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House of Singing Wind
By
Sir Marc Wyld
Chapter 9
The Stroll
The garage, in reality, is an industrial machine shop. Thirty-one highly skilled and creative machinists have found their perfect shop here on this island. As well as taking care of the islands’ mechanical and engineering needs, they also create some of the most unique items imaginable. These machinists have long ago surpassed the title of craftsman: They are artists of mechanical engineering. The garage is ultimate tool crib, the ultimate man cave in paradise, you might say though I do not advise saying this if you have balls and want to keep them. Women that work with metal can get touchy, regardless of orientation. Just a word to the wise, ‘nuff said.
Just inside a large rollup door, sits an enormous galvanized watering tough. The area surrounding the door is shaded by four stately cocoanut palms surrounded by benches and barbeque grills, a few still smoldering. Looking down into the tank she sees it is filled with crushed ice and water. She cannot resist the urge to taste the clear water and discovers that it is sea water chilled to just above zero Celsius. San Miguel beer as well as sodas and water bottles can be seen nestled together on the bottom through the clear, cold, arctic-like water, complete with icebergs, eighteen points nor’ the equator. The water is so cold it instantly numbs her skin painfully. She observes him carefully, watching as he removes a small insulated bag from his pack. Ignoring her, he quickly packs away several ice cold bottles and carries two extra bottles out to a small bench in the shade.
Looking around, Slut instantly understands that this is a very well equipped machine shop and maintenance shed. She is standing quite still taking in the room when he returns and gives her a healthy whack on the ass. This breaks her reverie and she gets with the program to follows his lead in getting her water and packing it away while he lectures her.
“There are fourteen internal combustion cars and trucks, two jet aircraft, and a small fleet of helicopters on this island not to mention a very unique hydro-solar power generation plant to be maintained. Parts are hard to come by, extremely scarce: Cheaper to own the factory, so to speak.” Everywhere she looks, she sees state of the art tools at neat work stations. There are various projects, small and large scattered about and the workers are gone. As if reading her mind, he continues “This is the tropics; hot work is done at night here. If you had been here an hour ago, you would have met the boys and girls that work here.
“Ok, we’re burning daylight; let’s take this show on the road shall we?” With this he swings his pack in place as the sun fully clears the treelike. He points at the sun.
“What direction is that?”
“I don’t know.” He slaps her very hard.
“I don’t know, Sir. Quit diddling your cunt, Slut. Look, engage brain. Hint: sun, morning, direct…”
“East, sir!”
“Hoo-fucking-ray for Hollywood, Slut, there is a Jesus and she shall lead us, glory be!”
The door of the garage faces a meadow-like clearing so large it could easily hold two world class football stadiums, including parking; 160 acres of lush, manicured lawn. He points directly across the field and directs her attention to a barely perceptible opening in the tree line across the way. “That’s where we’re going. Ready?” Slut suspects that she will to need to run in order to keep up as there is little doubt in her slut mind that this man is a superior physical specimen. He does not have the triangular shape of a body builder; he is universally muscular, built for power as well as speed.
“Quit staring at my ass and get up here. Back there is drag and up there is point. Here, side by side, this is called hiking. I’m not going to run your ass off, we’re traveling, we’re going to Manila. Any idea how far that is from here? That’s rhetorical, don’t answer. It is between eight hundred and a thousand miles, give or take and another nine thousand, more or less to your precious Big Apple.”
Silent now, Mike evaluates while Slut desperately gropes mentally for a question. When it finally comes to her, it has nothing to do with her story or him. She begins to notice small blue pegs driven into the ground at intervals. When she sees the next one, she asks their purpose and is told to count the number of steps to the next peg. Arriving at the next, she announces 138 steps. She is then told to count only the fall of her left shoe. This time, just before reaching or even seeing the peg, Mike tells her to zero her count at the peg she sees next. Almost immediately, she sees the peg but this time it is green not blue. The next two she passes are again blue and suddenly, he begins to questions her.
“What is your average count between pegs?”
“Ah, 65 lefts.”
“Paces,” he says, “every 65 paces you pass a peg, that’s 100 meters. So the correct answer is 65 paces, Sir. How many pegs have you passed?”
She thinks: “Seven or eight pegs, I think, Sir.”
“Which is it, seven or eight?”
“Seven, Sir,” she says firmly.
The next peg is red. “Ok, Slut, you brain dead piece of shit, listen up. You know it takes 65 paces for you to cover a hundred meters. Blue marks at one hundred meters, mikes. Green at five hundred and red at a thousand: 1 kilometer, click. Turn around, and look back, can you see one of the benches at the garage, see how big it is now? It appears about an inch high or so, right? You now know that when something that is waist high appears to be an inch high, it is roughly a click away. Keep track of the green marks and you won’t get us or yourself lost. Think about this, now, there will be a test later.”
