The Supplication of the Male Pig

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

“So kind of you, number one,” a somnolent David compliments with singular sincerity.

The obsequious girl, remaining completely naked, licks and sucks the well worn appendage of her employer. Meanwhile girl number two, lying prostrate on the opposite side of David’s bed, applies a gentle tongue to his scrotum, laps with fervor then sucks his right testicle into her mouth. Dawn was hours ago and David finally stirs, raising his head to realize that both girls are performing oral service. Knowing that he will encounter another long day of debauchery, he lies back and allows himself only a few more minutes of ecstasy. Finally, in a rare concession to moderation, left hand and right entwine in feminine hair and slowly pull back, terminating the assiduous dual oral efforts.

“Let’s shower, shall we girls?”

Yes, the huge shower stall, quite unusual in a maritime vessel, was the deciding feature when David reviewed the catalogue of yachts available for charter. Whoever the owner is, he is either incapacitated and requires much space for ablutions, or he is as much a libertine as David. Whatever the case, whenever David the heir encountered such unique features in hotels, resorts, yachts, or even as a guest in someone’s home, he always made a mental note for when his inheritance materialized and he could plan his own facilities of s****l turpitude. Now it is time for David the disgustingly wealthy to implement such plans. The Isla Dragonera monastery will benefit from his touch.

When the trio steps into the large shower stall and David experiences the thrill of being caressed by two sets of soft and soapy hands, he concludes that the monastery at Isla Dragonera will indeed have at least one similar facility... perhaps with an outsized bathtub as well. And of course there will be young women to serve... naked... willing... completely supplicated to his will.

Within minutes David’s entire body is soothingly cleansed. With the billion dollar pecker brought to even a fuller stand, David knows to save his energy for a long afternoon of sodomy. He once again exercises moderation.

“Do each other girls... nice and clean between those cheeks.”

So the duo become entertainment of a more exhibitionist nature. And David notes that the numbers adorning each left buttock are indeed indelible. Two gorgeous aspiring models marked like chattel... it brings thoughts of real ownership. With vast sums at his disposal, why not? The thought intrigues... he could purchase a harem... and tattoo each with his initials... there are impoverished countries where such procurement goes unnoticed. And what governmental authority will interfere with his defacto rule over Isla Dragonera?

His imagination reels as the girls frolic, washing each other with David giving explicit instructions to assure all pink parts are exposed to his gaze for inspection. Yes, he imagines, all those well shaped rumps prancing about his island paradise and bearing his initials... yet a tattooed numbering system might be less confusing. There will be so many...

A couple hundred miles behind the schooner, Heather’s dauntless crew motors onwards. They cruise at a faster speed but must stop for fuel every five hundred miles, which gives the schooner an hour of sailing to recoup some of its lead.

Nimba sleeps. Zuta has taken over the helm. Macumba stands watch with a concealed Uzi at the ready for modern day pirates and hijackers. Heather and Mylee test the electronic equipment and establish service with the satellite phone. All is well.

By mid morning, the southerly route brings early warmth and the subterfuge continues with each girl donning the briefest of bathing suits. Any binoculars trained on the steadily cruising boat will ignore any unusual features, focusing instead on the likes of Zuta, who stands on the flying bridge in near nakedness... her bikini really just two strings and a set of small patches to cover the dark pink of n*****s and mons.

Or perhaps Macumba’s more muscular form entices. A sizable pair of sculpted globes immodesty split by a slim cord and otherwise completely exposed to the Atlantic Ocean sunshine. No coveting eyes would suspect the intensity of the crew’s mission.

Heather tries the satellite phone. A young female voice answers.

“Megan, this is Mom. We’re off the coast of Portugal and will be passing Gibraltar in darkness, as scheduled. How are things in Palma?”

Though only 18 years of age and not one to concentrate on serious matters, Heather’s daughter has been assigned a task she can facilely handle... check into the fashionable Palma Hotel in Majorca and party.

Having done as instructed the night before, a sleepy Megan responds.

“It’s quiet here, Mom. A handsome bartender told me it’s early in the season. People don’t come until September.”

“Just stay there, have fun but be diligent. Bad Boy is a day’s sail ahead of us. Look for him to check in some time tomorrow afternoon. Stop by at Parma Realtors and see if you can pick up some buzz. Mrs. Mendez likes to talk. But don’t ask about him specifically. If he’s there and about to make the buy, you’ll hear about it. News of the purchase will spread rapidly.”

