I started in on my hobby of writing by doing sequels to stories by other writers. That is the way my imagination often runs. Now it has happened again. This one is the second of a set of sequels to Girls Friday, by Morlock. I have asked him for permission, which he granted. He is getting advance copies before the sequels are posted on Writings of Leviticus.
This is a sequel (of a sequel), so it begins with the action already well underway. In order to understand what is happening, you need to read Morlock's original story and my sequel Girls Friday 2 first.
The "very old" video that Cindy mentions in the story really exists. It can be seen at http://www.myvideo.de/watch/7966085/Charlotte_the_perfect_wife There are many other good bondage videos at myvideo.de as well, which can be explored by entering "bondage" or a related term in the "Deine Suche" search box.
Girls Friday 3: My Girl Friday Helps to Tell Her Story
The sergeant gave me a photo ID card for Cindy. Besides the photo, it listed her name, my name and address as her guard, our Citizen Identity numbers, and the permanent cell phone numbers that we had both been given when we were born. The card was overprinted in bold letters "CONVICT. Prisoner. If found escaped, please return to Noumean authority or to your local police."
I had originally traveled Down Under to look into the possibility of putting some cash into franchising there. I represented a company with the goal of franchising 3D printing, just as McDonalds and Burger King had done with hamburger making a century ago. One of the contacts I had hoped to meet was the operator of a very well-equipped independent 3D shop in Noumea, who wanted to become a franchisee. A phone call gave me a prompt appointment with that operator, and his shop wasn't very far away. So I said "Good-by. Thank you very very much" to the Noumean policemen, and I pushed Cindy's two-wheel dolly out the door and down the street.
I had to remove Cindy's gag and release her head at the printing shop in order to allow accurate laser measurements of her head and neck. I spoke with the shop owner about what I wanted and what the shop could make, and we agreed on a product and a price. Then I wheeled Cindy on down the street to the next of my series of errands while a 3D printer began to make her new collar.
The collar deserves a detailed description, since Cindy will be wearing it for the rest of her life. It is shaped to the contours of her neck. Most of it is about a quarter-inch thick and a bit over an inch wide. The front is somewhat thicker and wider.
It was made by stacking up layer after thin layer of UV-curable polymer from bottom to top, like many other objects made by 3D printing. But the best way to explain it is to start in the middle and work outwards.
The collar has a core of modified polyethylene, which is totally opaque and an excellent electrical insulator. Light pipes and thin bands of copper run through this polyethylene to interconnect a set of photonic and electrical components, rather like an old-fashioned electronics-only flat printed circuit board but in three dimensions.
The next layer out is a harder polymer, filled with nanodiamond rods. According to some tests, nanodiamond is actually harder than bulk diamond. The collar is not absolutely cut-proof, of course. But cutting it off of Cindy's neck without hurting her would be a major project involving hours of grinding away with diamond-tooth cutters or diamond abrasive powder.
Outside of that is a thin layer filled with metalflake. At the top and the bottom of the collar, the flakes are copper. A broad band around the middle has nickel flakes, except for "CINDY" in larger gold letters on the right front. and a repeat of her full name, my name, and the "convict" message in carbon black and fine print in back where it is normally under her hair. The metalflake layer is quite thin, but the flakes do form a continuous layer. On casual inspection, the collar appears to be wax-coated solid metal.
The top layer is a hard transparent coating that is essentially impermeable to metal ions, water, and oxygen. None of the copper or nickel can reach Cindy's skin to cause a long-term allergic reaction. Cindy can swim, bathe, or shower while wearing the collar with no risk of damaging it. The metalflake layer is protected from oxidizing and tarnishing, so the copper retains its metallic red new-penny appearance and the nickel stays gleaming metallic white. The collar is quite a pretty piece of jewelry, in addition to being very functional.
The photonics and electronics have seven functions:
If a policeman waves his handheld near the collar, his computer screen will display another copy of Cindy's ID with the "CONVICT. Prisoner" overprint. I can also include a copy of my most recent orders to her, so that the policeman can tell whether she is following those orders or attempting to escape.
I can query the GPS system in the collar from any computer to learn where my Cindy is.
The collar can monitor Cindy's heartbeat, respiration, body temperature, and the oxygen saturation of her blood. If any of this data indicates possible illness, a warning flag will appear on the screen of whatever computer I am using.
The built-in phone uses cell signals where they are available, and satellite signals when Cindy is out at sea or otherwise out of reach of a cell tower. I can always reach her. Her only way of calling out is a panic button that looks like a ruby in the front of her collar. The button sends a call to me. She knows better than to push it and bother me unless she has a real reason for a panic.
Casual callers who dial her number get a beep, and then ten seconds to start entering a security code. If there is no proper code, the caller hears a "This phone is not accepting calls" message, and then the collar hangs up. I have the master code, of course. I sometimes allow other people to have subordinate codes for a while so that they can reach her for one reason or another.
Even the most effective gag can allow the wearer to moan and grunt through her nose. When the silencing function of Cindy's collar is turned on, even a moan or grunt will result in a characteristic warning beep, followed by a severe electric shock if the sound continues.
She got zapped about three times by the silencing system when she first wore the collar. That was enough to train her brain on a level even below her conscious volition. When she hears the warning beep now, her own brain paralyzes her vocal cords and she is unable to make any sounds even if she wants to try.
If she goes beyond any limits which I may set, she gets a different warning beep, followed by a shock if she doesn't get back within her limits at once.
GPS would be the best way to set her boundaries if I wanted to confine her to something relatively big like a hotel, or a city block, or even an entire city. But the boundaries when using GPS are a bit sloppy, no better than plus or minus about fifteen feet or so. I couldn't reliably confine her to one room and be certain that she couldn't go through the door to the next room. For precision confinement I can use an ultrasonic tone generator anchored in place, or a simple-looking lightweight leash which will trigger electric shocks if it is unclipped or broken. The leash also acts as a charging cord for the batteries that power the electric shocks and the rest of the electronics.
I can trigger the severe electric shock from any computer any time I wish to do so. As a result, Cindy has become a very obedient piece of property. She sometimes argues with me about an order that I have given her; sometimes I accept her arguments and change the order. But whether or not I make any changes, Cindy always obeys when all is said and done.
