sss Island

Chapter Two-2

I am surrounded on all sides by naked breasts far more sumptuously massive than any of which I could ever have conceived. Nor are these the flabby sagging bags of the decadent old dowagers whose ampleness might only have approached those back in Europe. Each teat is as firm and ripe as it is huge, and jiggles unceasingly with the laughter of my captors and the constant tugging of my pathetic struggles. Yet naturally most arresting of all are those largest of breasts: the ones belonging to the indisputable authority so exhilaratingly whipping me. With each stretching wind-up and full-bodied swing of her arm Moba’s enormous udders dance madly about right in front of me.

Such a spectacle far surpasses any experience of my life for sheer eroticism. Earlier I gushed about the bobbing of Lady Abigail’s small but exquisitely shaped bulbs while riding my bound body; this display as insanely exceeds that as the current beating of my p***s does any previous ordeal with belt, switch, or riding whip. Even as my member goes from a healthy pink to an angry red to a universally bruised black it strains ever more eagerly upward. My wrenching struggles and even the screams I peal endlessly forth take on a distinctly erotic tenor. Eventually those screams somehow even come to express ecstatic affirmation.

“Yes! Yes! Ah, gods yes!”

Surely my Dutch words are gibberish to the women. Yet there’s no mistaking the perverse appreciation in my reaction. Cruel exultation changes to chagrined surprise, and Moba redoubles the ferocity of her whipping. Yet my exaltation only continues to climb with my rising suffering and at last she desists. Panting hugely through my tears and as fiercely erect as ever I listen with increasing trepidation to the debate that ensues. Denied the exhilaration of my ordeal I’m finally prey to a belated instinct for self-preservation.

“What is wrong with this despicable male? It refuses to relinquish its criminal intent!”

“It is worse than that, sister!” This comes from the most vindictive of the bunch, the one whose knife was only restrained by the intercession of the leader. Even now she is fingering it at her waist. “Punishment only makes its intent more imperative. It will not be cowed by our power. It should be dispatched immediately!”

“Peace, Nera,” cautions the one holding my left ankle. “Let the leader speak.” She turns to Moba. “Has there ever been a worse offense to almighty Gora? Has any male ever failed to succumb to her will? Should it not be slain outright, or thrown at once into Gora’s mouth?” Before Moba can answer, another sss chimes in to nods of affirmation all around.

“In all the history of the people I have never heard of this level of offense. Let us enact the retribution ourselves, and never speak of this.”

“You are too impetuous, sisters, and too short-sighted. That is why I am leader of the seaward patrol. Fear not!” Haughty and imperious Moba sneers down at me. “We will break him of this defiance, if not in the dungeon then surely during the hunt and after. Perhaps Gora blesses us with a worthy challenge. This gift from the sea may be the means for us to prove our worth in a way that will ensure fecundity and prosperity for generations to come.”

“But what if we fail?” objects yet another. “Gora may punish us with the shaking earth, and the fire that comes from above!”

“We will not fail. Despite the abnormal size and criminal persistence of its appendage, this is a male no different from the myriad others we have vanquished. And the white-skinned ones are rare and precious. Perhaps its anomalous p***s makes it even more so. Think of the potency we may appropriate! We shall have a celebration like no other when it is finally broken and brought down!”

Still a few of the others continue to voice misgivings. Finally, Moba becomes impatient.

“Have I not said this is a male, a weak and despicable member of the banned s*x? Has not Gora blessed us already with longer life, a vast increase in stature, the infallibility of the milk and even seedless progeny since we swore to eradicate them? I will prove to you that we shall prevail! See, despite the seemingly indomitable way it lusts for us, like all males it carries its most precious and vulnerable parts outside its body. Even without irreparably damaging them, we can quench its sick lust for us – at least temporarily.”

Without further hesitation Moba suddenly lunges forward. Bringing up a knee she rams this hard straight into my testicles.

Agony of a different sort entirely explodes through me. Moba is completely right of course: rather than inflame my sick lust this kind of cripplingly intimate excruciation vanquishes it instantly. Already my weak limbs have turned to water yet she repeats the blow twice more, by which time I fear I may indeed be irreparably damaged. Sickness far worse than that inflicted by swallowing seawater has swamped me utterly and I retch uncontrollably. My eager tumescence subsides immediately and every trace of exaltation is as effaced as if it had never been.

Now the cheers of my captors are cruel and loud and savagely celebratory! Moba’s point is proved, her wisdom and fitness as leader reaffirmed. The patrol’s confidence restored they drop me painfully to the ground once again. There I vomit repeatedly, and weeping like a baby curl up protectively around my wounded privates. Even the still flaming pain of my horrifically welted p***s is a genuine torment to me now. And then through my terrible sickness and misery I hear words that at last bring home to me the mortal terror my perversity had earlier shielded me from. The extremity of my plight crashes in on me with devastating force.

“Come! We have dallied long enough. We must bring this splendid sacrifice to High Priestess Zela. Let all the people share our joy in this good fortune and most worthy challenge. We shall have a hunt and feast and orgy of retribution that will live in memory forever. And soon the world will be one less shriven, especially criminal male closer to perfection!”

