Pussy Island
I'm standing 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 colourful 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 have a powerful sexual aspect.
It's for people who get off on the thrill of the unknown, the hint of the dark and dangerous, even though the organizers 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 diabolical 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's supposed 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 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 trudge 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 somewhat 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 nerve myself up to do something I'd never think of doing anywhere else, and go behind the bar to help myself. On a shelf laden 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 begining 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 a rollercoaster hesitates for a second at the very top just before it takes the plunge 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 could'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 look back 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 beard, 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 waistband 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 careen backwards into a lounge 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 stares 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 sudden, 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 hear the ratchet of a handcuff. 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 moistening as another strange thrill begins to run through my body. This certainly isn't the moderately 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, unceremoniously shoves me outside, and slams the door behind me. I hear an ominous 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.
Fuelled 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 strewn 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'd 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. 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 different. 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 moistening again, and a rising tingle spreading outward through my body starting from my clit. 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 clench my fists and scrunch my eyes shut as the sensation 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 goaded 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.
Now what? I don't seem to have accomplished a thing except to get a lot of exercise and a couple of bruises. 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 handcuffs 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 somewhat 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 controlling 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 hurry 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've never been forced into it, and I've never done it in handcuffs. I find the situation unaccountably thrilling.
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. I feel another orgasm begin rising in my body, something that has never happened before as a result of sucking someone else's body part.
The sensation keeps rising until, 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 clench my teeth, but that would be exactly the wrong thing to do. So I just make a strangled "Ggggkkkk" 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 profound 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 faintly agonized 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 all in 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 handcuffs and puts them in his pocket with the key. He reaches around me and gives 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 leisurely lengths. I don't think I've ever had the opportunity to swim nude before, and I revel in the feel of the water as it slides over my breasts, down over my belly and between my legs, washing awayl the stickiness and caressing 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 generously, 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.
Eventually I start wondering about dinner. The brochure had promised sumptuous meals, and aside from a mouthful of semen, I haven't eaten anything for a while.
I stand up and look at the sad pile of fabric that used to be my clothes. My panties and shorts, having been yanked off rather than torn off, are still wearable, but instead of putting them on, I just put them in my bag, leaving my ruined shirt and bra in their sad pile. I've decided that I sort of like this nudity business. It makes me feel freer, more uninhibited. I guess that proponents of nudism are right when they say that people shed their hangups with their clothes.
Wearing no more than I was born with, I enter the villa and go exploring. I wander down hallways and peek in doors, finding a front desk with nobody at it, a fitness centre, a lounge with another bar, a couple of what appear to be meeting rooms, a business centre with computers and a central printer -- pretty much what you'd expect on the main floor of a small but luxurious resort.
Then I open a door and see something I don't at all expect to see in a small but luxurious resort. Against the far wall of a small room is a full-sized X-cross, and strapped to it in a tight spread-eagle is a woman as naked as I am. She is tall, with short blonde hair and a fit, muscular build. Her pussy is bald, and her pussy lips are pulled slightly open by her spread stance on the cross. A wide strip of tape covers her mouth.
I have a powerful impulse to run over and rescue her, or at least to peel the tape off her mouth to see if she wants to be rescued. But she isn't struggling, and she isn't making any of the "mmmppphh" noises that gagged people make when they want your attention. She's just standing quietly in her restraints, as if being gagged and strapped to a cross is the most normal thing in the world.
I figure that she's living out her kinks the way I am, and respectfully close the door behind me as I leave. I make note of where the room is so I can check on her later. Since she is the only other resort guest I've encountered so far, I hope I will be able to make her acquaintance at some point when she isn't so indisposed.
I go back to exploring, and eventually open a door to a dining room. Only one place is set, and at it is a large metal dome, obviously covering a plate of something. I lift it, and find a dish of ice supporting a plate of chicken Caesar salad with a basket of bread and butter beside it.
My hosts are obviously familiar with my habits. Chicken Caesar is one of my all-time favourite meals, and it's an obvious choice to leave out for me to find in my own time since it doesn't have to be kept hot.
There's another small bar in the corner of the room, so I pour myself a glass of Chardonnay and sit down to tuck into my meal. I don't really like to put my bare ass on the beautifully upholstered chair, but I don't see any towels or anything handy, and anyway, I figure that since it was a representative of the resort who had ripped off my clothes, I don't really owe them any niceties.
I find that I'm really hungry, probably from having burned a week's worth of calories running in circles around the resort. The Caesar is perfect, just the way I like it, and the bread tastes as though it was baked an hour ago. I finish every bite, then sit quietly and sip my wine as the food settles inside me.
