Pussy Island

I’m in the back of a small but powerful boat, feeling the fresh salt wind blowing over my body and through my long, light brown hair as we make our way across the waters of the strait that separates Vancouver Island from the British Columbia mainland. The Strait of Georgia, or to call it by its modern, more native-inflected name, the Salish Sea, is littered with islands that range from large ones like Galiano and Thetis, to smaller and even tiny ones. The one we are headed for is officially known as Johnson Island on the map, if you have a map with a lot of detail and can read really tiny print, but informally it has another, more colorful name. Pussy Island.

Pussy Island is privately owned, and there isn’t much of anything there aside from a small but incredibly luxurious resort known as Fantasy Villa. It’s a bit like an X-rated version of Fantasy Island from the old television show. The brochures don’t really say a whole lot about it, and that’s the point. One of its attractions is that you aren’t supposed to know what will happen there, except that it will be powerfully sexual in ways you probably wouldn’t expect.

It’s for people who get off on the thrill of the unknown, the hint of the dark and dangerous, even though the organizations guarantee that you won’t come to any real harm there. Beyond that, things will happen to you, and you don’t get to know exactly what Until they happen. The forms I signed had a space for me to write down any really hard “no’s,” but it was a very tiny space, just big enough for me to rule out any really horrible and diabolic tortures, but not much else. But what’s the point of being surprised if you rule stuff out?

I’m the only person on the boat aside from the driver, who keeps his eyes on the water and his mind on his job without engaging in any chit-chat. I know I won’t be the only person at the resort, but I also know there will be very few other customers there. That’s why this adventure costs so much. It’ssupposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime exclusive experience, uncluttered by hordes of other travelers. According to the brochure, staff outnumber customers two to one.

I’m coming here because I desperately need to get out of a rut and blow thirty-five years of accumulated cobwebs out of my brain. I have a moderately interesting job, a moderately interesting boyfriend with whom I do moderately interesting sex once or twice a week, and a handful of moderately interesting hobbies. I need to rip the band-aid off my moderately interesting life and do something totally weird at least once before I die.

The boat throttles back, reverses briefly to kill its speed, and swings up to a small dock. While the driver reaches over, grabs the edge of the dock, and holds the boat against it, I pick up my small bag – a few changes of clothes and a small selection of toiletries — and hop onto the wooden surface of the dock. As soon as I’m off, the driver revs the outboard motor and heads out,leaving me wondering what to do next.

There’s a path leading from the end of the dock into the dense West Coast forest. “Follow the yellow brick road,” I think wryly to myself. I trust up the path and eventually see the resort ahead of me, looking very much like the pictures in the brochure. It’s surrounded by a high cement wall so I can only see the upper floors. It certainly does look luxurious.

I walk up to the tall door and knock. I half expect a little portal to open and an Emerald City guard to peer out, but that doesn’t happen. In fact, nothing happens. After standing for several minutes, feeling some foolish, I try the handle. It turns, and the door pushes open easily. Obviously, you have to be prepared to take things into your own hands here. I wonder what the two-to-one staff is for.

Inside, I find myself in a large courtyard dominated by an equally large pool. There is still nobody around, so I walk around the courtyard and explore. The total absence of other human beings is starting to feel downright creepy, but I guess downright creepy is part of what I signed on for.

There is a poolside bar, but of course, no bartender. I nervous myself up to do something I’d never think of doing anywhere else, and go behind the bar to help myself. On a shelf lady with bottles, I find an excellent single-malt Speyside Scotch, open a chest to find ice, and pour myself a generous glassful. Then I settle into a poolside chair and try to start relaxing as I sip my drink.

I am just beginning to get into my drink and this “Guess What” experience when I hear a sound that chills me to the bone. It’s from fairly far off, but clearly from inside the compound somewhere: a long, drawn-out woman’s scream. I can’t tell whether it’s a scream of pain, of terror, or maybe of some perverse kind of pleasure, but it does two things to me at the same time: it terrifies me, and it also goes up my spine with a kind of thrill, the same kind that you get when arollercoaster hesitates for a second at the very top just before it takes the plume that floods your body with adrenaline.

