The Supplication of the Male Pig

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

While Heather’s bevy of determined beauties navigates the North Sea, David’s chartered schooner sails from Southampton with the morning tide. As expected, the captain is instructed to set a leisurely course and speed, avoiding bad weather and limiting contact with other ships. By early afternoon all signs of civilization disappear from every quadrant and the wealthy reprobate gives the command.

“Clothing overboard girls.”

The highly paid duo strip as commanded and David delights in watching the only feminine attire permitted on board, that which had to be worn in strolling past the harbormaster, be tossed over, partially sink into the blue of the ocean and then slowly float away in the schooner’s wake. The girls have been promised a long shopping spree upon arriving in Majorca. Meanwhile they’ll begin to deviantly earn their pay, going without benefit of covering for the entire journey and displaying saucy posteriors that the sodomite cannot ignore.

“You’ll both need to stay properly lubricated for the entire voyage,” a contemptible David lectures in mockingly dangling a sizable tube of unguent. “I’ve promised the crew a taste of your talents.”

David laughs wickedly, surveying the deck while the girls bend and fingers shimmering with goo slip into gluteal clefts. There are at least a half dozen pieces of equipment over which he’ll be bending one of the well spread girls during each of the ensuing days. He needs to decide which girl and where to begin. But for now, a railing will suffice, nicely sized t**s hanging over the port side in a seductive offering of bait to the ocean’s marine life.

Miles north, at about the time of David’s initial lustful thrust into the greased but tight anal cavity of one expensive escort, Nimba checks the global positioning system and adjusts her course just a tad to starboard. There, five hundred meters off the bow, is the tramp steamer to be met. She calls out to Heather who exits from the cabin, satchel in hand. She nods to Mylee who stands by the mast and raises the flag of Bolivia, a land locked country the national symbol of which is rarely seen at sea. It is the agreed upon signal and the steamer blows its whistle and idles its engines. As the cabin cruiser nears, Heather holds up the satchel, indicating that she possesses the medium expected to be exchanged.

“Check everything carefully, Macumba. It’s a small transaction for these rascals, but rogues are rogues,” Heather advises.

With the years of martial arts and weapons training, Macumba smiles self-assuredly. Unknown to the crew of the steamer, Zuta is below deck with the only weapon the team dared carry aboard in exiting Scotland. She has a spear gun normally used for fishing, but adapted after departure for more serious pursuits with a high explosive charge mounted on the tip.

When dealing with gun runners, one must take precautions. If need be the notable thrust of the spear gun can easily propel the explosive to the steamer’s bridge taking out the captain and the center of command. Thereafter, Mylee, Zuta, Nimba and Macumba can easily handle a distracted and leaderless group of rapscallions.

A crane lowers a cargo net stuffed with crates and ridden atop by a swarthy member of the crew. Large and appearing reasonably strong, Macumba smiles at him. Ostensibly her look is one of pleasant greeting. Actually it is one of confidence in quickly assessing that she could permanently incapacitate the out of shape sailor with one blow.

The net and its contents rest in the well of the cabin cruiser and the paunchy sailor steps aboard. Heather offers the satchel. He will count the contents while Macumba inspects.

Crates are randomly opened. Weapons, semi automatic assault rifles, pistols, ammunition, explosives are noted. A modern well padded plastic box contains a satellite dish. Other boxes contain computers and communication gear.

“Why bother smuggling that stuff?” the sailor sarcastically inquires, looking up from his task and referring to the seemingly innocuous electronics.

“We got a good buy,” Heather replies with a shrug, not giving away her intent.

She did not want anyone in Scotland to know of her purchases nor see such being loaded onto the cabin cruiser. The guns she had to smuggle aboard at sea, the other equipment rode for free as far as she was concerned.

The sailor finishes and waves to the bridge. The cargo net is emptied and the various crates stowed.

“Don’t you girls hurt yourselves with that stuff,” the brazen sailor smugly proclaims, adding to the sarcasm while stepping back into the net.