The next thing you need at a resort is a place to sleep. I go to the unoccupied front desk and help myself to a key card from a little stack that's been helpfully laid out, choosing one in a paper sleeve with a second-floor room number of it. I go back to the pool and retrieve my little travel bag and sandals, then walk up to the second floor and search for my room. When I find it, the door unlocks when I touch the card to the lock.
The room is huge. It's dominated by a king-sized bed, but there's also a spacious sitting area with a large-screen TV and a gas fireplace. I get myself another Chardonnay from the mini-bar and settle on the sofa to watch some TV before bed. Paging through various selections in the on-screen entertainment guide, I skip the porn shows since all the porn I'm likely to want is happening all around me, and to me. Instead, I watch a lightweight rom-com to relax, and then slip into bed under the warm duvet without bothering to fish through my bag for pyjamas. I'm asleep in minutes.
***
The next thing I know, the duvet is apruptly yanked off me, leaving my bare tits staring at the ceiling. Morning light is pouring in around the edges of the curtains, so I know I'm not being wakened up in the middle of the night, but it takes me a few seconds to shake the sleep out of my eyes so I can start figuring out what's going on this time.
Four men in hotel uniforms are standing around my bed. In what seems a well-rehearsed move, they each reach down and seize either a wrist of an ankle and pull. Each buckles a leather cuff around his chosen body part, and they all pull on chains attached to the cuffs until they're taut. I'm pulled into a spread-eagle as tight as that of the women on the cross downstairs. Then they all turn in cartoon-like unison and march out of my room.
This resort certainly has an interesting variation on the classic wake-up call. I stare at the ceiling and wonder what's going to come through the door next.
I don't have to wait long. The door opens and in walks an impossibly tall, dark-skinned woman wearing a classic dominatrix outfit. She wears a tight black leather bustier that puffs up her large breasts but stops short of her nipples with their almost-black areolas. The bottom also stops short of her pussy, which is neatly trimmed but not shaved bare. She wears thigh-high leather boots and leather gloves. I can't help noticing that in one hand she carries the biggest dildo I've ever seen.
Oh fuck, I think. I was hoping for the men in their hotel uniforms, or rather, without their hotel uniforms. I like to think of myself as totally non-homophobic - why should I care what other people do with their free time? But truth to tell, I'm pretty squeamish about the idea of fucking another woman. I just can't get my head around the idea of sticking my face in someone else's muff and licking her quim. Ironic I guess, when you consider what my mouth was full of the day before, but that's just the way I seem to be wired.
The dominatrix doesn't bother to ask me what I want. She just gets up on the bed, straddles my face on her knees, pries open her pussy lips with one gloved hand, and shoves her pussy in my face. I decide pretty quickly that I'd better do what she obviously wants me to do. I don't want her to put down the dildo and get a whip or something.
I start licking, running my tongue over the entrance to her vagina and up to her clit. She moistens immediately, and my nose is filled with the musky scent of female arousal. That scent is obviously designed by nature as a male attractant, but not being male, it's not working all that well on me. I just find it vaguely repulsive, but I keep licking, swirling my tongue around her clit the way I like men to do to me.
I've never tasted a pussy before. The taste of her juices is surprising, almost sweet, and much milder than the salty-bitter taste of a man's cum. She leans forward, supporting her body with both hands on the headboard, and starts breathing in the long, slightly shaky breaths that I associate with growning arousal. In spite of myself, I'm getting into this. I don't find what I'm doing sexually arousing, exactly, but I take it as a challenge to see if I can learn how to help a woman cum.
She starts moving her body back and forth a little, as if she's doing cowgirl on my mouth. Her half-confined breasts rock above me. Her breath is coming in gasps now, and I know she's rocketing toward orgasm with breathtaking speed. I redouble my efforts, poking my tongue as far up her vagina as I can get it and curling it to see if I can reach her G-spot. She suddenly freezes into the rigour of orgasm, a half-strangled "NNNGGG" coming from her mouth. Then she relaxes, rolls off me and lies beside me in the huge bed.
She doesn't seem to be a squirter, thank God. I know my face is covered in pussy juice, but I have no wish to be hit in the face with a full-force jet of lady-cum.
I can't say I exactly enjoyed the experience, but it wasn't nearly as repulsive as I'd built it up to be in my mind. In fact, there was something enthralling about being that close to an orgasm that I could relate to much more closely than a man's.
After she's rested up for a minute or two, she scoots down the bed between my spread legs and starts returning the favour. She's obviously a lot more experienced at this than I am, and gives me a mouth job that's way more expert than my fumbling attempts. She seems to know exactly the right spots to use her lips and tongue, and in spite of myself I feel an orgasm starting to gather in my crotch and belly.