The most terrifying aspect of the sound is how it’s abruptly cut off in mid-scream. I listen and can’t hear another sound from that direction. It’s totally B-grade horror flick, but my knowledge that it’s very probably real raises my adrenaline level into the stratosphere.

I take a big gulp of my drink and try to centre myself. I’m sitting by a pool in the relatively rare West Coast sun, sipping a drink that I couldn’t normally afford, trying to get what I paid for in my Magical Mystery Tour holiday. “Shake it off, Samantha,” I tell myself firmly. “Just relax and wait for whatever will happen next.”

What happens next is that I feel a pair of hands grip my chair from behind and abruptly dump me onto the concrete pool deck. My drink goes everywhere, although miraculously my glass doesn’t shatter. I lie there for a few seconds, dazed, and then lookback at who dumped me. It’s one of the biggest and strongest-looking men I’ve ever seen outside of a WWE show. He has a big black bear, and he’s grinning at me.

The man reaches down, and I think he’s going to help me up. Not exactly. He grabs me by my hair and hauls me to my feet, which hurts exactly as much as you’d expect it to. Once I’m on my feet, he reaches out, grabs the neckline of my shirt, and rips it all the way down until it hangs in two sad pieces. He moves his powerful hands apart and the two pieces fly off in opposite directions and land on the pool deck.

I’m too stunned to react. I just stand there as he reaches around me and grabs my bra from either side of the clasp. Another pull, and the clasp breaks and the bra heads for the deck like the shirt. Then he grabs the waitband of my shorts and, with a powerful yank, pulls me off my feet. He does it expertly enough that, instead of hitting my head on the concrete pool deck, I career backwards into a locke chair and land in a heap with my legs in the air. He reaches down and yanks my shorts and panties off in one motion.

I get shakily to my feet wearing nothing but my sandals, too stunned even to try to cover myself with my hands. He stars at me for a minute, inspecting my medium-sized, firm breasts and my bare pussy, its labia peeking out between my legs.

He still says nothing, which seems to be the custom around here. I don’t know whether to be terrified or aroused. It’s all so suddenly, unexpected. I feel a bit of a sexual thrill run through me at suddenly being naked in front of this stranger, but I’m deeply frightened as well. What’s he going to do next?

What he does next is grab my left wrist and spin me around so I’m facing away from him. I feel steel encircle my wrist and He grabs my other wrist, twists it behind me, and ratchets the other cuff around it. Then he lets me go.

I turn and stand looking at him, naked, handcuffed and totally helpless. I’m aware of my nipples hardening and my pussy moisturening as another strange thrill begins to run through my body. This certainly isn’t the modernly interesting life I had paid all this money to escape.

I fully expect to be bent over a table and raped. Instead, the man grabs me by the chain joining my wrists and marches me back to the entrance door. He opens the door, unknownly shoves me outside, and slams the door behind me. I hear an omino click as it closes. I back up to the door and try the handle with my cuffed hands, and am not surprised when it doesn’t open.

Now what the fuck am I supposed to do? As usual, there’s no-one around, so I don’t feel quite as exposed as I otherwise would have, but I certainly feel afraid and helpless. I walk forward a few feet, and notice a camera mounted on a pole turn to follow me. Shit. How many pairs of eyes are staring at me like this, and from where? Am I just being ogled by a few staffers, or am I being uploaded to some porn site on the internet?

I contemplate my situation. Two paths lead away from the compound. I know that one leads down to the dock and dead-ends there, so there isn’t much point in trying that one. The other disappears into the undergrowth.

Suddenly I hear the crack of a gunshot and feel a sharp pain in my left asscheek. Instinctively I grab at the pain, and am relieved to find no blood. I look in the direction of the sound and see a man some distance away holding what appears to be a small-calibre rifle. I guess that I’ve been shot with a plastic bullet, the kind of less-lethal ammunition that police use when they’re trying to break up a riot.

I see the man work a bolt to lever another round into the chamber. It isn’t hard to make out the message he’s trying to send: run like hell.

I take off down the non-dock path, not caring where it goes as long as it’s away from the sniper. My ass is sore enough from one shot; I really don’t need any more. There’ll be a small but deep bruise there shortly, I figure.