The collar was 3D-printed in two pieces, one shaped like a "C" and the other like a ")". I never unstrapped Cindy completely from her two-wheel dolly until the collar pieces had been assembled around her neck. A few microliters of reactive polymer were used to coat the joints, which were then flashed with UV light to activate the curing reaction. The joints disappeared in perfect welds. That collar is now one piece, as inescapable as the most secure cell in any high-security prison.
After the collar was complete and installed, the 3D print shop made a set of cuffs to exact fit on Cindy's wrists and ankles, and a multi-link belt for her waist. These pieces were all designed to match her collar, with copper-red edges and nickel-silver center bands. All of these pieces have small holes where attaching pins can be plugged in. Of course I have a set of chains and bars with pins for securing Cindy's cuffs, belt, and collar to each other and to other things, like her chastity crotch strap.
The cuffs and belt are somewhat less secure than the collar, because they can be unlocked and removed. I had them made that way because I realized that I might want to restrain Cindy in something else from time to time.
Unlocking and removing the cuffs and belt requires a special girl controller which can supply an authentication code for the electronics in the cuffs, and which can also be plugged in to those cuffs to supply electric power to the solenoids which operate the locks. There is only one girl controller for Cindy. It's combined with a wristwatch, and I usually have it locked on my wrist. I know the release combination for taking it off, of course. Nobody else does.
A different set of codes on the girl controller can release any attaching pins that are plugged into the cuffs, belt, or collar, by remote control. There are also codes for communicating with Cindy via the Internet and her collar, or for silencing her, or for punishing her. All of these codes are always available to me when I have the controller on my wrist .
Instructions for making and operating my combination girl controller and wristwatch are in my personal database and could be followed by any well-equipped 3D print shop. I am not telling you how to find those instructions in my database, or what the keyword is for reading them.
Once she was in this bondage kit, my new life with Cindy could begin.
Wearing the Collar
My name is Cindy Smithson. I am not going to discuss the mistakes that I made with men when I was a teenager, or the exact reasons why I was invited to join the crew of a ship dedicated to inflicting revenge on men. My mistakes were big ones. I deserve the punishment that I was sentenced to by the Noumean court of law.
Robert Harris is now My Sir. I started calling him Sir as soon as he freed me from the gag I was wearing when the cops gave me to him. I have never since called him anything else.
While my collar was being made, he bought me a custom-knit blouse and short skirt from a downtown clothing store. Afterwards he locked my new wrist cuffs to my belt in front and connected my new ankle cuffs with an 18-inch chain. Then he rented a car and took me to a real estate agent. Traveling by car would have been awkward if he had kept me on the two-wheel cart.
He looked through the listings on the real-estate agent's computer and found a place that he thought he would really like. He made an appointment to see the place. Then he took me down to the waterfront and bought me a Coke and a hamburger with everything on it. It turned out to be the best meal I had had since I was arrested. The food in the Noumea Ville Jail isn't very good. He undid my wrist cuffs from the belt while I ate and drank.
Afterwards I felt drowsy. The sleeping accommodations in Noumea Ville Jail also aren't the most comfortable, and I had lost sleep due to worry about what was going to happen to me. But that morning my fate had been settled, and My Sir was right there protecting me, so I relaxed, and soon I fell asleep in a seated position.
Then My Sir gave me a nasty surprise. My collar went "beep bleep", two distinctly different tones. I woke up to find that he was nowhere in sight. I looked around anxiously and saw that the rental car was missing from the place where he had parked it.
He had demonstrated the warning tones of the collar to me already. I knew that "beep" meant I was silenced, and "bleep" meant that I was outside the space where I was allowed to be. I jumped up and started walking quickly, almost panicking. The ankle chain tripped me. Fortunately my hands were free, so I was able to grab a handy fence post along the sidewalk and avoid falling.
After a few more steps the collar went "bleep bleep bleep". I stopped dead, with my heart racing. Apparently I was moving in the wrong direction. I decided to try turning around and going the other way. The collar went "brrrr". I hoped that was the signal that I was going where My Sir wanted me to go. I kept moving. The collar signaled "brrrr" several more times.
After about fifteen minutes of walking along the waterfront, the collar signal changed to "bleep". Now what? I turned inland and got another "brrrr". The collar was obviously guiding me.
My hike lasted for several hours. I collected stares from many of the people that I passed, which was understandable; how often do you see somebody hiking in leg irons? I couldn't give explanations, because my collar was silencing me. Nobody offered to help or hinder. Fortunately the ankle chain was just long enough to allow me a normal stride.
Eventually the collar guided me up a hill in a very nice neighborhood. As I was passing a cottage, the "brrr" changed to "bleep", so I turned and walked up to the front door. It opened as I arrived. My Sir was just inside. He grabbed me, and kissed me, and hauled me off to the bedroom, and stripped me. He said "You need and deserve a reward after that hike." Then he put me on the bed and spent about an hour giving me that reward.
The lessons were clear. I am still officially a prisoner awaiting execution. I am almost always kept secure by locked doors and by chains. At least two locks would normally have to be undone before I could be free. But even if I were able to get those locks open, My Sir would still know where I was. He would still be able to control me. I am his, as long as I wear my collar. And there is no way for me to get that collar off.
So I accept his control, and there are rewards. Even before the court gave me to him, during the luau on the deck of the Coral Sea Queen on the first night of our cruise, I told him that I really enjoy having a man inside me. Fortunately his appetite for being inside a woman is equally strong. We do make beautiful music together. No torture could possibly be sweeter than being tickled by My Sir on the most intimate and sensitive parts of my body while I am stretched out in chains on his bed.
Someplace to stay
I left Cindy sleeping on a bench along the waterfront and drove to my appointment at the cottage which I found on the real estate agent's computer. This cottage turned out to be a good size for Cindy and me, and it is exactly what I wanted as a starting point for a bit of reconstruction. It was built on the side of a hill in an upscale part of town. It has a tiny open garden in front with a palm tree on each side of the front walk. It has a much bigger garden in back with more tall tropical trees. This garden is totally private; the house and the trees block the view from anything higher up the hill, and a seven-foot stone wall blocks the view from any place farther down.
A covered porch separates the back garden from the house itself. Owing to the slope of the hill, the door from the porch enters directly into the basement. My first plan was to add a few more walls to the inside of the basement and a few solid anchor points to the garden. Then I would have the options of locking Cindy into a tiny barred cell, or a small windowless room, or a nice lounge that opened out to the back porch and the walled garden. Or I could allow her the run of the entire basement and garden area, prevented from escaping by a sturdy chain.