I feel a hard presence between my pussy lips, and I know she's picked up the dildo from the bed and is pressing the tip against the entrance to my cunt. "I don't want this," I want to scream, but the feelings she's aroused with her lips and tongue start convincing me that maybe I do after all. She presses the fat body of the dildo slowly in, and I feel the walls of my vagina being forced apart by the intruder. But I'm so wet that it doesn't hurt. In fact, it feels fantastic, filling up an empty space that she's already made needy with her tongue-play.
She gradually forces that monster deeper and deeper inside me until I feel it bump up against my cervix. That worries me. I've had over-enthusiastic partners bash things or body parts against my cervix before, and let me tell you, it's the worst mood-killer on the planet. But she obviously feels the dildo stop sliding in and pulls it back a hair. I realize that she's been measuring the depth of my vagina, and now she knows how deep she can thrust without hurting me.
She adjusts her position on the bed so she can keep her lips on my clit while thrusting with the dildo, slowly at first, then faster. I don't generally shout encouragement at partners when I'm being fucked, but the combination of her lips on my clit and the dildo spreading me so wide open and massaging my G-spot is doing something to me. I start shouting "My God, don't stop! Give it to me with that thing! Shove that big plastic cock into me, keep this coming!"
Of course, she does exactly that. She stops using her lips on my clit and instead flicks it rapidly with her tongue. She keeps her thumb on the side of the dildo so she knows exactly how deep she can safely thrust it, and pounds it hard to exactly that depth. She seems to know what to do to a woman's body better than any man I've ever been with, and the sensations are driving me higher and higher. Finally the orgasm breaks, and I arch my back as far as the chains will let me and scream my lungs out.
After I've settled, panting, back onto the bed, she slowly draws the dildo out of me. She holds my pussy in her leather-gloved hand in a sort of comforting gesture, as if to say to it, "There, there. You can relax now." I see that her face is drenched in pussy-squirt, but she doesn't seem to mind. Probably she's really used to it.
She uses that messy face to give me a deep kiss on the mouth, and I surprise myself by returning it. Our tongues meet briefly, then she breaks the kiss, slides off the bed and walks out of the room. I realize that not a word has been exchanged, which seems to be the usual system around here.
I lie chained to the cum-soaked bed and contemplate what just happened. I don't think women are likely to replace men in my life any time soon. A flesh-and-blood cock is still better than a piece of plastic, and I've been with lots of men who aren't afraid to lick a pussy and know how to do it right. But I realize that I no longer feel creeped out or disgusted by the idea of sex with another woman. In fact, I realize that I wouldn't mind trying it again someday.
I wonder where this is going to go next, and how long I'm going to have to lie here. I get my answer in maybe half an hour when the door opens and in walks the woman I first met strapped to the cross downstairs. Now she's wearing bits of a stereotypical maid's uniform. I say "bits" because, aside from an old-fashioned maid's bonnet, she's wearing only a frilly apron that doesn't cover anything but the middle of her belly. Her ankles are joined by a lightweight chain that's long enough to let her walk but restricts her to short, mincing steps. Instead of a strip of tape, her mouth is covered with a wide leather gag that has a big rivet in the middle, suggesting that it has a stuffer ball built into it. Restraints and submission seem to be her particular kink.
She's carrying a tray with covered dishes on it, and when she turns to set it down, I see that the gag is fastened with a small brass padlock. Makes sense. With her hands free, she could just reach up and take the gag off if it wasn't locked on. As she bends over, I also see the end of a butt plug sticking out between her cheeks. It, too, has a little brass padlock on it, and I guess that it's the kind that fans out in your ass so there's no way you can get it out without the key.
She bends over me, breasts dangling, and unfastens the buckle on the cuff around my left wrist. Then she straightens, makes a theatrical curtsy, and walks out, her bare asscheeks and the plug wiggling as she retreats.
I unfasten the rest of the cuffs and roll off the bed. I go to the bathroom, have a long-overdue pee, and then wash my face and my pussy. I didn't really mind getting the Domme's juices all over me - in fact, it was kind of a turn-on - but it's getting time to freshen up.
I return to the bedroom and start lifting lids. A half grapefruit, the sections cleanly cut and ready to eat with the little pointed spoon that lies beside it. An omelet that has little bits of cheese and ham sticking out here and there. A basket of mini-croissants that smell as fresh as the bread did last night. A silver thermos jug of coffee. Again, my very favourite breakfast, one that I seldom bother to make for myself but always gravitate to when I'm in a restaurant.
I finish breakfast, brush my teeth and hair, and put on my sandals in case I find myself on gravel pathways again. Then, since I don't need to get dressed, I'm ready for the day.
