had I not spent the later part of our shopping travels teasing and flirting with you?  I love that growing sense of anticipation that such flirtatiousness produces.  It's like the lowering skies before an approaching hurricane.  The gentle, slowly building wind seems to be saying to the coconut palm, "Hang onto your nuts, honey.  This ain't going to be no ordinary blow job."

The BJ alert seemed to settle into both of us.  After our day's errands, we still had the domestic chores to discharge -- opening our packages and storing all the booty -- preparing dinner -- washing the dishes.  But through all this activity ran an undercurrent of sensual flirtation.  As we washed the dinner dishes, even the slightest brush against your skin sent bolts of charged energy racing through me.  From the way you stiffened at my touch, I sensed that the same was true for you.

In a half-hour stint watching CNN, we caught up on world events.  Even the murders and mayhem of the evening news could not dampen our growing passion.  Turning of the TV on the way out, we headed, hand-in-hand, for the bedroom.  I thought we should christen our new bed with a night of burning Vanilla loving.  No fancy toys or involved B&D scenes, just a man and a woman coming together in the timeless dance of inner need.  But we ought to call Jazmand first and see how her first day in Key West had gone.

We had spent but a few moments discussing our mutual love, pondering the depth of her emotion and her discomfiture at our parting, when our conference was interrupted by the jangle of the phone.

Jazmand's breathy voice came through the speaker phone, small, a bit strained, "Master, Mistress Mary, I miss the two of you so much."

"I miss you very much, Jaz," you replied.  "We were just talking about you."  I could see the emotion well up, a veil of wetness covering your eyes.  You continued, "Letting you go South without us after that last kiss, Oh Jazmand, it really hurt."

"Hi Jaz," I said.  I miss you too.  We were just planning what to talk to you about, then we were going to call you," Then, remembering the difficulties she was facing, I added, "How's it going down there?"

"OK, I guess . . . Oh, Terrible! . . . I just don't know.  I need you two so much.  It's all I can think about.  But there is news.  That detective came by."

"Johnston?" I said, a clear note of dislike permeating my one word.

"Yeah, Johnston," Jaz replied, echoing my displeasure.

"Well, that must have been high fun!" I said sarcastically.  "What happened?  What's he like?"

"What's he like?  Did you ever see Nightmare on Elm Street?" she asked.  I knew she was trying to break the tension, and gave her the needed laugh to show she'd done it.  "No, seriously," she continued, "He's a big, fat, loud man.  Overbearing, if I had to put it in one word.  He looks like a guy who had a long, muscular neck once upon a time, but it melted.  His shirt collars are so tight it couldn't run down, so it forced out into his chin.  Now his head just balances on all those chins.  You know, more chins than a Chinese phone book.

"In other words, you don't like him either," you interpreted.

"Not after today," Jaz replied.  "He asked me all sorts of questions about the two of you.  And he went into detail about my past.  Seems he knows a lot about me.  He thinks I'm bringing you my trouble, and that's what really hurt.  He's right."

"Now Jazmand Antoine, you cut that out," I ordered.  "If I'm going to be your Master, then you WILL do exactly as I tell you.  No crying about the trouble you bring.  I know the cost of loving you, and I already determined to pay it.  The subject is CLOSED!  Understand?"

Humbly, "Yes Master."

"The same goes for me, Jazmand," you sternly added.

More quietly, "Yes Mistress.  But Mistress . . . Master . . . Could I just ask one dispensation?

I answered, "What is it you desire, Jazmand?"

"Oh Master, please . . . Please use me.  Do it over the phone.  Make me do something . . . Something painful . . . Maybe a big, big enema . . . I need you to . . . To hurt me! . . . Help me! . . . Master -- Mistress, please help me." 

The plaintive tone of Jazmand's breathy plea left no doubt of her seriousness.  I knew we would have to do something, but I needed time to organize a plan.  At that moment, I realized the difficult job faced by phone Dommes.  Phone sex was not a task I was accustomed to doing.  Also, unlike the professionals, I had no waiting script to unfold.

