He looked at me. ‘You don´t want to be fucked. O:K: I´ll make you a deal. Leastways you can make me one,’ he smiled the omnipotent male smile. ...��How many strokes you want to ask me for to get off the hook?’ Complacent. Smug. Triumphant! I hated him. I thought of turning and running away. But on a ship where can a girl go that she is not found and punished? I wanted to scream in fury. To ask to be whipped that I be not fucked! Not even certain that the lashes for which I would plead would. "Yes, always lovely soft nylon or silky satin" he cooed softly, his own mind filling with the sights he saw often at home. Then "occasionally, if she's forgotten to do the family washing and I need a clean pair of undies, she gives me a pair of hers to wear for the day". I was already thinking "Lucky sod" when he continued "and I must admit that they fit and feel a lot better than my usual boring cotton Y-fronts". He then passed me his ciggie to share and leant back on the grassy bank. As I. More

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