I wonder what to do with my key card. I obviously don't have any pockets, and my breasts aren't pendulous enough to make it feasible to stash it under there. I look around the room, and on the nighttable find a plastic card holder with an elastic curly cord attached to it. As I slide it up to my elbow, I think, "Wow. They think of everything here."
I go downstairs, wondering what I should do with myself. I decide to take advantage of the rare streak of warm sunny weather that the Canadian West Coast is offering me, so I stop by a little library I discovered on my wanderings the night before and select a suitably trashy novel. I go out to the pool, sunscreen up again, go behind the bar and fix myself a Mimosa, and settle into a lounge chair.
A couple of hours go by. I put my book down and cool off with a dip in the pool, then settle in to read another chapter in the sun. Eventually I realize that the omelet and croissants are starting to wear off, and I begin to wonder about lunch. I turn down the corner of my current page and head off to the dining room, confident that something interesting will be there for me.
On the way to the dining room, I pass the room where I'd discovered Cross Lady the evening before. I hesitate before the door, wondering whether I should open it and see if she's back in there after doing her maid duties, when I hear a female voice. "Hey! Excuse me, can I get some help in here?"
Intrigued by the sound of another voice for once, I open the door, expecting to find Cross Lady bound to something or other. However, in the room I find no cross, or Cross Lady. Instead, I find a woman impaled by the pussy on a dildo pole.
It's the famous One Bar Prison. Her arms and legs aren't bound. The only thing that's keeping her in place is a pole attached to the floor and holding a dildo, which is firmly implanted far up her snatch. She's wearing nothing but high stiletto heels which keep her feet rocked forward far enough that she can't get any more altitude by standing on tip-toe. There's just no way she can get off that device that's been shoved up into her body.
"I heard you walking by and thought I'd see if you were somebody willing to help. This thing was hugely erotic when Bluto first shoved it into me, but now I've been standing here for hours and my knees are about to give way."
"Bluto?"
"Yeah. The big guy by the pool who ripped my clothes off when I first got here. Like the bad guy in the old Popeye cartoons."
"Oh yeah. I know him really well. He did the same to me, and I've been wandering around in my birthday suit ever since."
I inspect the dildo pole. It telescopes, and it's held in position by a single nut. But there's no wrench anywhere in sight. "Bluto took it with him as soon as he tightened the pole," says the woman. I try turning it with my fingers, but of course that doesn't work at all.
I look around for a little stool, a box, anything I can give her to stand on. No luck. So I interlace my fingers and cup my hands, then bend down in front of her so she can put her foot in my hands and get the few inches she needs to get the pole out of her quim. This puts my face close to her pussy, and I still feel a touch of my old discomfort with being too sexually familiar with another woman, despite my extreme experience just this morning. I dismiss the feeling as childish.
She puts one foot in my hands, gives a little hop with the other, and straightens her knee. The dildo slides smoothly out and her feet come back to the floor. Once it's out, the dildo reveals how big it is, in keeping with most of the sexual objects and body parts I've met so far on Pussy Island.
She rubs her pussy and says, "Oh God, that feels better." There's a bench built into the wall, and she staggers over to it and sits. "I'm Sylvia, by the way. Thanks for the rescue."
I look her over. She's quite small, but has big, firm breasts and a muscular-looking body. Her hair is long and dark, almost black, and her heart-shaped face looks almost pixie-like. She wears her bush in a neatly trimmed black triangle.
"Samantha," I reply. "I take it that you came here for a Don't Choose Your Own Adventure session like I did."
"Exactly. I've been fucked in ways that I never knew existed, tied up, locked in weird things, abused sexually and otherwise, and been given the royal runaround by everyone I've met. That fucking pole was just the latest weirdness. But my bed is comfortable, the meals are excellent, and I certainly can't say that anything is predictable or boring."
"I'm glad to meet someone who is able to talk to me, and wants to. I've been getting a lot of silent treatment around here, even by people who aren't gagged."
"Me too. That maid woman who brings breakfast every morning is always gagged, and the men seem to be the strong, silent type."
"Have you eaten lately? I was just going to go and see if I can find some lunch."
"Not really. The only time I've eaten since breakfast was when Bluto fed me his cock before he shoved that pole up me. I'm ready for something more substantial."
We walk together into the dining room, and this time there are two places set. We lift the lids on our meals, and I find a warming tray with a hot Ruben sandwich, another of my favourites. Sylvia finds a bowl of steaming clam chowder. "Let me guess," I say. "A favourite?"
"You guessed right. Other than sending people to fuck the living daylights out of you at odd moments, they seem to know just how to treat you here. And I shouldn't complain. The fucking has been magnificent. They seem to be able to find sexual predilections that you never knew you had."