"Hurt you, Jazmand?" I asked.  Surely, you've heard the SM joke.  The masochist says, 'Hurt me, hurt me.'  And the sadist answers, 'NO!'  No, Jazmand, I won't order you to hurt yourself.  Nor will Mary.  We will take care of you, though.  You are our Precious Jazmand.  We will give you more than you need, more than you even think to ask."

"Oh Master," Jaz purred, "I can't tell you how tingly it makes me feel, hearing you say that.  Please . . . Please do."

"Oh, I will, little one.  I will," I promised.  I was buying time as a plan of action crystalized in my brain.  I needed all the details on Detective Johnston's visit, but that could wait.  However much the idea appealed to me, I had turned down her request for a large enema because I didn't wish to do something like that without being there to intervene if things went wrong.  Too dangerous.  We'd need something safe, yet extreme even for a seasoned submissive like Jaz.  I sensed Jaz's need to push beyond her normal limits.  I knew she had an urgent compulsion to feel the powerful connection of D/s tonight.  When a dominant and submissive really connect, it is nothing short of religious ecstasy.  That's what our love needed from us.  And there was an area I felt Jaz wanted to explore.  It was replete with forceful submission and humiliation.  It might do perfectly.

"Where are you, Jazmand?" I asked.

"In the guest bedroom," she replied.

"And where are the bodyguards?" I went on.

"One's in the living room, and the other two have set up sleeping quarters in the game room," she said.  "They're taking shifts."

"Perfect," I responded, "What are you wearing?"

My silver-white nightgown.  That's all.

"OK," I commanded, "Now here's what I want you to do.  Take off your nightgown.  I want you to wear only your clear latex skirt and your black latex underbra, the one that just pushes your breasts up, but leaves them open.  Got it?"

"Yes, Master.  I'm changing now."  We could hear the sounds as she shuffled through drawers.

"I'm done, Master," she proudly pronounced.

"Good," I said.  "Now baby, I want you to get your enema bag.  What did you have for dinner?"

More shuffling sounds through her speaker phone, as she answered from a distance, "Nothing.  I didn't feel like eating. 

"So much the better," I cryptically replied.  "Tell me when you've got the enema syringe."

"'OK, I've got it," she quickly confirmed.

"Good girl," I praised.  "Now, put it in your overnight bag.  Slip on your robe, and go get two beers from the refrigerator.  It isn't usually good practice, I thought, to mix alcohol with S/m play, but tonight I have a reason.  I'll just have to be doubly careful with her.  "Before you leave, I want you to hang up here," I said.  "When you get the beer, take it and your bag to the Master bedroom, and call me from the speaker phone in the master bath.  The number here is" . . . and I gave her the number.  "OK?"

After having written it down, Jaz correctly repeated the number.  "OK, Master," she confirmed.  "I'll call you in just a few minutes.

The brief intermission gave us only time to settle onto the big bed.  We had no more than laid down when our phone rang.  Jazmand's sultry voice, now charged with sensual desire, came through the speaker, "Master, Mistress, are you there?  I'm ready."

"We're ready here, honey," you breathed back to her.  The electric charge of the moment suffused your words with sexual energy.

"Jaz," I said, "There's some candles and candle sticks in the top drawer to the right of the bathroom sink.  Take all the candle sticks out, put a black taper in each and position them in safe places, all around the room.  You'll be playing in the whirlpool tub and on the toilet, so make sure there are none too close to those points.  When you have them all in place, light them with the lighter at the back of the drawer, then let me know you're set."

We could hear her bustling about, carrying out her assigned tasks.  It took a bit, but she soon reported, "I'm finished, Master."

"Good girl.  OK, Jaz, as we go through this, I don't want you to take any action until you ask and receive permission.  Don't even burp without begging to do so.  Is that clear?

"Yes.  Clear, Master.  I'll ask permission.  Even my body functions are yours to control."

"Excellent.  You are quick on the uptake tonight, dear," I praised.  "Now get a beer and drink as much as you can comfortably take in one sip."  Gentle gulping sounds confirmed this was being done.  "Mmmmm.  I've done that, Master."

