Tales of the Rope

Chapter 4: A Sandy Wench Continued

Chapter 4: A Sandy Wench Continued

The sun was low in the sky when I heard voices. But they were behind me and I couldn’t turn my head enough to see. Suddenly they stopped and I held my breath. The language had not been English or anything else I recognized. My fears were confirmed when several brown skinned natives cautiously walked around to where I could see them. They were a savage lot, dressed in rags that barely covered their loins. There was some red paint streaked across their cheeks and on their chests, and their hair was black and disheveled.

For a while they just looked at me. I tried to smile back. Then, figuring that I couldn’t be in a worse position, I asked them to dig me out. I’m sure they didn’t understand a word and my motions with my chin towards the sand seemed to amuse them. Then they jabbered among themselves with much gesturing towards where the ships had been and at me.

Finally they approached closer, but I didn’t like the smirks on their faces. They seemed to be speculating on what I looked like under the sand, and their intention of ravishing this gift from the sea was obvious.

Just as the first one knelt to scoop sand away, a shot rang out and suddenly the savages were running away. Turning my head, I could make out a figure on the beach, not too far away. He was standing here with a smoking pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other. When he approached I could see he was white, probably English. But his clothes had seen better days and his hair was rather long and unkempt. Still, he was not an unhandsome man.

“Oh, kind Sir, thank you for rescuing me from those savages,” I cried out in gratitude.

With a lack of emotion on his face he stared down at me. “Ye came from that English ship?” he asked curtly.

“From the Queen Anne, yes. We were attacked by Captain Blood. He sank the Queen Anne. He killed all the crew,” I added. “The other two girls are now aboard his ship.”

“Why didn’t he take you?”

“He didn’t like me.”

“Why? Are you ugly under that sand? Or have you,” he sneered, “some foul pox that will make a man’s rod fall off in a month?”

“I assure you, Sir,” I retorted indignantly, “I am not ugly nor have I any disease.”

“Good.”

I didn’t like the way he said that. His gaze would have made me squirm, had I been able to move. “Sir, please dig me out of this sand.”

He ignored me but, after another good look round our deserted island, he lectured me on what I am sure he considered the facts of life.

“I was the captain of a fine merchantman out of Portsmouth, until that Captain Blood sank her out from under me. A cannon ball cut the main mast and I was thrown overboard. The only way to save myself was to swim to this island. I nearly starved. When I finally made my way to Tortuga I was tired of being chased by pirates.”

“Please, Sir, dig me out.”

“Quiet, wench! I worked until I had enough money, then I set out for a quiet island to live in peace.” He paused to look at my raven tresses. “It was quiet on my island, which is very near here. Until now. I heard the guns and came to investigate. My island provides me with everything to live on, fruits, animals, even a fine fresh water spring. But there has been one thing missing.”

Here it comes, I thought. Damn men!

“There were no women. Until now.” He sat down on the sand next to my head. “Perhaps I shall claim what Captain Blood has cast off. He owes me that much at least.”

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He ignored me. That’s easy for a man to do when a girl is completely helpless. “I’ve a mind to take you to my island. Of course, I would expect you to earn your keep and be grateful that I saved you.”

“Oh, I will, I will!”

“Very grateful,” he added with special emphasis that could not be missed.

“I understand.” But didn’t like it. I was a Lady and should be treated as such. But then, I also didn’t want to be left buried in that sand. It looked as if the tide was still coming in and I wasn’t sure the water wouldn’t reach my head after all.

“You would be kept as a slave is kept,” he continued. “I would probably keep you chained or tied up most of the time as a slave should be. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course, Sir.” He knew it was sarcasm but ignored it.

“And, as a slave, you would do all you could to please your Master. Right?”

“Yes, Sir.” It’s not easy to bargain when you’re up to your neck in sand.

“Good. Now there is two things I really like in a woman. One is a shapely figure.”

“Oh, I have one, Sir, indeed I do!”

“Good. And the other is a good mouth.”

I was puzzled. A good mouth? Then he removed his pants to reveal a rampart rod and I understood. Again, there isn’t much a girl in my position could do. He sat down with a bare leg on either side of my head and that giant rod neared my face. I closed my eyes and wrapped my lips around the horrible thing.

Actually, it wasn’t so bad. Even sort of exciting in a way. I doubt very many women have ever been so immobile, up to their necks in sand, when performing this age-old honor to the male member. He indicated how I was to move my head back and forth and I soon got the idea. But I never will understand why such being forced into such a horrible act would send a tingle through my body and a warmth to my sand-encased pussy.

When he was finished and I could add a new skill to my list of accomplishments, he seemed pleased. And more mellow.

“Good mouth,” was all he said. But it was enough to make me think I had just saved my life.

He began digging, pausing only to admire my breasts when they were uncovered. I was soon standing beside the hole as he brushed sand off my body with those powerful hands. I’m sure he took more liberties than were needed to remove sand, but I said nothing. He particularly seemed to enjoy trying to get all the sand out of my pussy hair, and took a great deal of care that every grain was brushed out.

He seemed amused that my hands and feet were bound, and did not remove the ropes. As he stood back to watch me in the early evening twilight, I tried to hold my balance with bound ankles. He seemed pleased with what he saw and I must admit that I did thrust my breasts out to look better. And maybe pulled my tummy in a bit, although it didn’t really need it.

I was roughly picked up and tossed over his shoulder to be carried to his boat, a long, bumpy walk along that beach.

I was headed into a life of sexual slavery to this man. Perhaps I should have been indignant and mad, but I wasn’t. All I could think of that huge rod entering my sex as it had my mouth, and that sent tremors down my body. He must have sensed what was happening in my body because he stopped and lowered me to the sand near his boat. He untied my ankles but used the rope to bind my elbows very tightly. Without being told to, I dropped to my knees and once again paid homage to his male rod until it was huge and rigid again. Then he pushed me down and took me on the sand, lying on my bound arms, and it was every bit as good as I had imagined. Hell, better!

The journey back to his island was made with my arms still tightly bound behind my back, but I didn’t mind. It had been so long since a real man had made me feel that good. I would have put up with most anything. He even lashed my ankles to the wood of a seat. It was a gesture more than anything else - I wasn’t about to leap into the sea with my arms tightly bound behind my back. If he wanted to demonstrate his ownership of me by keeping me bound up I didn’t mind. Not so long as he satisfied me with that huge rod of his.

On the journey back he told me of his large bed and the solid posts at each corner of it. He described how he would lash my ankles to the bottom posts so that my legs were wide spread. He would make me, he said, sleep that way every night so that he could have easy access anytime he should feel the need to use a wench.

It was then I began thinking that maybe being his slave wasn’t going to be so bad.