Turning her attention again towards the passage into the woods, she notices a gravel road that appears to encircle the perimeter of the meadow arriving from either direction to join at an intersection disappearing into into the woods, their destination. Stepping into the junction, Slut proudly announces: “We’ve come 1 click and six mikes!” He stops, looks at her and takes a long pull on a very cold bottle of water. It has taken less than ten minutes to come this far. “One point six clicks in good time. Turn around; wave bye-bye to the House of Singing Wind. Let me say the magic words: Hocus Pocus I can beat you at dominos. You are here by expelled from the House of Singing Wind, fucking loser. Have you heard the saying ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step’? It was coined right here in this part of the world, my little slut muffin. Well, you have just completed the first mile of a ten thousand mile journey. Yo!” She enters not into a forest, but truly, a tropical jungle paradise.
* * *
Within twenty feet, the trail splits: the crushed coral road veers to the left and a well worn path continues to the right. He motions her to bear right. He tells her the road is shorter, but it’s made for vehicles, it is steeper and the crushed coral cuts shoes to ribbons in no time.
She learns one thing and she learns it quickly: Choices have consequences. If she makes a decision that turns out wrong or cannot answer a question, he lashes out, literally. Soon after passing the marked trail head, he deftly un-shouldered his pack and removed a four foot long single-tail whip. He attached it to a carbiner on his pack and when she errs, she feels the sting of the whip and his aim is good; the tops of her thighs just below the hem of her shorts are covered in welts. The occurrences all follow the same pattern: He asks her to do something or a question. She fucks it up; she feels a biting sting and receives a stern lecture, usually a review. If she asks questions, however, it is just as he told her back in the Head Master’s office; he answers calmly, thoroughly with the candor of talking to an old friend. Of course, he is insulting and humiliating. There is a difference though: While his words bite, he does not treat her with a disdain that, for lack of a better word, matches the cruelty in them. Clearly, he knows what she does not know. She is going nuts with the dichotomy of her thoughts: She is learning that all you have to do ask politely and respectfully and ye shall be enlightened and when she fucks up, she is not sad because she feels the whip but because she has disappointed him. She finally decides to apply her questions toward learning more, hopefully about him and begins asking random questions.
“What should I call you, Sir?”
“Tell me all the names you’ve heard me called.”
“I’ve heard Michael and Sir, Sir”
“My mother, Maelstrom, and Father Malloy are the only ones who call me Michael. I can’t make them stop. You, on the other hand, I can. It also applies, in your case, to every variation of Michael ad infintum. That leaves Sir. It is not a title, it’s my name. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Sir: Another question?”
“Do not ask me if you can ask me questions. It makes you appear to be a stupid fucking cunt whose mouth should only be used for eating, drinking or giving pleasure. Do you know what the problem here is? I think I let you rejoin the human race a little too quickly. Slut, stop.
“Get naked except for your shoes and stow your gear.” Obediently, she takes off her pack and whips off her shirt and sports bra and steps out of her shorts. She neatly folds her clothes and stows them in her pack. While she has her pack open she removes a bottle of water and secures it in an outside pocket mimicking Sir. Seconds later she stands before Sir proudly wearing nothing but her collar, back pack and Addidas tenny runners. His only comment is “Now that this is settled, what do you want to know?”
* * *
I am not prepared for her question and it makes me smile because it is such a simple question. I have been expecting the hard nosed, reporter questions that will lead to my eventual downfall, trying to discover the piece of information that will point the way to me and my irrefutable sins. Well, she did ask about me and she did ask about my sins so, I do the only thing I can do, I answer her.
“When was your first time?”
“Depends on what the fuck you are talking about.”
“Having power, Sir, when is the first time that you knew you wanted power?”
I laugh again and realize too late that the laugh is too sweet and too sensually personal. Still, I answer.
* * *
I am thirteen and my best friend has a sister that is one year younger and, well, you know it’s just that time in the life of teenagers; we are both at the change. My pal’s family also owns the only television set on our block. Every Saturday morning, guess where every kid in our known universe is? As close to that TV as they can be without blocking anyone’s view. My favorite shows are westerns: Rin Tin Tin, Gene Autry, The Lone Ranger and of course, Annie Oakley.
When we aren’t watching TV we are playing TV. Ye ha, we’re playing cowboys and colored people: A pretty sick joke that is funnier than fuck to a 12 year old. At any rate, Annie Oakley, as oaters go, is well, pretty much a pussy western. Annie shoots like a motherfucker but never kills anyone. She only shoots guns out of bad guy’s hand and shit like that. Nobody ever shoots at Annie because the black hats know she can shoot their balls off at 50 yards. What do they do? Why, they get the drop on Annie and tie her up until either she figures out how to get untied or gets rescued. There never were any bad girls on her show: I guess it was just too early in history of the universe for girl-girl bondage action for developing minds and bodies to absorb.
To make a long story short, my best friend’s sister and I started playing our own version of the capture of Annie Oakley in a private and secure hideaway we made. At first, we’d mostly recreate the scripts we saw on the boob tube; however, one fateful day, long months into our experimentation, our little game took on a new wrinkle because we strayed from the script.