We stop talking while we tuck into our lunches. Then we compare notes and find that, while our experiences have been very different in detail, they're similar to the extent that, no matter how bad they seem at first, they always seem to end with a walloping sexual climax, plus some revelations about ourselves and our desires.
I find that Sylvia has been here for five days, so she's getting close to the end of her stay. "I can't decide whether I'll be glad to get out of this loony Alice in Wonderland place and back to a normal life, or if I'll really miss always finding the unexpected around every corner."
"I haven't quite gotten to that stage yet. I'm still just getting used to the looniness here."
We stand up from the table and prepare to leave. I ask, "Do you like hanging around around pools in the sun?"
"Absolutely. I seem to have spent most of my time here locked in various weird cells and things, so some outside time would be welcome."
Sylvia selects her own trashy novel from the library, we lotion up - it's good to have each other to do our backs for a change - and settle in for the afternoon.
I'm just getting back into my novel when I hear a voice behind me. "Sam, get on your feet. We have something to do."
I turn around. It doesn't sound like Bluto - I have adopted Sylvia's name for him, as it seems more descriptive than Pool Thug - and see one of the men from the morning, still in his hotel uniform. I leave Sylvia lounging by the pool, figuring that she'll get her next surprise soon, and follow Hotel Man. He leads me to what I am beginning to realize is the bondage equipment room, where I had first encountered Cross Lady, and then Sylvia impaled on her dildo pole.
This time there are neither of the above in the room. Instead, there's a bondage rack. It's a very simple device, just a frame lying on the floor with padded cuffs for wrists, elbows, knees and ankles, plus a padded bar stretched across at hip height to keep the occupant from being thrust forward by whatever is happening behind them.
I've tried bondage play a few times, and usually get off on the unaccustomed submissive helplessness of it. This should be interesting, I think to myself. I get down on hands and knees and let Hotel Man fasten me into the device.
I test the cuffs, which keep me immobilized in doggy position with no slack. I wonder what's going to go in where? I've had a real cock in my mouth, and a fake cock in my pussy. Maybe I'll finally get a real cock in my pussy.
Once I'm cinched in, I hear Hotel Man slipping off his uniform. I look back at him and see that he has a pretty average-sized cock rather than being monstrously endowed like Bluto. This makes me happy. I'm pretty sure my cunt would stretch around Bluto's firelog, but I suspect that I would enjoy having Hotel Man in there a lot more.
He goes around behind me, and I feel him massage all my personal bits with his hand, bringing on a nice, juicy flood in my pussy. Then I feel something hard press against my asshole.
WTF? "No," I yell in sudden panic. "I don't do anal. I tried it once, and it hurt so much that I had to make my partner pull out again."
"I'm betting that's because he didn't do it right," says Hotel Man. The pressure on my asshole continues. I start thrashing wildly in the bondage frame, which holds me tightly in position regardless of my thrashing. "No! I'm never doing that again! Let me go! I don't want . . . Mmmppphhh!" Abruptly, I feel a ball shoved in my mouth. A wide leather strap covers the lower part of my face, and it's buckled firmly behind my head. I wonder vaguely if it's the same one I keep seeing on the maid, or at least one just like it.
While I've done bondage play before, I've never submitted to being gagged. That's just too much loss of control to suit me. Now, I don't have a choice in the matter, like everything else that's gone on here. After a few more futile "mmmppphhh's," I give up mmpphh-ing and thrashing and try to get a grip on my racing thoughts. "Calm down, Samantha," I tell myself sternly. "They promised not to hurt you." Not very much, anyway, remembering being shot in the ass and boob by plastic bullets.
"That's better," says Hotel Man. "Now you have to listen to me as I explain how this is going to work. My name is Dave, by the way. You might as well know who it is who's going to introduce you to the pleasures of ass-fucking."
Remembering my meditation exercises, I focus on my breathing, feeling my breath gently coming in and out through my nose. It starts having the intended steadying effect, and I half relax.
"I'm betting that when you had your bad experience with anal, the guy just parted your cheeks and tried to shove it in, right?" I nod and make an affirmative "mmm-hmmm" noise behind the gag. "No wonder it hurt like hell. Despite what you see in porn, an asshole isn't a cunt and can't be treated like one. It needs delicate handling, especially the first time."
Dave has the sort of voice that the best doctors and counselors have. I wouldn't exactly call it "soothing," which might have been condescending. Rather, it's matter-of-fact but friendly in a way that makes me start to trust him. It helps that he's explaining what he's doing every step of the way, instead of just doing it to me like everyone else I've met so far. Despite being helplessly bound and gagged, his voice gives me a strange feeling of agency that I find liberating. The gag means I don't feel pressured to reply to anything. I just have to listen to his voice.
