The Gimp

C-119 in Secluded Air Space, Pacific Ocean – September 13, 2008-1

C-119 in Secluded Air Space, Pacific Ocean – September 13, 2008

Sitting astride the cage in near nakedness at some 10,000 feet brings lascivious thoughts. But more arousing is the steady hum and vibration of the huge reciprocating engines. Thus there is renewed lust found in what has been for nearly three years the daily humdrum of unsurpassed oral satiation.

“Yes, my Gimp, one last time before you’re banished. Serve your mistress well. Take in every little drop. It will be your last after nearly three years. Slow death will follow and thoughts of torment always bring me such incredible orgasms.”

Seated atop, facing the hatbox sized enclosure welded to the top of the otherwise rectangular cage, a feminine hand gruffly tugs on a slim chain. With the opposing end attached to a deeply set nostril ring, the slightest jostle instantly grasps attention. An enormous tongue extends. The well bound form shuffles to strain against its bonds. The leather covered face rises then presses forth. Lips greet the tender pink portal of femininity. Tenuous licks commence, then oral servitude begins in earnest, the perimeter of the outer labia disappearing as a well trained orifice knowingly engulfs to offer pleasure.

The woman relaxes her grip on the nostril chain and leans back to enjoy her last ride, sensing the tongue thrusting deeply into her mons.

“If the pilot is just a little off, you will have the luxury of drowning rather than slowly starving to death. Though in the tropical heat a more accurate post mortem may be death by dehydration... dying of thirst.

“So, my Gimp, enjoy my juices. Your last drink. The copilot spent most copiously. He’s amazingly well hung and ingesting his fluids may serve to extend your life. And you’ve come over the years to so much enjoy the taste of sperm.”

Sighs, uncontrollable moans, a lurch as edentulous gums find an engorged c******s then press close to gently squeeze and enhance the ecstasy. A long tongue cleanses vaginal walls. Male fluid is hungrily consumed. Finally there comes a shriek of joy and a spasmodic clenching of the thighs just as the orange signal light begins to slowly blink.

The woman leans forward and slips away a leather patch covering the eyes.

“One last glimpse for the Gimp,” she mockingly offers.

Soft adoring eyes blink then quickly adjust to the relative darkness of the windowless cargo hold. Rarely sighted, the form absorbs the beauty of the thighs and well trimmed mons he has pampered and worshiped for years.

“Oh, those aren’t tears are they? I believe you’re going to miss the daily humiliation of cleansing my love nest. And you have been so good. But you’re tiresome. I never thought keeping a man in constant bondage was such a burden.”

Hands extend and thumbs gently brush away the moisture. Then most cruelly the leather patch is replaced, fingers smoothing to assure the velcro properly adheres.

“Think of me and all the nurturing essence I’ve offered. For nearly three years we fulfilled each other’s emotional needs... and physical. Now its time to move onward.”

The orange signal light begins to blink more quickly to indicate proximity to the target. The twin-engine C-119, otherwise known as the flying boxcar, has served numerous purposes over its long life. The huge rear hatch door can lower to become a large ramp, dispensing cargo as large as an automobile. Also used to transport paratroopers, the blinking light suggests that the pilot has the island in sight and the hatch door needs to be lowered. But there are no airborne troops to dispatch, only a gleaming cage of stainless steel with cables attached to a nearby parachute.

The satiated woman lifts her right thigh to dismount and swing herself from the cage, stepping to the floor of the cargo hold. With the nostril chain slackened the hooded head lowers into the body of the cage. The woman retrieves a gag and presses it into an obeisant mouth. More strips of velcro hold it in place. Then she reaches to flip closed the small barred door which, other than slipping a hand between numerous steel bars, offers the only access. A simple clasp serves to clip it in place. She then slips on her skirt as the copilot enters from the cockpit.

“We have it in sight. There’s not much wind but it’s still going to be a crapshoot to land the cage on dry land.”

“He may just have to swim,” the woman flippantly declares.

The copilot pulls a lever. There comes a rush of air as the enormous hatch door lowers. A large patch of blue sky brightens the cargo hold. The reverberation shifts, the steady hum lowering as the plane slows. The copilot quickly checks the cables attached to the four corners of the cage. Then he positions himself. The woman steps to the cage to assist.

“Just a slight push to help me get it rolling... at the green.”

Seconds pass. The green light illuminates. A gentle shove begins the slide, the cargo hold floor littered with roller balls. The woman remains still as the copilot effortlessly steps, pushing to keep the momentum going. Within ten feet of the bright and windy opening he stops, gives a final push with his arms and steps to the side to avoid the cables. The cage, Gimp within, glides over the edge and out into the thin air. It drops to disappear. The cables snap taut and slither. Then the continuing velocity of the plane causes the parachute to follow. It slips over the edge, unravels and opens perfectly, the billowing white seeming to glow in the tropical sun.

“Think he’ll ever be found?” the copilot smugly inquires.

“Perhaps in my lifetime... but certainly not in his,” the woman replies with a wicked snort.

“Why do it this way?”

“Because I can. And what a provocative anthropological find he will make. Makes me giddy to think of the mystery this will create a few decades hence. The discovery of a well bound skeleton permanently sealed in a perfectly preserved cage. There isn’t much that will corrode or cause to erode stainless steel. I bought the best.”

