Life and Death on the Ocean Waves by Mark

When the card came in the post, I was amazed. I did not even remember entering the competition. But first prize was a two-week cruise on a swanky ocean liner and I had won it. I had to make hurried arrangements, but was there at the dock, on the day, and climbed on board. But that is just me. As I often tell the chicks who work for me, I am an alpha dog. Good things happen for me. And if they cannot take the hint, they pretty soon find themselves back on the unemployment line. I mean, fuck #metoo, am I right or am I right?

At the docks, I will be honest in saying that the number of hot chicks filtering up the gangway, who must have also won the prize, just made things seem so much sweeter. I wondered if they had any better luck than me in remembering what the hell this competition was that we had apparently entered and won.

The first evening was the Captain’s Dance – and I admit I was surprised the Captain was a chick too: I said that to her, and she just smiled. I suppose she got that a lot. I mean, what are the chances, right? At the bar before the dance, I found myself spoiled for choice: I reckon there were two women for every guy. If I could remember what competition I had entered, I would enter every week. I chatted with a couple of really hot girls, but there must have been something wrong with the booze from the free bar, because after one drink, the room began to spin. Which is really odd, because as an alpha dog I can usually drink the whole night long. A couple of the female crew members helped me down a corridor, and I vaguely remember being surprised that in front of me there was a line of guys, all supported to the left and right by other female crew members. We stumbled in a kind of drunken conga-line into the main dance hall. There was a glitter-ball, but apart from that it was nothing like any dancefloor I had seen before. Across the room were St Andrew’s crosses, padded benches with chains, dog-cages, and chains hanging from the ceiling with cuffs attached. Around the dancefloor was an audience of the women, including those I had seen board the ship and I even spotted a couple of women I had chatted to in the bar.

Things were hazy, but I could roughly make out the women who had supported the guys in front of me fixing them to crosses or shoving them into cages. The women in the audience were roaring appreciation. Then I felt the two women who had helped me from the bar fixing cuffs around my wrists, and moaned as an invisible force jerked the chains tight, lifting me onto my toes. I was spinning around, suspended from the chains, and could see that the women in the audience were moving onto the floor, picking up whips and paddles from the tables around the edge of the room, Soon the dancefloor was rocking with the sound of men yelping and crying. And then as I spun around again, I found myself eye-to-eye with the Captain. She smiled.

‘You are the one who thinks women should not be in authority, is that right?’

‘I think I have been misquoted!’ I stammered. But she reached out her left hand and, pulling my shirt from my torso, grabbed one of my nipples and squeezed hard. My yelps joined the chorus of cries from the other guys in the room. She reached down to my cock and squeezed, and I felt myself grow stiff.

‘Good’, she said. ‘A pain bunny. We like pain bunnies.’

Her mand moved and curled around my balls and squeezed tight. I screamed, but the sound was lost in the noise from all of the other guys’ yells and in the laughter of the women who surrounded them.

‘In two weeks, I am going to the police’ I yelled. The Captain frowned.

I tried to cry out more threats, but as I opened my mouth she shoved a ball gag into it. In the flickering light from the glitter-ball, I saw her receive a whip from one of her crew members. She flexed it in her hands, watching me curiously.

‘Two weeks? Oh dear’, she said. ‘A mis-print in your invitation. You were specially selected. We decided that in your case, there was no need for you to even enter the competition – we entered your name on your behalf. But for you, this cruise lasts two years.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Unfortunately, somehow I do not think you are going to last the whole 24 months.’

As the first blows from the whip landed, the light from the glitter-ball, and the noises of the screaming men around me, faded into nothingness and the last conscious thought I had was an echo of the Captain’s voice:

‘Somehow I do not think you are going to last the whole 24 months’.