The back of the house overlooks Noumea Ville harbor. The master bedroom has a sliding glass door onto a balcony in back, which is on the roof of the covered porch below. The view over the harbor through the sliding glass door is extremely pretty. The view from the balcony is even better. I could easily imagine Cindy in the garden in chains, assigned to planting and weeding while I looked down on her from the edge of the balcony. There were all sorts of possibilities. I began to think in terms of girl rails. I liked the place so much that I decided to buy it within an hour after I first walked in the door.
Up to that point, Cindy's heartbeat, respiration, and GPS location, as displayed on my handheld, had indicated that she was still asleep back on the bench by the harbor. It was time to wake her up and guide her to her new home by signals from her collar. I had seen already that the bed which came with the cottage was perfectly adequate for committing passion on a naked helpless woman. I planned to use it as a reward for her long hike, and also many times afterwards. Until the necessary remodeling was done and newer, nicer furniture had been delivered, I could add to Cindy's confinement by chaining her to the trees in the garden, or to a drain pipe for the plumbing in the house, or to that bed. Of course she would still be confined within the area that her collar was set to allow her, before and after any remodeling.
The house gave me a residence in the Republic of Noumea, a place where I could keep and take care of the woman that a Noumean court of law had awarded me.
Someplace to stay
It turns me on to look up at My Sir. That happens naturally when we are standing next to each other, since he is about eight inches taller than I am. The cottage which My Sir bought now has four more ways to make it happen.
- - 1 - -
The first of these is the arrangement of the garden and balcony. A few days after we moved in, My Sir chained me by my collar to a large sturdy tree trunk, using a chain about fifteen feet long. He gave me some gardening tools and a tray with twenty little flowering plants in small pockets. He told me "Clean out the weeds from this piece of garden here, and then plant the flowers from that tray in two neat rows, evenly spaced." Then he walked off and left me kneeling naked in the garden.
I was afraid that I wasn't much of a gardener. I had said before that I have a brown thumb. But when My Sir gives me an order, I will always do my best to obey. I set to work.
After about fifteen minutes, I looked up toward the balcony. My Sir was sitting up there with a drink in one hand, watching me digging up weeds. He smiled down at me. I had to smile back up at him. My Sir had a book reader, but he never even glanced at it. He preferred to just look down and watch me. The work seemed much easier after that.
Nineteen of the twenty little flowering plants survived my efforts at transplanting them. My thumb proved not to be quite as brown as I thought it was.
- - 2 - -
I will never forget the day I learned the second way that the cottage could hold me looking up at My Sir. The day was memorable for more than one reason.
We had just completed one of our first BDSM cruises on the Coral Sea Queen out of Noumea Ville harbor. We had sailed with a small crew, so we were both kept very busy. The first night back, we slept together in the bed that came with the cottage. Next day we enjoyed a lazy morning, sleeping and resting and catching up on the passion that we hadn't had time for at sea. My pretty wrist cuffs were connected to each other by a four-inch chain which looped through an anchor point on the headboard. My legs were free, so I was able to wrap them around My Sir's waist while he was inside me.
At about noon, My Sir left the bed and got some finger food from the kitchen. He settled into a comfortable chaise lounge on the balcony outside the bedroom window. He used his girl controller/wristwatch to release my wrists from the connecting chain by remote control. He called to me to join him on the balcony.
My Sir had not given me any directions about putting clothes on, and I didn't want to show my naked body to anybody who happened to look our way. The balcony was high enough to be visible from many surrounding houses; the view was not blocked by the garden wall.
The top bar of the balcony railing was supported by rigid straps of iron, aligned inward and outward, spaced about six inches apart. It wasn't hard to see past those straps, except at the bottom. Fortunately for me, the bottom two feet of the balcony railing was covered with woven wooden lathes. Each lathe was about an inch wide. The first lathe zigzagged out and in, out and in, around the iron straps. The next one zigzagged in and out, in and out, and so forth all the way up. The result was a woven structure that was opaque to vision; however, the sea breeze could easily blow through it. This may have been designed to allow a woman to sunbathe comfortably in a bikini without putting on a display for the neighbors. It was equally effective for me when I was wearing nothing except a collar and wrist and ankle cuffs.
If I stayed low enough, nobody could see me. So I crawled out onto the balcony and knelt beside My Sir.
He leashed me to one of the iron straps. He converted my wrist cuffs and collar to a narrow portable stocks by connecting them rigidly using very short bars. He fed me potato chips and apple slices. We chatted.
I told him then that it turned me on when I had to look up at him like that. He said "Hmmmm", and looked at the sky for a few moments, and made some notes on his handheld. He probably did not realize that detail about my personality before. I did not know where that would lead. I would soon learn.
A thick, black cloud appeared on the horizon and began to move toward us. Lightning flashes were visible within that cloud. My Sir took no apparent notice.
As the cloud moved closer, I began to hear thunder. Years before, my daddy had taught me to count the seconds between the flash and the sound. fzt . . . . rumble, rumble, rumble. It was still far off.
fzt. Bang, rumble, rumble. I could see a curtain of water falling into the sea just outside Noumea Ville harbor. My Sir kept talking about something completely unrelated to the approaching storm. I wasn't paying much attention to him. A cool breeze began to blow restlessly through the lathe work of the balcony railing.
fzt, BAM, bang, rumble. The falling curtain of water reached the inner harbor shoreline. The cool breeze blew harder. My Sir picked up his plate and handheld, walked into the bedroom, and closed the balcony door. The dirty rat-fink had left me still leashed, shackled, kneeling naked on the balcony. I was about to get very wet.
fzt BAM Bang Bang, Rumble. The rain reached me. It felt like somebody was dumping bucket after bucket of cold water on top of me. I huddled down and wished I could put my fingers in my ears.
fztBAAM!! I became one of the few people who has ever seen the flash and heard the thunder at the same time, and lived to tell about it. The flash was bright enough to be seen right through my closed eyelids, and it took several hours afterward for my hearing to recover. I am not sure that it has ever completely come back.
The storm moved on. The rain eased off to an intense sprinkle. My Sir finally came out, and unleashed me, and wrapped me in a big warm fluffy towel, and carried me inside. He stretched me out on the bed and lay on top of me, giving me his body heat and stopping me from shivering. He can be a dirty rat-fink at times, but at least he is always a caring dirty rat-fink.