Fueled by adrenaline, I run as fast as I can, although my stride is a bit awkward with my hands cuffed behind my back. I’m grateful that Pool Thug allowed me to keep my sandals when he ripped everything else off me: the path is gravel and stiffen with twigs and other forest debris, and not something I’d enjoy running on barefoot.

My breasts aren’t big enough to dangle and sway, but I’m aware of them jiggling in a slightly obscene way. I’m really not used to running without a sports bra, or anything else for that matter.

After a few minutes, I realize that no-one is chasing me, so instead of running myself into exhaustion I slow to a steady trot that I know I can keep up for a long time if I have to. I have no idea where I’m going, but I guess that’s part of the adventure I’ve signed up for.

Up ahead, I can see that the path forks. There doesn’t seem to be much to choose between the two directions: one looks about as less-traveled-by as the other. As I hesitate, I hear another crack and feel another sharp sting, this time on the outside of my left breast. I instinctively try to grab at the pain, but of course I can’t.

Shit. They’re trying to herd me. I take this latest hint and take off down the right-hand path.

I briefly consider leaving the path and striking off through the forest, Just for the sake of doing something other than what my hosts seem to want me to do. I quickly abandon that idea. The forest is thick with intertwining trees and other foliage, and I know I wouldn’t get far even if I weren’t handcuffed and naked. So I keep on trotting down the path, quickly losing all sense of direction as the path twists and turns seemingly at random.

I’m surprised to find that I’m enjoying this. I usually enjoy running, finding that it generates a flood of endorphins that are surprisingly similar to those that flood my brain during a good fuck. But this is differentt. There’s something about the mystery of what’s going on and the mixture of excitement and fear generated by being shot at that’s ramping up the sexual side of the whole experience. Being naked and handcuffed probably isn’t hurting either.

I feel my nipples hardening and my pussy moisture again, and a rising tingle spreading outward through my body starting from my clip. The farther I run, the more the feeling Intensifies until I finally have to stop for a minute as I shudder through a mini-orgasm. I clnch my fists and scrunch my eyes shut as the sensing washes over me. Then, mindful of the fact that the snipers obviously want me to keep going, I take off again.

I don’t meet any more snipers, but I keep moving because there isn’t much else I can do. I have no wish to just stand around waiting for Another plastic bullet to urge me onward.

I come around yet another curve, and up ahead I see the wall of the compound. Fuck. I’ve been made into running in a huge, complicated circle, and I’m back where I started.

I prepare to run past the compound and take the other fork in the path when I come to it, not wanting to risk another shot in the ass by dallying around, when I notice one difference from when I last saw the compound wall. The door is standing open. I run through it and kick it closed behind me, and it makes a satisfying click when it closes. I try the handle and find that it’s locked again. Good.

Now what? I don’t seem to have accomplished a thing except to get a lot of exercise and a couple of crueles. I sit in a poolside chair, figuring that there isn’t much to do except to wait around for something to happen. Things seem to happen a lot around here, and I suspect that I won’t have to wait very long.

After a few minutes, Pool Thug reappears. For a change, he talks to me.

“Hi, Sugar Tits. Enjoy your run?”

“Not really. I normally enjoy running, but it’s better without being shot in the ass.”

“Would you like to get those handscuffs off?”

“Yes, I really would. They’re making it awfully difficult to enjoy the resort amenities around here.”

“You’ll have to earn it.” He starts unzipping his pants.

I’m not really surprised at this development. I stand up, walk over to him, and get awkwardly to my knees as he drops his pants and reveals a cock that’s in proportion to the rest of his body – that is, the Largest I’ve seen in my admittedly some limited experience of cocks. I stretch my mouth as wide as I can to keep my teeth out of the way and start sucking.

Pool Thug interlaces his fingers behind my head to keep me from moving it back as he drives his cock further into my mouth with each thrust. Soon he’s hitting the entrance to my throat. Fortunately, I don’t have a very strong gag reflex, and I’ve practiced control it so I can deep-throat a man if I want to. This comes in handy right now as he gives a particularly deep thrust and forces his cock down my throat. I feel my neck bulge slightly as the giant cock-head pauses as far in as he can get it, his balls banging against my chin. He holds it there for what feels like forever, but in reality is probably only ten or fifteen seconds, then pulls back to allow me to gasp for air. Then in it goes again.