Instead of whatever hard thing he had poked me with initially, I feel a well-lubed fingertip slide over and around my asshole. I'm aware of how tightly I've been clenching it, and make a conscious effort to let my sphincter relax. I feel a little more pressure, and then the finger slides all the way in. Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt at all. All I feel is a bit of pressure as my sphincter is forced open.
Dave leaves it there for a minute of two, then withdraws it. Then I feel more pressure, and realize that he's going back in with two fingers. These are a tighter fit, and I feel a bit of burning pain as they stretch me wider, but it's nothing I can't handle.
Once the fingers are in, the pain subsides. Dave moves the fingers gently in and out, and I realize that the feeling is downright pleasant. I feel stretched and filled in a way that I never have before, and I'm beginning to think that I might actually like it.
The fingers pull out, and I'm almost disappointed at the feeling of emptiness they leave behind. Then Dave comes around in front of me and holds something out where I can see it. "This is what I was trying to put up you at the beginning." It's a slender tube with a plunger a bit like you'd find on a hypodermic needle. He pushes the plunger a bit, and a small glob of clear, viscous fluid appears at the end. "This is a lube launcher. Since an anus doesn't make its own lubrication, it's important to get as much lube as far up your rectum as possible.
I feel the hard end of the device on my asshole again, but this time I don't resist it. The tube slides easily up my anal canal, and I feel the cool lube coating my insides as Dave slowly draws it back out again. "This is silicon-based lube. It lasts a lot better than water-based lube, although you can't use it with silicon toys."
Dave holds something else in front of me so I can look at it. "This is the next step." It's a clear dildo-like device, made of glass or some sort of hard, clear plastic, and definitely doesn't look like silicon. It's narrower than the average cock, but it has the same general shape except for a flange that I guess is to prevent it from getting lost.
"It's not quite the same as a butt plug," Dave explains. "A butt plug narrows just before the flange so your sphincter can close around it and hold it in hands-free. But right now, we don't want your sphincter to close. We want it to stay open and get used to how that feels."
I feel cold pressure against my asshole once more. "Since this is getting up closer to the size of a real cock, it's probably going to hurt when I push it in. But don't worry, that'll fade once it's in." The pressure increases, and I feel my asshole open and admit the new intruder.
He's right, I do feel a ring of burning pain as I'm stretched open, more than with just his fingers, and I try to concentrate again on the rhythmic in and out of my breathing rather than on the pain in my ass. He's right: it eases up almost immediately once my sphincter is stretched around the dildo.
"In porn shoots, they do all this prep work off-camera so it looks like all you have to do is stick your cock in an asshole and push. I have no idea why they do that - maybe they don't think it would look sexy to show the prep. But a lot of anal sex has been way more painful than it had to be because men haven't been properly educated.
"Now I'm going to push this slowly all the way up. If you feel a sudden sharp pain, it means your rectum is spasming. It won't do any damage, but be sure to let me know so I can let it rest for a few seconds. Otherwise it'll just get worse." I nod to show that I get the message, and Dave starts pressing the dildo further up.
Sure enough, at about the half-way point, I feel a sudden, sharp pain. I give a little yelp behind the gag, and he pulls back a bit and waits. The pain subsides almost immediately, and he goes back to pushing further in. Before I know it, the dildo is in all the way to the safety flange, and it doesn't hurt.
"Does that feel good?" I nod and go "Mmm-hmmm."
"That's because it's pressing on your G-spot, your A-spot, or maybe both. Everybody's clitoral structure is different, but it always runs through a lot more of the pelvic area than we usually give it credit for. It can be stimulated from the vagina or the rectum. It's a pretty damned wonderful hunk of tissue."
It's not lost on me how weird it is to be getting a dispassionate sex-ed lesson from a stranger who's preparing to fuck me in the ass. But there sure is a lot about my body I don't know, or know only hazily. I'm glad at least one of us is an expert in assholes.
Dave leaves the dildo in place for a minute or two without moving it, then pulls it slowly out. "Now for the main course. Same drill here. If you spasm, let me know about it right away." I feel pressure again, but this time it's a soft warm pressure rather than cold and hard like the last things that have been up there. My sphincter opens and then clenches firmly around the tip of Dave's cock.
"I've told you why women like this. Men like it because it's so fucking tight."
Dave's cock starts to move slowly in again. I'm alert for a spasm, but this time it doesn't happen. I only feel a gradual stretching and filling-up sensation, which intensifies until Dave has his cock all the way in and his balls bump my pussy.