On a warm, rainy, summer afternoon, Bubba’s sister was lying on her side bound in the classic hog tie facing me. The knots were extra well done; perfect examples of knots pictured in the Boy Scout Manual. “You shut up, Annie,” I said, “or I’ll haf’ to put a gag in your mouth!” By this point, we had discovered, by experimentation under our own strict, laboratory conditions, that a bandana tied around the head idea is a bullshit idea for a gag. Just like this question that started this answer, it was the simplicity of what the girl who would became my first devoted slave said to me in pure, sweet, innocence. I will never forget the look on her face or the words on her lips when she said, “When I’m all tied up, the bad guy can do anything he wants and there is nothing I can do to stop him, nothing.”
“Nothing,” I agreed with the same innocence.
I remember thinking about nothing. Wheels began to turn and pawls began to click as a vision formed. I looked at her bound helplessness and decided to test a hypothesis. I pulled my budding manhood out of my Roebuck jeans and held it where she could clearly see it. Obediently, she opened her mouth when I told her to and she never disobeyed any command by me from that day forward. Through trial an error she became the most exquisite cocksucker I have ever known. Available to me in every way every day, we made one decision, together, to save her cherry as a special treat for some warm, special June afternoon after church in our future.
Our play that is no longer play, in our special world, lasts six years before I leave for the boat school. One spring evening, a Saturday late in my Plebe year, her brother calls to tell me his sister’s funeral is Thursday. Her senior prom had been held aboard a paddle boat that plies our river hosting dinner cruises and parties. The boat caught fire and sank. Of the seventy one prom attendees, three perished and sixteen were hurt. This story will be repeated in great detail and the dead will be remembered at reunions for the next 68 years when the last survivor of that event dies. I cried and still do, every now and again. The night of the Plebe Ball, the night I earn the rank of upperclassmen, I lose my virginity and I cry again. Of course, Slut actually only hears the technically true Storyteller’s Digest condensed version of this story.
* * *
As the story ends, Slut notices the undergrowth is becoming less thick and in the distance she hears the surf and suddenly, the jungle before her opens up on a white expanse of beach and the blue green of the ocean. The path empties out behind a shelter pavilion with a thatched roof. On the table underneath, a tropical buffet has been laid. She assumes, correctly, this is Topanga Beach and lunchtime. Fixing herself a plate, she greedily picks up a ripe piece of fruit and sucks it from her fingers. Instantly, she feels the snap of the single tail on her ass. “Who the fuck do you think you are, you greedy little whore? Were you taught to eat with your fingers? When you sat down to dinner last night did you use fingers? I thought not! Did I give you any clue the rules have changed?”
“I thought…” That is a far as she got.
“You thought is a joke. You didn’t ask; you did.”
Sir places her plate on the loose sand beside a chair and ties her hands behind her back. He helps her onto her knees and helps her to balance her face in a hover above her plate. “Dig in,” he says. After several bites she can no longer keep her balance and is in danger of toppling. She raises her face from the plate and asks, “Sir, may I…” to get cut off by a harsh “Sorry, that ship has sailed.” She loses her balance, finally falling face first into her food. He leaves her this way until shame and hunger cause her break out in sobs. Her food has been shoved off her plate and is covered with sand and she is still very hungry.
Sir takes an elbow and pulls her roughly to her feet. He produces his pocket knife and frees her wrists. Grabbing her wrist, he screams at her to run and drags her toward the water. “Run!” he screams and her legs begin pumping as they sprint toward the ocean. Passing the loose dry sand, they hit the wet packed sand and he kicks out even harder. As they enter the surf he easily jumps the small breakers but soon the water slows him considerably. He pulls her close, wraps a powerful arm under her rib cage and dives them both into the surf, dragging her along in a sidearm rescue stoke. Finally, he stops and lets her go. She finds she is able to stand on soft white sandy bottom and with just little bounces she can ride the rolling waves that are destined to become small breakers in a few scant yards.
Gently, using his hands, he washes the remnants of her lunch out of her hair, off her face and even from her nose. For a moment, she forgets she has offered herself up in slavery for a story and that until things change, this man is her absolute lord and master, her Sir, and forgets his is not a lover’s touch.
Soon, he tells her to swim in and she discovered that she is further from shore than she first thought; however, the swim is easy and feels wonderful. Arriving back at the beach and seeing the pavilion, she notices things are different: Lunch is now gone and a sleeping pallet has been carefully laid. Almost as if on cue, the sun that has been beating down all morning becomes obscured behind a cloud and the sky opens up in a tropical shower. Standing naked in the warm rain they wash the salt from each other’s body before retreating to the shelter to dry off.
“Time to rest; it’s too hot and too rainy to go on. It’ll clear up this afternoon and it’s only a three hour walk to the convent.” He lies down on the left side of the pallet and rolls onto his right side and almost magically appears to go to sleep. She takes the side opposite him and soon he hears her breathing slow. She rolls on to her left side and spoons up to him and this allows him to drift away peacefully at last.
He awakens to the reward of the most beautiful sunset he has experienced on a beach in years. Of course, the warm, moist lips encasing his engorged cock do not spoil the effect one iota.
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