A Shipboard Romance
I followed her into my stateroom, my eyes drawn to the gently rhythmic swaying of her arse as it strained against the silky material of her bikini bottoms. I felt sure that this would be a keeper.
Michelle sat down on the edge of the bed, and leaned back kittenishly, thrusting out her ample chest for inspection; I felt sure that her brilliant green bikini was a size or two smaller than it ought to be, but I admired the effect. The thrill was not entirely intellectual and I was grateful that I was holding a towel against the front of my trunks.
“Care for a drink, darlin?” I asked;
Michelle had been keeping a porter busy supplying her with cocktails as she idled by the pool on the liner's top deck, so I was fairly sure she would respond positively.
“Ooh, Don, that would be lovely. I don't suppose you have any champagne chilled, do you?”
That was the second hurdle overcome; the first had been to entice her into my room.
“I'll just see what I can rustle up.” I replied, opening the door of the impressively proportioned mini-bar. As I reme
mbered there was a bottle of Lanson's non-vintage on the top shelf; well, there was no point wasting the good stuff until I was sure.
I withdrew the bottle, and made the usual production of popping the cork; as the fizz began to bubble from the bottle I filled two flutes about two thirds full. Turning swiftly I dropped the bottle into an ice bucket, to ensure that Michelle didn't get a look at the label.
I carried the glasses over to where she rested, her fine mid-twenties frame still displayed admirably, and sat down beside her. I handed her one of the glasses, and raised my own in prepa
ration for my toast.
“C'mon love. A toast. To shipboard romances; you can fall in love faster at sea than anywhere else on Earth.” This was bullshit of course; no one found true love on a cruise liner, the Love Boat notwithstanding.
We clinked glasses, and each swigged away half a glass or so of the dry fizzy sunshine.
“Top up?” I asked, already taking the glass from her.
This time I made sure that I had filled her glass right to the top; I returned it to her carefully, and again sat by her side.
“Is there anything you'd care to toast to darlin'?”
She wasn't the brightest bulb in the basket. “Erm, I dunno. Er, to true love.” With this inspiring toast made she once more went to clink glasses with me. As her glass approached mine I moved it just a fraction backwards, so that she gave it only a glancing blow. The momentum of her hand took her flute past mine, and, as she tried to halt her arm, she inevitably spilled most of it's contents over my bare chest.
As the bubbles fizzed against my chest hairs, and Michelle, now more than half drunk, gulped in surprise at what she had done, I adopted my sternest expression.
“Michelle, you naughty girl. You did that on purpose!”
“No, Don, it was an accident. I swear it was.”
“No, no. I saw it all; you moved your glass so that it'd miss mine, and splash me. You're just a naughty child.”
“Honest Don, I don't know how it happened. I must have taken my eye off your glass...”
“I don't buy that for a minute. You deliberately splashed me, and with good wine too. Your idea of a joke, I suppose.”
“No, Don, I don't know how it happened. I really don't” Her desperate repeated denials had the ring of truth. Of course, I knew they were true, so it was pretty easy to spot.
“Look Michelle, I think I better take that glass off you, before you throw the whole bloody thing at me.” I placed both glasses on a low table that stood just by the foot of the bed.
“Now then my girl, I know what a naughty girl like you needs.” My position next to her made it easy to reach across and grasp both of her elbows. I pulled her up, and across, and in less time than it takes to tell her glorious backside was propped up by my knee, presented for punishment.
“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?” she screeched, achieving impressive volume and pitch; idly I wondered if she was a singer, as she certainly had the necessary projection.
“I'm pretty sure that you'll work that one out. 'Though I'm sure this isn't the first time a naughty girl like you has been in this position.”
“Let me the fuck up, dickhead!” Wow, bad language as well, now. Certainly ample reason to spank her arse red!
I couldn't see any point in continuing the dialogue further, so I began to spank her instead.