Our cottage is located right next to the Tongan embassy, which has a tall aluminum flagpole. We soon learned that the nylon rope which holds the Tongan flag had been melted and converted to a solid nylon bar by the lightning bolt which hit so close.
- - 3 - -
Maybe I shouldn't have told My Sir that I am turned on by looking up at him. That knowledge inspired him to change some of his plans for remodeling the cottage.
He has told me that he had planned to put in a system of girl rails in the basement rooms and down the centers of the garden paths. That plan was modified. The system that was finally built starts with girl rails just inside the basement door leading out onto the back porch. Loops left and right from the door cover the porch. The girl rails in the garden go down both sides of each path, spaced about six inches into the garden on each side.
My Sir has a seven-foot chain that he can use to attach me to the girl rails, but he doesn't use it very often. My usual chain length for gardening is two and a half feet. If he just wants me to join him when he goes for a stroll through the garden, he will use a two-foot connecting chain. He hooks it to my collar, not to my ankle.
So I crawl. I can't stand up when my neck is linked to a girl rail by a chain only two or two and a half feet long.
Fortunately My Sir is always a caring dirty rat-fink. He has given me tough but comfortable gloves, and a well-padded set of strap-on knee pads to wear when I must crawl long distances, and a low wagon that I can pull to carry plants and fertilizer and gardening tools. I can't use a wheelbarrow when I am crawling.
- - 4 - -
He put in an entirely different system when he remodeled the basement lounge. A little chair, like a bar stool with a back, sits on a metal pin less than one foot long. The chair has a seat belt that goes around my waist, and a strap for ankles that goes across under the seat. When the ankle strap is adjusted and locked, it holds my legs with knees sharply bent. I can just touch the floor with my toes and the balls of my feet.
The chair is mounted on a loop of track around the basement lounge, entirely separate from the girl rails. Along the right-hand wall, as seen from the door to the porch and garden, the track passes between a low counter with microwave and burners, and a low island counter that can be used for food preparation. The chair spins freely, so I can face either the wall counter or the island counter at will.
Continuing around, the back wall has food and kitchen utensil cabinets, plus a fridge and a freezer. The opposite side wall is where My Sir often sits in a comfortable recliner, with a convenient small table alongside. Then the loop of track comes back to the door to the porch and garden.
My Sir usually gags me while I am cooking for us in that lounge. The pin on the inside of the gag doesn't have to be very big, since the primary purpose of the gag is to keep me from sampling what I am cooking. I can't speak anyway, because my collar is usually set to silence me.
When the food is ready to eat, I put it all on one large plate and carry it over to My Sir. He locks my wrists to the back of my little chair and feeds me. He usually switches the collar silencing mode off, so we can talk.
The Coral Sea Queen Now
My cottage isn't the only place where you might find Cindy and me in this part of the world. A large part of our new life is being spent back aboard the Coral Sea Queen.
The Noumean judges awarded ownership of the vessel to the victims of Captain Marie's crimes. To handle this, a corporation was set up, and the corporation issued 36,000 shares of stock. Each victim was given 1200 shares. With that total, it was easy to split up the ownership evenly among each victim's heirs. Fortunately none of the victims had seven, nine, or eleven heirs, which would have been awkward.
A total of 27 victims were identified, 21 from previous trips and the six from the voyage I took. The last 3600 shares of stock are held in a trust administered by the Noumean government to cover the possibility that more claimants might turn up. None ever have. Considering the way the financing has worked out, it is unlikely that any ever will.
The most important financier for the ship is a Japanese billionaire named Saburo Tanaka. He inherited control of over ten billion (new) yen before he was 30 years old. He got 400 shares of Coral Sea Queen stock when his oldest brother was identified as one of Captain Marie's victims. Saburo decided to become a BDSM cruise ship captain.
He announced an offer of 10,000 yen per share for Coral Sea Queen stock, this offer to remain open until he had obtained majority control with at least 18,001 shares. I decided not to sell. After meeting and speaking with him, I was willing to become his junior partner in this venture. It might not make as much money as some of my other ventures, but it could be much more fun.
I knew that he would treat me well, because I had Cindy. He has two gorgeous girlfriends of his own, but neither of them had been an original Coral Sea Queen girl. Cindy would add to the unique appeal of the ship. Cindy's name, and mine, were known worldwide by people who read gossip websites. Our trial, and its outcome, had received international publicity.
Saburo quit buying stock when his final purchase brought his total to 18,900 shares. That opened the way for me to offer 6000 yen per share to any other owners who had missed their chance with Saburo. I accumulated 5500 shares, enough to become the second-place shareholder with over 15% ownership.
Saburo didn't let me get away with acquiring my ownership rights cheaply. At the first annual meeting of the corporation, the majority of the shares were voted (by Saburo, naturally) in favor of assessments on the share owners to build working capital. Anybody who claims those last 3600 shares still held by the government would have to pay the assessments.
He spent the assessment money well. The ship has been completely remodeled. The original 19th-century-style sail rig has been replaced by a modern B9 Energy Corporation PowerFurl fully motorized and computerized suite of sails. It's one of the very few times that this technology has been used on a fore-and-aft rig. Most of the ordinary cargo ships with PowerFurl sail suites have square rigs. Coral Sea Queen is still a schooner.
The whole ship can now be operated from a U-shaped control console installed on the afterdeck. That includes sails, diesel motors, rudder, navigation computers, radars, sonars, and lookout cameras at the top of the mainmast. There are backups for everything critical, of course, and provisions for human seamen to take over if desired or if the automation fails. If all of this equipment had been on the ship when I captured it, I would have been able to sail it back to Australia by myself.
Since it really takes only one person to operate the ship, most of our crew are on board primarily to deal with the passengers. We are a charter operation. We adjust our crew to match the requirements of each charter. Saburo's girlfriend Tomiko is a registered nurse. His other girl Jane is an excellent chef. Cindy has become an expert short-order cook and bartender. We have sailed for short trips with just those three, plus Saburo and myself of course. We can supplement with additional watchkeeping seamen and system maintenance technicians for longer cruises, plus housekeeping maids, more kitchen staff, waiters and/or waitresses, live musicians and/or dancers, skin diving instructors if the destination is the Great Barrier Reef, BDSM ropework teachers, etc.