Dave starts to thrust, slowly at first and then with increasing speed. A latent orgasmic sensation begins to radiate from some ill-defined place deep inside my pelvic area, I can feel the hard crown of his cock-head rubbing on the wall of my rectum, and it feels amazing - not better than a cock in my vagina, exactly, but certainly very, very different.
As Dave's thrusts get firmer and deeper, my body is rocked forward. The bar across my hips keeps me from being driven onto my face, and helps me push back to give Dave's thrusts more penetration. I feel my breasts jiggling on my chest as my body shakes.
The latent orgasmic sensation intensifies and spreads. Now it seems centred on my clit, but not exclusively, It radiates through my whole body until it bursts into a huge, shuddering orgasm. I bite down hard on the ball in my mouth and scream wildly behind the gag.
As I start to come down from my orgasm, I feel my ass being filled with warm fluid as Dave lets his own orgasm release.
Dave unfastens the gag and then the straps holding me to the bondage frame. As I sit up, he hands me a washcloth to wipe up the lube, cum and a little shit that leak out of me. He uses another cloth to clean up his cock.
"Well, how was Samantha's Anal Adventure?"
"It was amazing. I had no idea my asshole could give me that much pleasure. You're right, Jason messed it up for me by just trying to shove his cock into me. He used lots of lube, but it didn't help."
"If you ever want to try that again, do it with a guy that you have good communication with. Aside from a ton of lube, communication is the key to great anal sex - or any sex for that matter."
***
Over dinner, Sylvia and I compare notes.
"Well, how was your afternoon?"
"Weird, like everything here. I found myself locked in a box the size of a coffin while a fucking machine edged me unmercifully for hours. It was torture, but when it finally let me cum, it was the biggest and longest orgasm that I've had forever. It just seemed to go on and on. I guess it was pent-up demand, plus the feeling of being locked in a box. I'm beginning to realize that confinement is one of my kinks. Sort of claustrophobia in reverse, I guess. You?"
I shift in my chair. My asshole is still a bit sore. No matter how gentle Dave had been with it, it just isn't used to being stretched like that.
"I got tied up and introduced to anal sex. I've always had something of a horror of anal, ever since a very ex-boyfriend really hurt me trying to do it. Dave showed me how to do it properly. I don't think I'm in any danger of becoming an anal slut, but I'm not afraid of it anymore, and I'd be happy to try it again with the right partner."
"Dave?"
"One of the hotel guys. The cute one with the sandy-blond hair and moustache. He showed me how anal is supposed to be done, slow and easy, with all the careful prep work that they never show you on Pornhub."
***
The days slide by. Some experiences are more or less repeats - Bluto makes me eat his cock again, and Dave fucks me in the ass, this time without the gag and the bondage frame. Others are new. I'm introduced to electrostim, light BDSM - just some spanking, not the heavy stuff I'd ruled out in the tiny box on the form - spit-roasting, and being pegged by the Domme woman with a strap-on. Some I like better than others, but I certainly can't say that anything is boring.
One day, nothing particularly weird happens all day, but when I go upstairs I find a whole array of sex toys spread out on the bed, waiting for me to use in front of several cameras set up in various positions around the room. I wonder if I'm going to be presented with a USB stick when I leave so I can see how I did with my first camgirl performance.
I hug Sylvia good-bye and she leaves to go back to her "normal" life. I eat by myself for a day, and then when I come in for dinner, I find two places set again. I'm just about to start eating when Cross Lady walks in and sits down next to me. She sits carefully on the edge of her chair, obviously trying not to put pressure on the plug that's still locked into her asshole.
She isn't wearing her maid's uniform or her gag, but her hands are cuffed behind her back. She sits in silence for a while, then says quietly, "Would you help me eat dinner?" Her eyes are downcast as if she's ashamed to have to ask for help.
I pour her a glass of wine and feed her dinner between bites of my own. "Would I be right in supposing that one of your kinks is being humiliated?" I ask.
"That's one of the things I've discovered here. I should have been able to figure it out before. Some of my choices in boyfriends should have told me that I get a sexual charge out of being humiliated. But this experience has kind of rubbed my face in it. Serving breakfast every morning wearing that stupid uniform is bad enough, but some of the things I've had to do are far worse. I really didn't like drinking a glassful of my own piss. But it's all a turn-on in the weirdest possible way. Even having to blow Blackbeard to get him to take this fucking plug out every time I want a shit can push an orgasm out of me."
"Blackbeard? Yes, I've had a mouthful of him more than once. Why does he get all the good head around here? I would have thought that the other guys might have murdered him in his sleep by now."