"Great.  How much did you drink?" I asked.

"Oh, maybe half a can," Jaz replied.  "I feel like I need to burp.  May I burp, Master?"

"No, Jazmand, not now," I dissented.  "First, finish the rest of the beer."  I knew Jazmand hadn't been a chug-a-lug partier in school.  Downing a can in two goes would be a strain for her.  The fact that she needed to belch would only make the second assault more difficult.  I wanted to stress her control of bodily functions, and this exercise would set that stage.

Her second draught took much longer.  We could hear the uneven swallows.  Even by speaker phone, there was a palpable sense of the struggle she was fighting with her rebellious body.  But, in the end, willpower triumphed over visceral reactions, and Jazmand said in a halting voice, "I di -- id it."  Her breathy tone was now distorted as by the sound of beer still bubbling in her throat.

"OK, very good girl," I commended.  I always call Jaz girl when in a session.  I know how it piques her feminist feelings.  And she knows I do it deliberately, not from any chauvinistic misapprehension that females remain perpetual children, but for dramatic effect in the scene we play.  After a suitable delay, I gave Jaz her much needed relief, "All right dear, you may burp."

Through the speaker phone, we heard a loud and bubbly, belching blast, followed by several less dramatic bursts of gas.  Then, "Thank you, Master."  And her unusually breathy voice left no doubt her discharge had eased some serious discomfort.

"I'm very proud of you for having been able to control your body under such stress, girl," I chuckled.  Jazmand, too, was giggling at herself in the face of her very unladylike eruption.  I told Jaz, "You deserve another beer for that performance.  Have it now.  You may take your time drinking this one."

"Yes, Master," she intoned.  There were several sessions of swallowing sounds.  Jazmand's not a heavy drinker.  So much so quickly was taxing her capacity.  I could guess she was beginning to feel a bit light headed.  Her inhibitions would be hibernating.  This was the one-two punch I was looking for, control of visceral reactions and loss of inhibitions.

Now I needed to buy time while the beer made its rapid trip through Jazmand's entrails.  "Jaz, sweet salve," I ordered, go kneel before the full-length mirror opposite the sink."

"Yes, master."

"Now, slave," I continued, "lick your fingers, both hands, and tease your nipples till they are standing straight out.  Get your breasts and even that latex push-up bra all wet with your saliva."

"Ummmm.  Un-huh.  They're standing out like little dicks, Master."

"Wonderful.  Good slave.  I want you looking so slutty you totally seduce yourself tonight, pretty girl.  You keep your sexy tits wet and tight all through this session, OK?"

"Oh Yesssss, Master.  I will."

"Jazmand?"

"Yes, Master."

"Those fingers that were just working the flesh of your breasts.  How do they smell?"

Deep intake of breath.  "Hummmm.  A little like beer, Master."

"Ah!  That will never do.  You need some personal perfume on those pert nipples.  Lick your right hand till it's all sloppy wet.  Now lift your latex skirt, spread your knees apart, and slide your fingers around in your sweet pussy-slit, slave.  Are you getting wet?"

"I've been soaking for the the last hour, Master, ever since I first thought of calling you.

"Great.  Then slide your fingers right up into your vagina and get some of the fresh perfume from way up inside your precious body."

"Ohhhhna!  It feels so wonderful.  All slippery.  Can I masturbate, Master?"

Not, now, Jazmand.  But put as many fingers up your cunt as you can fit, and force them real deep, hon.  Get your whole hand fragrant with your essence.

"Koohhhhh!  Ya.  Ummmmmm.  Oh Master.  I'm just so wet."

"Now, Jazmand," I commanded, "put your fingers all over your tits.  Smear those luscious boobs with your love syrup.  I want you smelling really slutty for me, girl."

"Eeeewwww, Master.  You're making me so . . . Ohhhhwwwww . . . So fucking horny!"

"You ain't seen nothing yet, slave," I taunted.  "It gets worse . . . Better."