But one set of rules is ironclad, no matter who we have on board as crew. Those rules are very different from the way Captain Marie ran the ship. Our slogan on those rules is "BYOB. We'll supply the alcohol." In our context the abbreviation stands for "Bring Your Own Babe", or "Bring Your Own Broad", or occasionally "Bring Your Own Buddy" for an all-homosexual cruise.
Passengers are absolutely not allowed to play sex games of any type with anybody except people who came on board as their partners. We don't do singles-bar cruises. If group sex is wanted, all of the members of the group have to agree before we go. Crew people are absolutely not allowed to play sex games with passengers. We favor beautiful women as crew, if they can meet the requirements of their individual jobs. But we have hired one rather ugly guy several times because he has been the best available skin diving instructor.
As you might imagine given our ship's reputation, most of our cruises are BDSM oriented. Each prospective passenger on such a cruise has to sign a contract acknowledging and accepting BDSM activities and giving the names of the partner or partners with whom they will be playing. Each prospective passenger has an opportunity to include any limitations that they wish to have on sexual activities, written right into these contracts.
We don't want any passengers feeling pressured to sign by their prospective partners. To try to avoid this problem, partners are not allowed to be in the same room with each other when signing. Nor should anyone sign without reading and thinking carefully.
I usually have Cindy with me when I present a contract for signature. She is strapped on her two-wheel cart, totally helpless again, as an example of what could happen. One or two women have canceled their cruising plans when they saw her that way. A few others have taken one look, started breathing deeply, and rushed to sign without paying any attention to the words printed on their contracts.
It has all been fun for me. I have seen and worked with some very pretty women tied in ropes, or wearing straps or chains, and often not wearing much else.
I sometimes catch come-hither looks from these women, and I smile back, but things have never gone very far beyond that. For one thing, the rules about crew not playing with the passengers apply to me also. For another, none of the passengers has ever been completely under my control, dependent on me for permission to take another breath of air. My control over Cindy is a powerful aphrodisiac. An affair with any other woman would feel flat in comparison.
My Life on the Coral Sea Queen
My Sir has ordered me to write about the kind of life I live when we are at sea.
As I write this, we are in My Sir's cottage at Noumea Ville. My Sir has locked me into the copper-and-nickel-finish chastity belt which is part of the set that he bought on the day that I was given to him. I am in my basement slave cell, which is just long enough for a cot and a toilet. The cell is no more than a foot wider than the cot. The walls are gray cinder block. The ceiling is no more than a few inches over my head when I am standing, and as you already know, I am rather short.
The only window is two feet high and five feet wide, covered by closely-spaced bars. It looks out into the basement lounge. Anybody in that lounge can see me on exhibit in here through that window. I've got nothing in here except the laptop computer that I am using to write this. If I ever want to get the chastity belt off, have clothes again, avoid punishment, and get back out into that large, comfortable basement lounge, I am going to have to follow My Sir's orders and write.
I suppose that the best way to do that will be to describe one ordinary day at sea. Last Thursday will do. That was the last full day at sea during our most recent cruise.
My Sir and I are frequently awake all night, so we sleep during the mornings. Last Thursday My Sir woke up first, shortly before lunch. He got dressed and took a shower. Then he got a cup of ice water from the galley, put a straw into the cup, put a finger over the top of the straw to trap some of that ice water, and then used the straw to dribble some of the water onto my forehead. I wake up very quickly when he does that.
I woke up, but I couldn't jump up. I had been sleeping as I usually do, on my back, with my arms over my head chained to the headboard. My Sir kissed me on the forehead where the cold water had splashed, said "That will warm your skin back up again", and pushed some wristwatch/controller buttons to release me from the bed. Then he added his usual morning greeting to me, based on his legal authority to carry out my death sentence: "A final decision on your fate has been postponed for at least twenty-four hours."
Releasing me from the bed didn't mean I was free, of course. The remodeling of the ship included a special area where I am kept confined. Most of my area is one deck below the open main deck, near the starboard side close to the stern.
There is a girl rail to keep me in my area. Most of the rail runs along the top of the bulkheads there, but there is a spur down to bed-top height so I can sleep without having my neck pulled toward the overhead. My collar is attached to that rail by about four feet of chain when I am with My Sir at sea. I have spent as much as six weeks continuously within the allowance of that rail and chain when the ship had several charter cruises in rapid sequence.
Our cabin is at the aft limit of my territory. It's a small space, of course; there are no large cabins on a ship the size of the Queen. But I still can't quite reach the other door, the one that My Sir uses. Anyway, his door is always locked, except when he enters or leaves. His girl controller/wristwatch trips the lock and lets him go through freely. Nobody else uses that door.
My door leads out to a narrow corridor forward of our cabin. A branch of the girl rail goes into the back door of a compact head and shower stall that I share with My Sir, and Mr. Saburo, and Mr. Saburo's two girlfriends. The others who use it go in through the front door. Both doors lock, and the locks are interconnected; each person who uses that head has to leave by the same door as was used for entering. I could not escape through the head even if I could get loose from my girl rail and chain.
I took my shower, handled the rest of my morning essentials, and returned to our cabin still naked. My Sir had laid out my clothing for the day on the bed. I would be wearing a safety-orange bikini, lettered "PRIS" in black ink around the top of my right breast and "ONER" around the top on the left. The Coral Sea Queen is unique among cruise ships - even BDSM cruise ships - in having on board a woman who is a convicted prisoner, legally sentenced to death due to her previous actions on the ship, now completely at the mercy of her guard. Convicts in all sorts of prisons commonly wear safety orange clothing with black lettering. I have never heard of any other convicts who are routinely dressed in bikinis, though.
After putting my bikini on, I went forward along my girl rail, going straight past the head and shower this time. Next forward from the head is my narrow edge of the galley. This area is divided fore-and-aft from the rest of the galley by a stripe of bright-red paint which runs across the overhead, down the bulkhead, and across the middle of a stove top and counter. I sometimes make food from my side of this counter, usually fast food like sandwiches and hamburgers. My girl-rail chain isn't long enough to allow me to cross the red stripe, and if I did manage to cross, my collar would go 'bleep' and then shock me. Our other cooks can make fancier food either on my counter, sometimes working from the other side of my red stripe, or by using counter space in the rest of the galley.