I'd spent quite a bit of time on cruise ships, and my skin had taken on a kind of walnut brown hue. My hand, through the use of appropriate exercises, has taken on the texture of walnut too. Flattened, fingers together, and propelled by arm muscles developed by regular attendance at a gym, it was more like a paddle.
I walloped Michelle's bikini covered bottom, mainly catching her right buttock, and a distant pink glow appeared at once. I favoured the left side with similar attentions, and got broadly similar results.
Michelle lay across my lap alternating screeches of outrage, gasps of pain and extremely inventive expletive combinations. One or two of these were actually new to me!
I began to alternate smacks, mainly striking just below the bottom of her bikini, and her goosepimpled flesh quickly turned a fetching shade of crimson; well, I liked it anyway. Michelle might not have been quite as keen, what with having to return to her room, and with nothing to cover it.
Of course, she might not have to leave, depending on how things progressed. On average I find that 1 in 3 girls that I spank like this actually enjoys it, and stays for repeat performances. The others threaten to report me to the Captain, and are easily bought off with a few hundred quid, and a couple of bottles of good wine.
I like to spank, and I hate to waste time building up a relationship, only to find that my paramour has no interest in the corporal arts. I've found that a sharp spanking early on let's us both know where we stand, and whether the relationship has a chance.
As I let Michelle go, and she struggled to her feet, still swearing most foully, it was dreadfully clear that this particular romance was dead in the water.
She stood, rubbing her bottom, and proceeded to spend the next five minutes suggesting various things that I could do with myself. She calmed, marginally, when I apologised, telling her that I had obviously made a mistake in believing that she was into been spanked.
Her anger reduced another notch when I opened my wallet, and produced a bunch of fifties; the two bottles of '96 Moet were the final cooling touch. She took my offerings and we parted on relatively good terms.
Despite not finding a companion for the night I had been extremely excited by spanking Michelle, and so I found it remarkably easy to satisfy myself once I was alone again.
I had matched Michelle more or less drink for drink all afternoon, and so, my head gently spinning, I lay down on my bed for a short nap. I planned to be awake by eight to have dinner in the ship's main seafood restaurant.
I had perhaps drunk a bit more than I thought, as I slept through my alarm, and dinner, and, when at last a noise disturbed me, it was deep into the night. The dark of my cabin lay lie a blindfold across my eyes; it seemed to have a physical force.
The noise came again, and I tried to sit up, reaching for my bedside lamp with my right hand. My arm didn't move, staying twisted behind my back, and, without a lever to push with, I found I could not sit up either. In fact I was disoriented enough to not actually be sure which way was up.
The reason I couldn't push myself up was that my left arm was also twisted behind my back, and my two wrists were, in fact, joined together by handcuffs. Now, I didn't mind the odd bondage game, but I preferred to do the tying up.
I reacted in the obvious way. “Help!” I yelled, or rather, I tried to. A cloth, tightly bound across my mouth, prevented anything other than a rather equine snort from escaping.
Okay then, I thought, don't know what's going on, but it's probably a good idea to assess my position. Well, handcuffed, yes, clearly. Gagged as well. Maybe blindfolded; I could usually see at least vague shapes in the night. I tried to blink; while there was something against my face I couldn't rule out the possibility that my position was just forcing my face into the bedclothes.
I hated the feeling of being helpless, and of not knowing what was happening; I almost welcomed a sharp smack across my buttocks that came suddenly, from out of the dark.
“Hullo Don. You're awake I see.”
I was still a little dozy, and it took me a few moments to identify the voice as belonging to Michelle.
“About time. You've kept me waiting for far too long; there will be punishment for that, in a bit. Now are you comfortable? Handcuffs not too tight.”
I spluttered against the material that was, by now, working it's way into my mouth; my tongue was already fuzzy from the afternoon's alcohol, and I really didn't need anything making it worse.
“Cat got your tongue, has it? Nothing to say for yourself?” Michelle was clearly enjoying this, milking my plight for every cliché she could remember. How terribly banal.