"Make it better, Master.  Mistress.  Unnnnhhhh!  Please, please make it better.  Hurry."

"Now slave, don't go getting uppity with your Dominants," I warned.  "We've promised to take care of you.  Beyond your wildest dreams, we said.  Remember?"

"Yes, I remember.  Forgive me Master, Mistress.  I'm just so fucking . . . Ahh!  I don't know . . . Body so tingly . . . Smells so sexy.  Oh lord, I wish you two were here."

"We understand, Jazmand," I soothed.  "We understand Jazmand oh so well.  But we will not tolerate willfulness in a slave.  If a slave gets willful, the session stops right there.  No mas.  Comprendez?"

"Si, comprendez," Jazmand answered.  "Master," she continued, that beer must be going straight through me.  May I please pee?"

"Well, Jaz, I really can't let your previous insolence go unanswered.  I could just make you hold it, couldn't I?"

"Yes Master."

"Then hold it.  Take your other hand, lick it and get it all wet, and run it deep up into your vagina.  See if you can touch your cervix."

"Ugh.  My finger isn't long enough, Master."

"Of course it isn't, Jazmand.  Pull it back out.  Put all your fingers together like you would to slip a tight bracelet over them.  Now slide all five fingers in and fist-fuck yourself."

"Ungah!  OK, Master.  I ahhhhhun . . . I'm trying . . . Can't guuuum . . . Get it all the . . . Waheey . . . Way in."

"Push hard, girl," I directed.

"Ohhhhhhh Jaz," you sighed in empathy with her efforts.  I noticed your fingers were very busy in your own pussy.

"Ungah!  Oh, I . . . I'm puuuuushhhnnn! . . . Ahowuuuuugh! . . . It's innnnuh . . . Up innnnn meeeeee!"

"Beautiful, Jazmand" I moaned.  "My sweet, slutty slave.  I love you so much.  Fuck yourself so good for me, girl."

"Ommmm . . . Mmmyyyyy! . . . Puuuuushhhhy . . . Ayiah! . . . Ooooohhhhhh!"  The speaker phone let us listen to Jazmand's lust-crazed mewling and the squishing, sucking sounds as she thrust her hand deep into herself, withdrew it, and forced it back in again and again.

"OK, Jazmand.  Good girl.  Now stop before you make yourself cum," I ordered.  "Pull your hand out and rub your sex juice all over your pretty ass, honey."

"Pshhhhhhh," she breathed in.  A deep intake of her breath as she fondled her twin globes and drank in the pungent aroma of her self pleasuring.  "Oh Master," she whimpered, "I really must pee."

"Jazmand, you may urinate now," I relented, "But!  I don't want you thinking of it as piss.  Tonight, it is a precious golden nectar.  Remember that.  Your sweet urine is to go only into your enema bag.  Clear?"

"Uh . . . I can only pee in my enema bag?" she whined.

"You have a problem with that?" I taunted.

"Oh no, Master.  I'll pee in my enema bag."  We heard quick movement as Jazmand fetched the syringe, then a loud sousing sound as she let loose a powerful jet of hot urine into the bag.

"Ah!  That feels so much better, Master.  Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear.  You have done quite well.  Now it is time for a reward.  Take your bag full of your hot golden nectar and hang it on the hook by the full-length mirror.  Now kneel back down in front of the mirror, on the blue rug."

"OK Master, I'm set."

"Good.  I reward obedient slaves.  What would you like, now," I asked.

"Master, it sounds so dirty," she protested.

"You must tell me, Jazmand.  You know I'm unshockable.  What do you want to do."

"I . . . I want to put the nozzle in myself and take an enema.  An enema of my own piss . . . Uh, nectar," she murmured.

"Well, Jazmand, that is pretty nasty.  You really wanted to get lewd tonight, didn't you?" I questioned.  I wanted to hear her constant affirmation of her desire for degradation.  What I had planned was extreme enough that I wouldn't be able to proceed unless I had that as a barometer of her need.

"Yessssss Master!  Make me do something really mucky," Jazmand gasped.