For this cruise, we hired a woman named Martha as a waitress and an assistant cook. Last Thursday Jane and Martha handled breakfast. When I entered the galley, they gave me a hot breakfast sandwich and continued preparing Italian-style food for lunch. I would be assigned to take the completed dishes of food to one of the pass-throughs to the main cabin, where passengers usually eat. I would also be pouring and mixing the passenger's drinks myself, and passing them out too.
When I go out to the main cabin through my narrow galley edge, I enter the exhibit area, which is ten feet wide and three feet deep against the bulkhead, surrounded by bars. When My Sir wants to show me off to the paying customers, it wouldn't be proper for a prisoner to be seen in any other manner than behind bars.
Most of the supplies that are needed to tend bar come from the bulkhead which makes up the back of the exhibit space. Foster's beer, Coca-Cola soft drinks, and orange juice (popular at breakfast) are on tap. There are also hot taps to supply coffee, decaf, or hot water for tea. An inset counter provides the space to assemble drinks. Shelves above the inset can hold frequently-used bottles.
I may be the only short-order cook and bartender in the world who always works surrounded by bars. There is no bar in the other sense of the word, just pass-throughs with small shelves to allow food and the drinks that I make to be distributed. The confining bars run from floor to ceiling. All of me can be seen, and also of course whatever I am assigned to wear. What I wear usually matches more-or-less what the women passengers are wearing, so if you are a guy who wants to see me exhibited naked, your best bet is to have your woman naked herself.
For breakfast, Jane had been on exhibit, passing out food. Like many cooks, she wore a bib apron. Unlike most cooks, she wasn't wearing anything else beneath it. Her large boobs kept peeking out from the sides of the bib top as she moved.
I am the one on exhibit most times when alcoholic beverages are being served. I have become quite an expert bartender. I didn't have much choice about that. When I can't find a bottle that I need quickly, or when I get an order wrong, My Sir straps me to my two-wheel cart for up to four hours for each mistake, blindfolded with sound-canceling headphones over my ears. My only sensory inputs then come from my muscles as they get stiffer and stiffer and more and more cramped. It's a horrible experience, much worse than any whipping could be, especially if I have made more than one mistake. I have been on that damned cart for as much as twelve hours continuously.
An ultimate sort of super-lazy-Susan arrangement occupies the other side of my galley edge, opposite from the counter where I make sandwiches. Conveyor belts of shelves squeeze much more storage capacity into that volume than a simple rotating pivot could. The shelves contain a selection of excellent wines, and distilled spirits, and specialty beers from all over the world. We have run out of individual wines on longer cruises when those wines turned out to be great favorites of the passengers and we weren't warned to stock up in advance. But we have never run out of alcohol.
Last Thursday we had a full passenger count. I was kept busy serving luncheon food and beverages.
As remodeled, the Coral Sea Queen can accommodate nine couples as passengers. On this cruise, eight couples were members of the SSBSS, the South Seas Bondage and Swapping Society. They came from all over the world, and they knew each other via Internet connection before the cruise. The motto of the SSBSS is "What happens in the South Seas, stays in the South Seas." I understand that most SSBSS members are perfectly respectable monogamous couples when they are in their widely-scattered home towns.
The ninth couple, Robert Zimmerman and Mary Jane, was a last-minute addition to our passenger list. Their cruise was a tenth-anniversary gift from Many Jane to Robert. We had to make some special allowances for them.
Every morning on this cruise at 0900, the pairings from he previous day's swap session were ended. Mr. Saburo and My Sir collected the men and brought them topside onto the main deck. Mr. Saburo's other girlfriend Tomiko worked with Martha to collect the women and bring them to the main cabin. Tomiko wore her special outfit for interacting with submissive women: a traditional nurse's cap, a white blouse with short sleeves and a conservative neckline, a red and white badge on her left chest marked with a medical caduceus and "R.N.", a close-fitting white over-corset from just below her breasts down to her hips, a mid-thigh-length white skirt, three-inch heels, and a whip on a belt at her waist. She manages to project both "domme" and "registered nurse" in that outfit.
The women had a break from confinement until lunch. They could sit at tables, drink coffee, and chat; take showers; and change clothes into the uniform of the day, which was topless with short shorts or bikini bottoms. They were well advised to use the heads as much as possible to get rid of body wastes before the next bondage session began, when they would probably need to beg for special permission to do so. I supplied coffee, sweet rolls from Jane's galley, soft drinks, and fruit juices on demand.
I'm not sure what the men were up to. My Sir has mentioned whale watching, fishing using fishing poles, card games, and lessons in knotwork as things that have been done at one time or another. But whatever it was, was done abovedecks. I was in my exhibit space one deck down and never saw how they spent most of their time. Occasionally one of them would come down to my exhibit area and order coffee or some other beverage.
The women ate lunch first. Jane supplied me with large bowls of spaghetti, meat sauce, and tossed salad. I separated the food into individual bowls and served it to the women cafeteria style. Tomiko and Martha strapped the women into bolted-down chairs at their table, using seat belts. As the women began to eat, Tomiko, Martha and I worked together to distribute glasses of chianti.
At this point the men came down from the upper deck in a group. Each of them took a nifty bondage tool called a charlotte from a storage area at the forward end of the main cabin. These charlottes were positioned in a circle around the women's table. No matter which way the women looked while eating lunch, bondage was waiting.
I have seen a very old video of Charlotte, the namesake of the charlotte, getting herself installed on the very first one. It was of all-welded construction, not adjustable, awkward to get into, designed to fit her perfectly once she was on. It had no wheels, so Charlotte wasn't very portable when she was on it. The ones we have on the Coral Sea Queen come in seven pieces: a base plate which does have wheels at the back, a sturdy pole that mounts vertically, and five locking clamps. When a woman is standing on a charlotte, the clamps hold her at her ankles, her thighs, her wrists behind her back and behind the pole, her elbows ditto, and her neck. The charlottes can be adjusted to fit any woman (even little old me!). When all of the adjustments are locked in place, our charlottes become as rigid as Charlotte's all-welded original.
My Sir distributed instruction sheets to the men. Each sheet had the name of a woman and a set of measurements. Each man used the measurements to adjust a charlotte for the named woman. The men came over by the exhibit area, picked up lunch menus and coffee cups from me, and sat down at a smaller side table, separate from the women. Martha took their lunch orders and went into the kitchen to help Jane.