As the crane begins to lift, Macumba’s lightning fast foot catches the rogue squarely in the groin. With her training she knows the pointed toe of her boot has smashed at least one of the two pink and sensitive targets. He cries out gasping for breath. A stunned hand drops the satchel while the net continues to rise, abrogating his sole duty... to bring back the cash. Macumba laughs as the man struggles to both catch his breath and desperately retrieve the fallen satchel. Nimba revs the engines and begins the process of separating from the steamer. Macumba smilingly notes the wounded rogue’s panic, graciously picks up the bag and effortlessly tosses it up and into the rising net... saving the sailor his job... and in view of the unsavory demeanor of his employer... possibly his life.

“We’ll meet again,” she ominously informs the sheepish sailor, now clutching the cash as he would his life.

His expression of shock slowly changes to one of relief, thankful in realizing that he unknowingly toyed with the devil and escaped with only the wounding of his pride and one gonad.

On the schooner hundreds of miles to the south...

“Don’t leave a trace girls, complete service is all part of the compensation plan.”

While Heather’s team acquires serious firepower, David rests while two glamorous and totally naked girls humbly kneel on all fours orally cleansing his pecker of every remnant of anal penetration.

“Dinner time nears and you can be dessert,” he taps the unused girl on the nose. “And you’ll do the crew,” he indicates to the one whose backside just served as a tight and warm receptacle for his sperm.

‘I do hope Majorca does not come too quickly’ a satiated David thinks to himself. ‘This yachting thing can be fun.’

David always enjoyed sensing the intense humiliation in doing a girl doggie style and frictioning a portal where the recipient’s pleasure is most limited. And grasping that those swaying titties adds such an intensifying dimension to the ignominy...

To the north, Heather’s army speeds away from the notorious vessel of contraband. Though Macumba would enjoy more of the entertaining confrontation, the many crates need careful stowing as the course brings the boat southwestward to the Strait of Dover and the North Sea narrows such that the cabin cruiser’s passage can be observed from both England and France.

To camouflage the earnest crusade, Heather gives the command and the late afternoon sun proves warm enough to don skimpy bathing suits. Observers may be attracted to the all female crew, but their gaze will focus on feminine pulchritude, not the weaponry surreptitiously stored below. All the girls wave to the cheers and whistles of passing ships. No one would suspect that with the crew’s training and the arsenal stored below deck, the cabin cruiser could successfully skirmish with a small navy.

Heather, not giving away an iota of beauty, marvels at the muscling displayed by her trio of former body guards. The brash sailor was lucky to be lifted away before attempting any reprisal. Macumba’s arms are those of a boxer. And in viewing the dynamic thighs, Heather realizes she held back her power in applying booted foot to brazen balls. Any ensuing scuffle would have been quick.

Still, Heather is more serene when dusk arrives and the lights of both England and France disappear as the Strait of Dover widens to form the English Channel. With nightfall, the boat will be refueled in the quiet seclusion of the Channel Islands. It is not important to overtake the yacht of David Farnsworth Smythe. But they cannot fall far behind. Their timing will be imperative in accomplishing their mission.

David finds the sphincter of girl number two to be pleasingly tight as she suppresses a groan of discomfort. Never one to remember names and not able to peer into their faces during his preferred form of debauchery, David’s wicked mind concludes that some form of identification is necessary to sort things out during the course of the journey. Thus after reaming with particular force, he spurts an impressive load of hot semen deep into the rear passage then rolls into a waiting deck chair.

“Get a marker from the captain,” he commands his conquest of early afternoon, humbly waiting nearby to begin the mandated oral cleansing.

Yes, David likes to make one girl watch while he vanquishes the tight aperture of another. It’s an affectation the girls seem to most dislike and therefore it enthuses his manly efforts.

When the girl returns with the marker he notes with satisfaction that the ink is indelible, intended to leave legible writing even while enduring the moisture of the sea.

“You’re number one,” he announces in gesturing that the girl turn her back.

The indicated digit is scrolled with magnitude on her left buttock.

“And you’re number two,” he proclaims to the girl recovering from the latest episode of sodomy, adorning her left cheek with the suggested digit in equally large and embarrassing script.

“Now, I believe it’s cleaning time...”