"I certainly will, girl," I promised.  "Reach up and get the enema nozzle."

"Got it, Master," came Jazmand's quick reply.  There was a new life in her voice, as if the knowledge she would do something incredibly low had somehow lifted her spirits on high.

"Good girl.  Now stick your whole hand back up your cunt, and get lots of slippery Jazmand juice to lube your nozzle."

"Ungh!  Yessssss, Master.  I'm not as tight this time.  Done."

"Oops, forgot something, Jaz.  We should let the air out of the hose.  But we mustn't get your piss all over the rug you're kneeling on.  Put the nozzle in your mouth, and open the clamp till the air's out.  You can shut it back off as soon as you taste your hot urine filling your mouth."

"My mouth, Master," came Jazmand's squeaking reply.

"Yes, Jazmand.  Your mouth."

"I . . . I will, Master.  I love you," she whispered.

"Good girl," I commended.  "Now do it."

The phone is near the spot where Jaz was kneeling.  We could hear her panting breaths as she struggled with her revulsion.  Then there was the subtle click as she opened the clamp on the enema-syringe hose.  A little burst of air, then the distinct noise of the spray coming from the enema tip, and dousing the beautiful submissive's mouth.

"Is all the air out, Jazmand?" I asked.

There was a pause while she considered how to answer.  Of course, the deed was done, but she was holding it in her mouth.  To answer, she'd have to swallow.  Then we heard the distinct sound of her doing just that, fighting her instinctive gag reaction.  She actually had to drink twice, and from the sound, was near retching the second time.  She must have let a good deal run into her mouth before closing the clamp.  Just like our precious submissive.  As instructed, she had made absolutely certain she got all the air out of the hose.  She panted for a moment, then proudly proclaimed, "I DID it!"

"Oh, Jazmand," you said.  "You're so incredibly brave.  I don't know how you managed that."

"Actually, Mistress, It wasn't as bad as I had feared.  It tastes . . . Well, it tastes like pee -- like my precious nectar, just as Master said."

"Well, Jazmand," I explained, "it was already inside you, so you're not going to catch anything from it that you didn't already have.  Truth is that urine from a healthy person is essentially sterile when it comes out of the body.  It used to be used in war zones to clean wounds when no sterile water was available.  The only threat of drinking your own is a psychological one.  I would never have told you to do it if there was a chance it would harm you, darling.  And you did admirably.  So now on to your reward.  Is your pussy still wet?"

"Oh Master, I'm dripping on the rug."

"Excellent.  Then close your fingers together again.  Get some more of that sweet love nectar, and relube your nozzle."

"Yesssssss . . . Yesssss, Master.  It's all slippery now."

"Good girl.  Now, Jaz, pull your rubber skirt up in back, and slide that slimy enema nozzle straight up your beautiful backside.  Push it up deep in your ass, girl."

We could hear her softly whimpering as she worked the tool into her needy rectum.  "It's way up in me, Master -- all the way in, she reported."

"Perfect.  Now fuck your pretty ass with it, honey.  Don't open the valve yet.  Just work it all around inside to get yourself real loose back there."

"Uuummmmm, Yessssss, Massss-tah!" Jaz exhaled.  Her rapid, suspiring pants made it clear that, not only was she complying, she was immensely enjoying it.

"OK, Jazmand.  That's enough," I told her.  "I've decided not to let you have an enema now."

"Oh, please, Master.  I'll be good.  Let me take it.  Please."

"No more begging, Jaz!"  I barked.  "You will take that nozzle out of your ass.  I have to know if it is clean.  Inspect it and tell me."

"OK, Master.  Its . . . Ugh, it's dirty, Master."

"See, Jaz," I teased, "now we wouldn't want something dirty up your pretty ass, would we?"

"No I . . . I mean, it's got my . . . I got it dirty," Jaz struggled to explain.

"How so, Jazmand?" I asked, knowing full well what she meant, but making her say it.

"It has my shit on it, Master."

"Oh, I see," I gibed  "Perhaps you do need an enema, girl.  But we have to be sure it's shit.  How do you know that's what it is?"