"He's the head concierge, so he gets some front-of-the-line privileges. The other guys seem to do pretty well even so." I think about Dave with his dick up my ass, and I see her point.
"My name's Roberta, by the way."
"Samantha."
"It's been great chatting with you, Samantha, and thanks for helping me with my dinner. But they won't take these handcuffs off until I've finished cleaning the toilets with my tongue, so I'd better get back to work." She stands and turns, and I watch her cheeks and butt plug wiggle away from me.
***
Before I know it, it's time to say good-bye to Pussy Island and all its surprises. Packing is easy: aside from my hairbrush and toothbrush, I haven't taken a thing out of my bag the whole time.
Roberta has left, so there's no maid to bring breakfast, but it's laid out for me in the dining room like all the rest of my meals. When I've finished and walk through the courtyard to leave, Bluto opens the outside door for me and gives me a firm pat on the butt by way of good-bye. I turn and ask, "What's your name, by the way? I've been calling you 'Bluto' this whole time, but I'd like to remember you by your real name."
"Matthew. And thanks for the blow jobs. You suck really good cock."
"Another thing I've wondered. This place seems to cater exclusively to women. Where do men go when they want a weird adventure?"
"We have another gulf island with a villa on it for men. We call it Schlong Island."
He says this with a totally straight face, and I have no idea whether he's pulling my leg or not. He doesn't seem like he would have much of a sense of humour, but who knows what's going on behind that beard.
I walk back down the gravel path to the dock, and the boat is waiting for me. I'm still wearing nothing but my sandals, but I'm reluctant to get dressed until I absolutely have to. I'm sure the driver has seen it all, and when I see Vancouver Harbour in the distance, there'll be plenty of time to put something on that won't get me arrested.
The wind on my naked skin is exhilarating, and I'm enjoying the trip as we weave between small islands. My nipples harden again, but this time it's not from arousal. It's just from the cool wind on my bare tits. I scan the water, hoping to see a pod of Orcas or other interesting sea mammals, but luck isn't with me today.
The driver, normally another of the notoriously silent Pussy Island types, turns to me and says, "Hey, Sam!" I take my eyes off the water and turn to him. "Matthew's been telling me how good you are at sucking cock. The best he can remember, he says. You must be good - that giant cock of his has to be hard to get down."
"Are you hinting that you'd like a demonstration?"
"That would constitute a really nice tip for my services."
I find a good position between the driver and the steering wheel where I can get to his cock without blocking his vision or interfering with his steering. I have no wish to find myself on a boat that's run up over a shoal or something.
I open the driver's pants and bring out his cock. Circumcised and clean-looking, and nicely sized, not a total jawbreaker like Bluto's - I mean, Matthew's. I get to work on it, using my tongue on the tip and then pushing it further and further into my mouth until it's down my throat as far as I can get it. I give him a good squeeze with my throat muscles, come up for air, and then go down on him again.
I glance up, and notice that we're overtaking a lumbering B.C. ferry hauling two decks of cars and three decks of passengers between the city of Nanaimo on Vancouver Island and the mainland. I see the name, Queen of New Westminster, written on the stern. I have a flash of nostalgia - a former boyfriend proposed to me on the deck of the Queen of New Westminster, before he two-timed me and I dumped him a few months later.
I expect us to make a wide swing around the ferry, but we're obviously going to pass close to it. I don't stop what I'm doing, but I imagine passengers looking out the window as they eat their clam chowder - about the only thing that's actually good to eat in a B.C. Ferries cafeteria - and wondering whether they're really seeing what they think they're seeing. I surprise myself yet again by realizing that I don't really care whether people see me sucking cock bare-assed or not.
As I push the driver's cock down my throat one more time, I reflect on my week in the Twilight Zone. Aside from getting out of my rut, I sure learned a lot about myself, some of it more positive than others. I've learned that I don't particularly get off on being spanked, and that I find being spit-roasted just plain dumb -- I couldn't really concentrate on what was going on at either end of my body, and my orgasm was pretty much a fizzle. But even the negative experiences were experiences, and my brain is full of important lessons learned.
When I get back home, I'm definitely going to teach my boyfriend how to fuck me in the ass the proper way. Then I'll go from there.
- As I explore the luxury resort, I stumble upon a room filled with various toys, including a silicone dildo shaped like a deep throat and a collection of BDSM equipment.
- At the bar, I discover a selection of unusual drinks, such as a "Pussy Island Punch" made with vodka, pineapple juice, and a drop of anal-infused bitters.
- After an intense session, I retreat to my room, where I find a DVD of the fantasy enacted earlier, featuring myself and another participant engaging in an f-f encounter, reminiscent of the old television show Fantasy Island.