As this thought passed through my mind it occurred to me that I really wasn't as frightened as I ought to be by my position. Taking the time to critique my jailer's use of the language did not strike me as normal behaviour when tied up and gagged.
Of course, I still didn't know what Michelle's intentions were. And I still couldn't fucking move. I might not have been frightened but I was certainly pissed off!
“Well, let's see what you've got to say for yourself, shall we?” Michelle leaned over, and, with a worryingly sharp knife, she sliced through the gag. She also flicked the switch on my bedside light; although it was bent tightly over and aimed at it's base there was still enough light to get some idea of my surroundings.
Well, I thought, I'm clearly not blindfolded. And I'm still in my own cabin.
“What do you have to say then? Fancy a good rant at me, do you?”
Purely in the spirit of awkwardness I decided not to answer for the moment; let's see how well Michelle deals with a bit of frustration!
The answer came painfully; she didn't care for frustration at all! I lay on my bed, on my front, with both arms drawn behind my back, and my face pressed into my pillow, left cheek downwards. As the loop of my arms had been pulled down to rest against the back of my thighs, my bottom was thrust vertically into the air.
My position was most uncomfortable, and rapidly became painful as she began to swat at my arse with a large wooden hairbrush. I had not seen it before so I assumed that she had brought it with her.
As it crashed into my bottom, time after time, she kept up a litany of questions, spitting them out like some dude in a Western with a mouth full of chewing tobacco.
“What do you think now, eh? Not so happy now, eh? What do you fucking think now? Having a good time, are ya? Do you like getting your arse tanned, eh? Well fucking do ya?”
“Alright, alright, alright! Stop it; I can't..ow! Talk while you keep..Ouch..doing that.”
The cascade continued for a few seconds more before she realised the truth of what I had said, at which she let the hairbrush drop to her side. I tried to reach up, to rub my smarting backside, but I was prevented from doing so by the damned handcuffs.
“I'm sorry. Honestly. It was just a mistake.”
“And what, exactly, was the mistake? Spanking me? I've been checking up on you; the purser has a file on you, you know. You've been pulling your spanking stunt all year; setting girls up to do something so you can justify putting them over your knee .”
“Yeah, er, well, yeah, but it's only to try to find someone as into it as I am. Like Becky was, in June.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But they only stay until the end of their cruise and then they're off, and you're alone. Again. Wouldn't you like someone to stay with you, just for once? Eh?”
“I don't know about that. I like to...experience different girls. I'd feel trapped with just one girl. I'm still young enough to sow a few oats.” Now I was descending into cliches.
“How about if you had someone with you with similar interests?”
“Yes, but all the girls that stay with me are into being spanked. It's kind of my reason for being here.”
“That's not what I'm talking about. How about a partner who also likes to spank?”
“No, that wouldn't work. I don't get off on being spanked. I'm strictly a top; always have been.”
“I'm not sure that the bulge I can see in your pajamas entirely bares that out; me and my hairbrush seem to have had some effect.”
I couldn't really argue with that, given that her view was better than mine, and I was aware of a certain stiffness in the area indicated. Of course there was always prevarication.
“I don't know about that, but I do know that I like to spank! That's all there is to it; I like to spank girls.”
“Good. Me too.”
“Eh? What did you...D'you mean...?”
“I like to spank girls. I like to spank boys too, of course. But mainly girls. What I'm proposing is that we travel together; I'm sure that, between us, we could find lots of ways to lure girls into....spanking situations.”
My mind raced; this couldn't be true. But deep down I believed every word, and I couldn't help imagining the possibilities if we worked together. The infidelity spankings we could work, with the crushed lover demanding to punish the girl who had led their partner astray.
I shivered with joy, and now I really grew hard. Michelle quickly spotted this too, and, as though she had read my mind, she knew that I was with her.
So, I was wrong. You can find true love on a cruise, and this then, is the tale of my shipboard romance.