"Well," Master," it wasn't there before I put the nozzle up my ass, and it's brown like shit."

"Rub your finger on it, Jazmand.  See if it feels like shit."

A deep exhaling sound -- she was clearly revolted.  Then she announced, "Yes, Master.  I guess it feels like shit."

OK, maybe that's what it is.  Smell your finger.  You hold it right up under your nose.  Tell me if it smells like your own shit.

As she inhaled her own fetor, I could hear the tremor in her breath.  She was getting into the zone.  She knew full well where this was going, and she wanted it.  I knew she did.  Don't ask me how I knew.  I can't explain that.  There is a spiritual bond that forms between dominant and submissive.  At its best, it is so intense it's like being inside each others souls, two beings in one.  The distance from Miami to Key West was gone.  There was a line of force between us that would have linked us across infinite distance.

"Jazmand, darling, precious slave.  I want you to do something very special for me."

"Yes, Master.  What is it?  I want to do it for you."

"First, honey, put your clean hand down on that dripping vagina of yours, and play with yourself.  Just don't make yourself cum yet.  And don't put the dirty hand down there.  Shit can sometimes fire up an infection in your vagina."

"OK, Master, Mmmmmm, I'm masturbating for you."

"Good, sweetie.  You remember seeing that disgusting V. Moser video.  I want you to act out being one of those German SCAT actresses.  I want you to play shit-slut for me.  Start by becoming used to your own smell.  I want you to put that shitty finger right up under your nose."

"Master?  It won't hurt me if I get it near my mouth?"

"Well, Jaz, it's like pee.  If it comes out of you, then the bacteria in it are already in you.  But it's different from pee in one way.  If you put your own shit in your mouth, you definitely will get one medical condition from it."

"What's that?"

"Halatosis."

Jaz roared.  After she recovered, she carried on with the assignment.  Her panting proved the efficiency of her probing fingers.  "I've got my finger up under my nose, Master."  Deep breath.  "Mmmmmm.  It's sooooo strong.  Smells . . . Smells so Sexy."

That's my SCAT girl.  Get into it, honey . . . Learn . . . Let it flow . . . Put that finger right up in your nose.  Smear that smell around so you've got it all the time.

"Eeeeeeewwwwww!  Mast-auh! . . . Soooooo Dirty . . . Love it dirty with youuuuuuuuu."

Oh Jazmand, I love it dirty with you, too.  You know how I do.  Now get that dirty nozzle.

Ummmm.  Got it.

Put it in your mouth and taste yourself.

Hauk!  Ummmmmmmmm . . . Ohhhhhh!

Now open the clamp on the bag, and come for me, SCAT-girl.  Pretty, precious, submissive SCAT-girl.  Cum and cum and cum.  Such a HOT girl.

Jazmand was in a trance.  She was gurgling -- gulping down her own piss -- cumming -- putting on the most incredibly lewd phone-sex show -- sucking like a nursing babe -- drinking from an enema syringe.  The bag ran dry and still she was cuming -- fist fucking herself -- sucking on the shitty nozzle -- reeling in her own overwhelming sensate world.  You were slumped down on the bed, masturbating madly, an urgent look of burning need in your eyes.  I freed my own straining cock and slid over to you, letting it trail lust lines around your cheek before you turned your head and took me deep in your throat.  Just a few quick sucks and, into your hungry mouth went all the pent up love that this intense session had pumped into my swollen balls.  I don't even know if Jazmand heard us.  She was so lost in her galactic cum.  She told me later that she left her body. She was up in the corner of the bath, along the ceiling, looking down at herself doing all these dirty things, and that's when she really broke loose.  When she finally settled down enough to talk, she said, "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you both.  Master.  Mistress.  I love you both so much.  I needed something special tonight, and that was beyond special."

We said our good nights.  I would call Jaz in the morning and deal with business.  Now, if I could find it in my drained dick, I wanted to fuck you.  Plain-vanilla man-woman sex for the day I carried you over our new threshold.  I seemed to remember that this had been our original plan.