As the women finished their spaghetti, My Sir and Mr. Saburo released them one by one from their chairs. One by one, they were installed on the charlottes that had been adjusted for them. Martha and Tomiko cleaned the large table, and the men moved over to it.
Unlike the women, the men had choices, all Italian style: veal parmigiana, chicken cacciatore, calamari, tagliatelle with prosciutto, probably some others too. The men enjoyed a long, leisurely, European style multi-course luncheon, stretching well into the afternoon. No matter which way they looked, women were standing locked onto charlottes, topless and helpless. I stayed busy passing out coffee, chianti, Italian and Australian wines by the bottle, and also some Coca-Cola. Coke is now so international that it is as common in Italy as it is in the USA.
Finally the men finished their tiramisu and dessert wines. It was time for a new pairing. I dumped nine slips of paper with the names of the men into a black derby, and nine more slips with the names of the women into a white derby. I shook the hats vigorously, and then I drew names from the two hats alternately.
We had used the hats also on the first afternoon of the cruise. We had paired off the men and the women on later afternoons in several other ways. None of them were completely random, although several of them seemed to be. For one thing, Robert Zimmerman and Mary Jane weren't members of the South Seas Bondage and Swapping Society; we had to rig things so that they were always with each other. Also, we wanted each of the SSBSS men to have a night with all of the SSBSS women in turn, and vice versa.
It was quickly obvious that this "random" drawing wasn't random at all. I was actually ignoring the piles of slips in the bottom of the hats and pulling carefully pre-arranged slips from under the hatbands. On this last night of the cruise, every man was paired with his own wife or girlfriend.
Each man adjusted the bondage of his partner to his own taste. They scattered around the ship, with some moving to individual cabins, and some to other spaces. We have lots of bondage furniture and appliances in various parts of the ship. Mr. Saburo had rigged a pulley that could lift a woman safely up to the open main deck while she was still confined on a charlotte. Several guys took advantage of that pulley.
Some women were being kept in severe bondage. One woman was left in her charlotte in the main cabin, but with a blindfold and earphones added. The earphones had been set for noise cancellation. If she had been left alone, that confinement would have been worse than my punishment times. Her shoulders and arms were pinned back into a much more strained position than I am in when I am on my two-wheel cart. But she wasn't left alone for more than two or three minutes. Her guy would kiss her breasts, or tickle her ribs, or massage her crotch, or otherwise give her some sensory input at frequent intervals. At one point he switched her earphones from noise cancellation to the climax of the 1812 Overture, and then he slapped her butt every time a cannon fired as part of the music. After that he spent about five minutes caressing her to the rhythm of a very romantic piece that I didn't recognize.
My Sir toured the ship, making sure that all of the couples in public spaces were having fun. He obviously did not interrupt the privacy of couples in individual cabins. From time to time he smiled at me; he does that often when he is mingling with the paying passengers during events like that afternoon. He is obviously proud of me. He clearly thinks that I am prettier than any other woman on this ship, even when the other women include beauty queens and famous actresses. His smiles do wonderful things to me. They are great rewards to me for doing my job well, and they are powerful promises about what will happen when he gets me alone again in our cabin. In the words of an old song: "Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile. To know him is to love him, and I do."
We closed the bar and the restaurant service for about an hour so that the staff could eat. Jane made some submarine sandwiches, and I had left-over spaghetti and a meatball. We had our food while sitting on stools in the galley.
After eating, I re-opened the bar as a bar and grill, working with Martha. Supper was very casual, all fast food to order, eaten wherever the men had parked their women. Mr. Saburo, Jane, and Tomiko went into their cabin together and closed the door. I have never known exactly how their threesome operates at times like that, and I have never asked. I'm curious, but I don't think that it is any of my business.
At 2000 hours (8:00 PM to landlubbers) Mr. Saburo came out from his cabin and took over from My Sir as emcee, making sure that all of the couples in public spaces were having fun. My Sir had the First Watch at the ship's control station on the poop deck. That watch runs until midnight.
My Sir called me up to keep him company during his navigation watch. Visits to the deck are a rare treat for me, especially appreciated during good weather. When My Sir has a daytime watch, I am usually too busy serving food and drinks to join him.
I do have a personal hatch to the poop deck, which nobody else uses. It's at the top of a ladder which is bolted to the forward bulkhead of our cabin. It's flush with the poop deck, except when I am using it. When My Sir called me up I climbed the ladder, went topside through the hatch, and knelt on the main deck by the control console. I can't stand on the deck when I go topside. My girl rail doesn't go up through my hatch, and my collar chain is too short.
There is a ring recessed into the deck that My Sir can use as an attachment point. He used it to secure my ankles and my wrists behind my back while I was kneeling. He fed me a sandwich for supper. He didn't use my collar to silence me, but we didn't talk much. We just enjoyed being together. I don't know of anything prettier than a tropic sky full of stars, moonlight making the sails glow white, My Sir silhouetted against the lights of the control panel, and a row of indicator LEDs all glowing green to indicate "no problems, all systems working well."
I wasn't the only woman enjoying myself on the deck. Looking forward, I noticed Robert Zimmerman and Mary Jane, side by side, arms around each other, by the ship's rail. He had freed her completely from her charlotte and from all other confinement. They were enjoying a very romantic vanilla tropical evening together. Our cruises are not always rigid bondage events for everybody.
At midnight, eight bells of the First Watch, Mr. Saburo came up to relieve My Sir, who released me from my anchor point. I climbed back down through the hatch to our cabin, and I stretched out on the queen-size bed which is against the starboard bulkhead. I can climb into it easily, but as you might imagine, I can't always climb back out after he joins me in the cabin. I usually sleep stretched out with both wrists and one ankle cuffed to the bed frame, open to whatever he feels like doing to me. Sometimes he is in the mood to have me do something to him instead.
I'm not always allowed into the bed. Sometimes I spend time locked into a small cage underneath it, or cuffed standing to pulleys on the ceiling. I really enjoy his having complete access to me while I am kept however he wishes.
Thursday night he used a set of straps to connect all of my cuffs and confine me in a hogtie on the bed. The ankle straps to that set hold my ankles at right angles, which keeps my crotch wide open. He only uses that set of straps when he plans to tickle my feet and make me squirm. He left me there while he took a shower. The anticipation was almost more fun than having him there with me. I started squirming long before he came back. I almost reached an orgasm while I was still alone in the room.