This goes on for what feels like a long time. I run my tongue along the bottom of his cock to give it extra stimulation, and when he pulls back enough that I can reach it, I tweedle my tongue over his pee-hole. I’m trying to encourage him to anxious up and cum so I can move on before the rough concrete of the pool deck rubs the skin off my knees.

I really shouldn’t be enjoying this, but find that I am. I’ve sucked cock lots of times before, and am often naked when I’m doing it, but I mostly do it because I want to Please my partner in the hope that he’ll please me back. I’ve never been forced into it, and I’ve never done it in handcuffs. I find the situation unaccountably thrilling.My pussy moistures again, and pre-orgasmic tension begins to radiate from my clip up through my abdomen.

I’ve had a few partners who, obviously having uncritically consumed a little too much porn, have put their hands around my neck and tried to choke me when we’re fucking. I most emphatically do not like that, and always put a stop to it right away. But being half-asphyxiated by this monster cock feels different. It’s erotic in a way I’ve never experienced before. The orgasm keeps rising in my body, something that has never happened before as a result of just sucking someone else’s body part.

The sensing intensifies and spreads until I’m desperate for release. Just as my throat is plugged with cock once again, it breaks over me with a rush. I want to scream with pleasure, but I obviously can’t right then. I also want to clnch my teeth, but that would be exactly the wrong thing to do. So I just make a tough “Ggggkkkkkkk” noise and wait for the cock to pull back and let me gasp for air again.

Sometimes I squirt when I cum, but most often I don’t. This time I’m aware of a big gush of fluid pouring out of my snatch and spreading on the concrete between my knees like an eruption of the most extensive pleasure I can remember. Pool Thug notices, and stops thrusting for a minute to let me finish. A smile of what appears to be satisfaction spreads across his face, as if milking an orgasm out of me is his only end in life. Then he goes back to deep-throating my face.

I have no idea how long this goes on, but eventually he starts getting that pretty ageed look on his face that men get when they’re about to cum. I suddenly think with alarm, what if he cums when he’s all the way down my throat? Would I be able to handle it or would it break past my gag-defenses and leave me half-drowned with cum? But as he makes a last grunt and starts spewing cum, he pulls back so it fills my mouth rather than my throat.

I try to hold it allin my mouth, and mostly succeed, although I can feel a little dribble escape. I wait until he finishes shooting his load and pulls out of my mouth, then clamp my lips tight around my mouthful of semen and swallow. He holds his softening cock in front of my mouth, and I lick and suck it clean for him.

He stands, pulls up his pants and fastens his belt. Then he reaches in a pocket and pulls out a key. I stand and turn around, and he unlocks my handscuffs and puts them in his pocket with the key. He reaches around me and give a boob a farewell squeeze – fortunately, he picks the one that isn’t bruised – and wordlessly walks away from me and disappears.

Well. That certainly isn’t the way I normally spend my afternoons. But I’m still gently blissed out in the afterglow of what never before would have counted as a really good fuck.

I’m suddenly aware of how hot and sweaty I am from my wild-goose chase through the forest, There’s also a bit of cum on my face from where I hadn’t been able to control it all, and lots of pussy juice on the insides of my thighs from my massive squirt. The pool suddenly looks intensely inviting.

I slide into the water, which is just cool enough to be wonderfully refreshing, and swim a few leiurely lengths. I don’t think I’ve ever had the opportunity to swim nude before, and I reveal in the feel of the water as it slides over my breasts, down over my belly and between my legs, washing away the stickiness and caresing my skin like a gentle hand.

After a few more lengths, I stop and rub the residual stickies off my face and crotch, then float and relax, still relishing the last blissful afterglow of my weird blowjob-induced orgasm. Eventually I start getting cold, and I haul myself reluctantly out of the water, take a towel from a stack conveniently left on a table, and dry off. I go back to the bar and pour myself another Scotch to replace the one that Pool Thug had made me spill. There’s a bottle of sunscreen on the end of the bar, and I use it generally, particularly on the more delicate bits that aren’t used to direct sunlight. Then I spread the towel on the pool deck, stretch out, and enjoy the afternoon sun as it warms away the goosebumps from the cool water.