Heather really is not relying on daughter Megan to locate Bad Boy. She’s relying on Bad Boy to locate daughter Megan. Megan is strikingly beautiful with a degree of voluptuousness that David Farnsworth Smythe, target name ‘Bad Boy’, has been known to find attractive. Heather is confident that upon docking in Palma, Smythe will tire of his well used concubines and strive for ‘fresh meat’. Since the tourist season is weeks away there will be slim pickings for Bad Boy... with Megan standing out like rare filet mignon amongst the over cooked chuck stew meat of middle aged vacationers.

Heather terminates the expensive call. There are more tasks at hand.

“Are we out of sight of land, Zuta?”

“No. Lisbon is just on the horizon.”

“Steer to starboard a bit. I want to set up the frame.”

Zuta complies and within minutes the barely discernible tinge of green and brown evidencing the country of Portugal off to port disappears from view. Macumba alertly scans for other boats. Nothing can be seen as Mylee and Heather carry four thick lengths of wood from below. The four inch by four inch beams are bolted together to form a rectangle. They lift to position it upright. It stands a little over five feet high and some four feet wide. Numerous eye bolts adorn the inside perimeter. A heavily gauged hook is centered on the outside perimeter of the top beam.

“Simple but effective, Mylee. We probably could have planned to fabricate something similar on the island ourselves. But one must be certain. I did not see any spare lumber during my tour. And we won’t have time to cut down trees.”

Mylee nods and pictures the helpless mass of a male suspended within the sturdy four pieces of lumber. With legs bent back and arms secured behind, the configuration can easily accommodate the kneeling form of a man of six feet.

Heather notes that in surveying the frame her crew of assertive women collectively smile, each anticipating the day it can be used... used to incapacitate the male beast ... particularly a misogynist who views women as nothing more than a receptacle for his sperm.

While the frame is disassembled aboard the cabin cruiser, the schooner turns east on a heading to negotiate the Strait of Gibraltar and enter the Mediterranean. Watching number one and two saunter about the decks, with the mate receiving a rousing blow job from number two, restores David’s libido. Since number one has been designated as his daytime receptacle he once again decides that the port rail is a suitable place to have the firm, well rounded buttocks displayed to await his pleasure. In nearing the Rock of Gibraltar the traffic in tourist boats increases, yet David commands that number one remain leaning over the rail, thighs parted, cheeks high, breasts dangling toward the sea, a well lubricated sphincter awaiting his s****l caprice.

“Please, Mr. Smythe, the people in the other boats are looking at me.”

Our billionaire reprobate merely smiles, reading an erotic novel and sipping a mimosa offered by number two.

“It’s probably because that squeaky clean and well lubricated rectum of yours reflects in the sun. You’ve outdone yourself in applying the unguent this morning. Getting a little sore there are you?” David mocks.

Finally, with one of the world’s most renowned geological wonders coming into sight, David stirs from his chair. What better way to view the natural beauty of the Rock of Gibraltar than to be tactlessly engaging in sodomy while the schooner sails past?

“Hands behind your head now, number one.”

The girl knows to spread even further and relax her puckered aperture as best she can. In broad daylight, in full view of a dozen or more passing boats, our billionaire zips open his shorts to begin his twice daily rite of sodomy. His stiffness slips into the gluteal cleft and quickly finds the desired tight opening. With a firm thrust he enters to produce a girlish squeal followed by a moan of both discomfort and embarrassment. To further the humiliation, he leans and enshrouds the girl’s torso with his arms, cupping her swaying breasts. He lifts to more fully display the nubile glands. When he begins a milking motion, the horn of a passing ship blares, the binoculars of the bridge crew trained with glee on the scene of depravity.

David’s right hand momentarily leaves the soft warmth of number one’s bosom to wave a friendly greeting. Then he draws back his hips to forcefully plunge to full depth. There comes another squeal as an equally embarrassed number two stands to his side, naked and holding a tray with a second mimosa.

‘It seems so nice that the Farnsworth Smythe fortune is finally being properly spent’, David amusingly thinks to himself, ‘providing entertainment for the masses.’