Then he came back. He added one more strap, to connect my ankles to the bottom of the bed. I could hardly wiggle my feet at all after that. Then he faked me out by concentrating his tickling on my ribs and on my thighs, almost leaving my feet alone. He did a thorough job.
My orange bikini has zippers on the outside of both hips, and of course the top is held on with bow ties. My Sir was able to strip me naked without releasing me from bondage. He picked me up and rearranged us, with him on the bottom on his back, me on top, and him inside me. Neither of us was anxious to press on toward orgasm. I was so relaxed and so content that I may actually have taken a short nap.
Have you ever been brought back to full alertness by a man who is under you and in you when he starts to bounce you with hip thrusts? I thrust back. We climaxed. He held me, and kissed me, and undid the straps which hogtied me. He chained by hands to the headboard to put me in my usual sleeping position. He rolled me away from him and he spooned onto and around me. I fell asleep totally confident of his love, his protection, and his passion for me.
And that will give you some idea of what life is like for me on board the Coral Sea Queen.
Now I need some attention from My Sir. I have written what I was asked to write. Please, Sir, would you be so kind as to release me from this bondage cell and chastity belt?
I didn't turn her loose. She has called me a caring dirty rat-fink, and that is the way I decided to treat her. I left her in her cell. I had her kneel on the cot and stretch her arms wide across the window between her cell and the lounge. I handcuffed her outstretched wrists to the window bars. And then I fed her supper, one bite at a time, through those bars. She will stay in the chastity belt until I am ready to enjoy her body again.
I enjoy seeing all of Cindy, of course, kneeling arms outstretched in a bondage cell or in any other way I please. But I don't want to keep her most extraordinary feature, her 22-inch waist, only for my private viewing. With only a few exceptions, that waist is on display no matter what she wears in the South Pacific. Her wardrobe there is bare-midriff designs. She has bikini tops made of two small triangles of cloth and some string. She also has long-sleeve tops with turtlenecks, and other tops with every degree of coverage in between. Many of them end just below her breasts. She has hip-hugger denim jeans, and capri pants, and bermuda shorts, and short shorts, and bikini bottoms. Many of them end just above the widest part of her hips. Even her most conservative outfits leave two inches of bare skin between the top and the bottom.
Her usual clothing color scheme is safety orange with black stenciled lettering, as is customary for prisoner's garments. She looks cute in the bikini she described, the one that is stenciled "PRIS" around the top of her right breast, and "ONER" on the left. I generally put her in outfits with coverage which match more or less what the paying passengers are wearing.
Her Noumea Ville on-shore wardrobe includes a bolero-styled bare-midriff straitjacket, and a wrist-to-elbow across-the-back armbinder, and an elbow-length singleglove, and a pencil skirt that fits very snugly at the knees, and a long skirt that fits snugly at the ankles. All were made to order for exact fit in her safety orange color scheme. She can't wear these more confining clothing items at sea, because she can't make sandwiches or tend bar while she's unable to use her hands. Besides, she would have trouble keeping her balance on a rolling deck while wearing a pencil skirt.
These days even such out-of-the-way places as Noumea Ville have shops with laser body measuring booths coupled to programmed knitting machines to make clothing directly from yarn to a person's exact size. I buy most of Cindy's wardrobe in those shops. In recent years some of the fancy French designers have shown collections of old-fashioned loose-fitting garments with deliberately sloppy fit, made in number-coded sizes. My Cindy does not often wear any of that kind of clothing at sea or in Noumea.
However, she does have a sailor suit. It is white with prisoner-orange trim, a sort of soft canvas fabric, loose-fitting, with bell-bottom pants and one of those traditional sailor hats that looks like a beanie with a turned-up rim all the way around. Cindy wears this sailor suit when all of the passengers are guys, because of course then all of the passengers are gays. The top is still short enough to show off her 22-inch waist.
I am very proud of her, and she knows it. Nothing is more enjoyable than watching her move while realizing that all of that feminine beauty is mine to use however I wish. The best part of the situation is that I am confident Cindy wouldn't want to live her life any other way.
Planning a Trip Home
A very old rule requires holders of US passports to be in US territory at least once every five years. I still have one of those passports. I do not want to give it up. I also did not want to leave my Cindy behind, under somebody else's control, while I visited home. So I contacted my lawyer back in Chicago and asked for suggestions.
The situation wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. The world has been reasonably peaceful lately, so travel restrictions have been eased. Passports and visas are not needed for Australians or Noumeans to visit the USA. Cindy would be able to make the trip using her Noumean ID with the "CONVICT. Prisoner" overprint.
Besides that, there is a relevant treaty between the Republic of Noumea and the United States of America. It seems that a few people have been sued in the USA, and have been able to evade the judgments which were entered against them. The defendants in these cases moved to obscure islands in the South Pacific, islands which are beyond the reach of the US legal system. The US government did not wish to allow anybody to flee from a judgment or conviction and wind up in a relatively civilized place like Noumea. So a treaty was negotiated which requires mutual acceptance of legal decisions. A judgment or conviction entered in a US court will be enforced by the courts in Noumea.
But that works the other way, too. Cindy's conviction and sentence, entered in a Noumean court, must be respected in the USA. My status as her guard falls in the same category.
Another advantage of living in the mid 21st century is the current more liberal attitude toward sexual kinks such as BDSM. A series of court decisions have taken the fundamental principle of BDSM into the legal system: anything that is safe, sane, and consensual is also presumed be legal. Anything between spouses which appears to be safe and sane must also be presumed to be consensual, unless one of the spouses makes a legal complaint of spousal abuse or files for divorce.
This offered a way around the Mann Act and certain other US laws. The Mann Act forbids transporting women across state lines, or into or out of the USA, for immoral purposes. The law was written to criminalize recruiting women across state lines for houses of prostitution. After some abuse, "immoral purposes" was defined more tightly as "things you could get arrested for doing", such as rape. The Mann Act could apply between a legally-unrelated man and woman, or between a prisoner and her guard. But it does not apply when the only people involved are a husband and wife.
So I married Cindy.
I will let her tell the story of one of the honeymoon trips that we went on together.
End of part 3
[to be continued in "Two Honeymoon Trips"]
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