Unnamed Island, South Pacific – September 13, 2008

The endless relative silence is broken by the deep hum of engines. Captain Cocoa Michelle looks skyward, cries out, waving, her massive arms thrusting her hands toward the deep blue in a feverish attempt to pluck the airplane from the sky. She calms and reaches for her mirror, always with her. She steps to align the sun. But she finds herself in the interior of the island, working on her pathways, clearing brush, collecting fruit. She moves from the shade of thick mangoes to stand in direct sunlight. But in looking up finds that an over hanging branch blocks the reflecting light. She scrambles to move again. Having not before used the simple signaling device, not a ship or airplane in some three months, she finds the task, positioning herself then aligning to assure the reflected rays are properly directed, requires a more comprehensive effort than contemplated.

So much time has been spent on the beach awaiting such a moment. Yet, when it has finally come she is in the dense greenery! Unprepared and unrehearsed!

She moves again. But the plane is directly overhead. A perfectly aimed beam of light will not be seen by the crew! Then she spies the billowing white of a parachute. Supplies! Somehow the pilot noted her presence and dropped a package of food and survival gear.

She is saved, for sure her position recorded. A boat will appear in a few days. Henceforth, she will stay on the beach and be ready. Yet she can not revel in the joy of relief. She must retrieve the supplies. Thus she dispenses with the signaling mirror, her eyes carefully following the parachute. Towards home base! Bare feet swiftly propel from the undergrowth toward the beach where her view will be unencumbered.

Through the trees and underbrush her eyes continue to follow the pillows of white, noting as it nears the earth that there glints something below. She has envisioned a crate. Curious that it shines in the sun.

It is also curious that the plane has neither circled nor descended to assure the safe delivery of the provisions.

Captain Michelle reaches the pure white expanse of the beach. The parachute has descended to within hundreds of feet. But it is out to sea! Then winds whipped by ocean thermals take it in a new direction. A side stream of air blows the cargo toward the atoll. Eyes and judgment that have docked a hundred boats extrapolate the speed and direction. Feet once again propel. The survival package will land in the lagoon! Captain Cocoa dashes to the water, thigh muscles athletically rippling in instant reaction to the need for haste. Into the shallows of the warm, calm waters of the Pacific. Up to her knees. Then her waist. Should she swim? No. Walking briskly on the sand covered coral bottom will suffice. She will need her hands and arms ready to prevent the package from sinking.

But as it nears she finds it is not a package. Gleaming steel! Bars! Something inside!

Cognition stalls as the need to grasp the package and keep it buoyant overrides analysis. It splashes. Powerful hands grasp the bars. Something within stirs. It is alive! Arm muscles contract. Feet reverse course. Captain Cocoa rapidly pulls back toward land, laboring to keep the cage from sinking too far. The parachute captures gusts of air to assist. Yet it is ponderous. She quickly ascertains that once touching the bottom, the weight and the resistance of the fine sandy bottom will make it balky to drag ashore.

As she labors her eyes focus on the contents. It is naked human being! It thrashes against restraints as the cage partially submerges. Head completely cloaked in black leather, a glance to the chest divulges gender. In her near nakedness, there come odd thoughts of gratitude that the caged beast is blindfolded.

‘My survival package is a caged male!’

Confusion cast aside, a well muscled Captain Cocoa struggles to waters more shallow. The parachute sinks into the lagoon to become more anchor than aid. Feverish efforts slow and by the time her energy depletes, no longer able to keep the cage from sinking, the bottom bars greet the sand covered coral in depths of one foot. She rests, noting that her cargo is safe, kneeling in water halfway up the thighs of bended legs.

“Who the hell are you?” she blurts between gasps of breath.

Hotel Kuana, Honolulu – September 14, 2008

The woman reaches down to viciously twist a n****e. The naked form beneath bucks in response. The spastic wrenching brings the sudden thrust of penetration desired. Her thighs clench in reaction. She releases the pink nub and playfully but firmly slaps the face of her supine lover. It stings. She knows it. She smiles.

“Good boy. I’m not quite tired of you yet. Want to come for me?” her tone mocks.

Pubo coccygeus muscles contract to maximize her v****a’s grip on the stiffness within. She jostles her hips and on cue the mammoth rod gives up its hot essence. Her living dildo spurts. The woman smiles, her sense of total control always serving to augment the joy of many lustful interludes.

The sheepish copilot groans in satiation.

“Well trained, you are. Climaxing at my command. Such an obedient boy. But I miss the Gimp. Care to try a taste?”

Having been orally cleansed after every s****l encounter over the past three years, the Gimp is missed within just 24 hours. The copilot shakes his head.

“Not my type of scene. If your needs are so dire why did you rid yourself of him.”

“Men are toys. Every toy gets cast aside, lost or broken at some point.”

The woman dismounts smiling in noting the huge but rapidly deflating organ that she rode to orgasm. She has tamed the beast. At least that is her thought.

The woman slips on her robe and reaches to her purse.

“The matinee is over, big boy. Buy yourself something,” her voice sardonic in tossing a roll of bills to land between naked thighs clammy with sweat.

“That’s it?”

“You’re good. But not that good. Tonight I’m going to try some native flesh. I understand the islander pricks are rather stout. Be a nice change, don’t you think?”