Proof of Complicity

Even as I sob and writhe and cup my swelling testicles one dreaded word knells horrifically through my head: sacrifice! Clearly my reprieve by Moba is only death delayed. These women indeed mean to slay me, and undoubtedly in some spectacularly gruesome fashion.

The bloody tales of heart extraction brought back by the Spaniards recur in all their vile detail. Yet something tells me these Amazons practice rites that would make even the Aztecs blanch. After all, from their talk this is apparently a society composed exclusively of women, impractical as that may sound. They seem to have some kind of religious proscription against men in general and the s*x act in particular. Simple logic (not to mention the use of the word ‘shriven’) suggests the heart would not be the item of anatomy to draw the attention of their vengeance. And Moba’s warning against the wastefulness of a hasty unmanning indicates a preference for a particularly elaborate and drawn-out act of amputation. Futile as it will almost certainly be, the time has clearly come to attempt to communicate with these savages. No doubt no amount of eloquence will tell against the evidence of my insanely eager erection, and my all-too-obviously erotic response to their punishment of it. But I must at least try.

Given the situation, I’ll surely eventually be babbling pleas in the most abject fashion. For the moment however I find it impossible to marshal any words at all. I can barely even lift my head. And when I at least manage to focus my awareness past the nausea consuming me I see that beyond ensuring my continued prostration and captivity, the ladies are momentarily disregarding me anyways.

While Moba and Nera stand an unnecessary guard over me, the other four are foraging in the forest. When they emerge it is clear that ensuring my captivity – not to mention prostration – is indeed their immediate aim. While the motivation of the two stripping limbs and twigs from a trunk to form a long pole is uncertain, the fact that the other two are carrying great lengths of thin and limber vine indicates an unmistakable intent. They mean to bind me. And once again the Lady Abigail’s playful (and admittedly humiliating) dabbling in the delights of bondage is surely about to be rendered as insignificant as her erotic charms, essays in debasement and penchant for flagellation.

Tame as her play is proving to be though, my seriously deviant wife has obviously succeeded in warping me far more outrageously than I ever suspected. What more damning indictment of my own deviance could there be than what now proceeds? And what other explanation could there be for that deviance that the unsuspected effect of that precedent?

I am still debilitated by a roiling nausea and agony the likes of which the similarly un-afflicted can’t possible appreciate. I’m convinced that this bondage is the next ineluctable step in an ever worsening progression toward my savage castration and inconceivably fiendish execution. My terror is of the existential intensity that could easily prove fatal in and of itself. Yet as these barbarous beauties close back in upon and seize my helpless body I feel a bizarre renewal of that self-destructive yet irresistibly compelling derangement that has somehow managed to unseat my reason. As I’m rolled back over and have my arms wrenched unnaturally around behind me, I gasp not so much at the flash of pain as at that sick species of s****l excitement that accompanies it. The sob that escapes me is born not of despair but of a misery indicative of elemental confusion. I simply have no way to cope with the contradictory stew of emotions churning through me. And gods help me but this only grows worse as I’m so roughly manhandled and pitilessly restrained.

Looping one of those vines about my elbows, the women wrench them so tightly together they actually meet along the line of my spine. Only my inanition makes this possible, and still my shoulders are so bowed and their seating so stressed I can feel them threatening to pop out of their sockets. Gonadal assaults aside however, pain still proves an unconscionable aphrodisiac for me, one whose potency increases with intensity. Likewise the ever growing helplessness and debasement of my straits remains an ever more enthralling thrill, a compulsion the irresistibility of which I remain unable to guess the extent of even now. Here in the face of a death more horrific than I can bear to imagine, my warped libido continues to rule me in a way most would find unfathomable. By the time my elbows are secured the distress in my abdomen has been forgotten, and my badly abused member is again swelling against the soft turf it’s crushed into.

Next my hands must be bound despite their present uselessness. In a trice my wrists are lashed so tightly together the vines seem to grind my bones. Pinching the skin they sink so deeply in that my fingers are almost immediately numbed. Meanwhile, further ballooning my burgeoning and inexplicable relish for the terror, humiliation, exhilaration and pain of my predicament, another pair of overwhelmingly powerful and insanely alluring Amazons are at work on my lower limbs.

More exceedingly tight vines bind my ankles together, and my legs at just above the knees. In an effort to stem the surging of my idiotic excitement and obey the insanely evanescent imperatives of survival, I finally force my desiccated throat into use.

“Ladies, please…”

How I might have gone on from here must remain forever a mystery, even to me. One of my captors responds to this first attempt at communication by grabbing a fistful of my hair and stretching my head radically up and back. Another immediately rams a small, immature coconut into my mouth. Lodged immovably behind my teeth and forcing my jaws open to their very limit, this promptly robs me of any ability to speak. The most intelligible noises I’ll be capable of making from here on out are pleading whines, moans of conflicted distress and the eerie keening that escapes me whenever my ungodly excitement bursts all bounds of sense and restraint.