Chapter 8: Mediterranean Time
The sun on the Mediterranean was a different entity than the chandelier light of the ballroom. It wasn’t a glow; it was an assault. It hammered down on the pristine white deck of the Serenity, bleaching the wood, firing diamond glints off the waves, and baking the teak under Lucia’s knees.
She was a smudge of color against the blinding white. A micro bikini, if it could be called that. Two scant triangles of electric pink fabric struggled to contain her augmented breasts, the ties digging into the flesh of her back and neck. The bottom was a thin strap that disappeared between her cheeks, doing nothing to cover the smooth mound of her flat titanium cage or the puffy, used lips below it. The diamond collar was her only other accessory.
She knelt by the Jacuzzi, a silent, smiling fixture. Inside, three men—the benefactor, Charles, and his two guests, Lars and Stefan—lounged in the bubbling water, cigars in hand, their paunches pale above the waterline.
“Refreshments, Lucia,” Charles said, not looking at her. He pointed a pudgy finger at a sweating silver bucket holding champagne.
She moved. The practiced, hip-swishing walk was impossible on her knees. She shuffled, the rough grain of the deck punishing her skin, until she reached the bucket. She lifted the heavy bottle, her tits straining against their flimsy constraints, and poured with steady hands, filling each flute. She served them one by one, leaning forward so each man got an eyeful of her cleavage, maintaining the vacant, lip-parted smile Sasha had branded into her.
“Good girl,” Lars murmured, his eyes roaming over her. He had a sharp, vulpine face. “Heard you graduated with top marks.”
Lucia’s smile widened. A strand of her platinum hair, damp with sea spray, stuck to her cheek. “My only purpose is to serve, sir.”
Stefan, broader, hairier, grunted. “Prove it. The water’s nice. Get in.”
She didn’t hesitate. She rose, stepped over the rim, and lowered herself into the frothing, hot water. The bikini became utterly transparent, plastered to her skin, revealing every detail. She settled between Charles and Stefan, her body a soft, available warmth in the churning water.
Charles’s hand found her thigh under the bubbles. His grip was possessive, not sensual. “You’re a fine example of Valeria’s work. A living, breathing dividend.”
“Thank you, sir.”
His hand slid higher, pushing the transparent fabric aside, his thick fingers prodding at the smooth, featureless titanium of her flat cage. He rubbed it, as if polishing a stone. “Remarkable. Totally inert. Just decorative.”
“It’s to remind me I have no needs, sir,” Lucia recited, the water lapping at her chin. “Only functions.”
On her other side, Stefan’s hand was more direct. It plunged between her legs from behind, bypassing the cage entirely, two rough fingers pushing into her already-loosened cunt. She gasped, arching into the touch, her head lolling back against the Jacuzzi’s rim.
“Still gets wet, though,” Stefan observed, working his fingers in and out with a squelching sound audible over the jets. “Animal reflex. Nice and deep.”
Charles watched, his other hand now toying with her nipple through the wet fabric, pinching and twisting. “Let’s see the other one. Turn around.”
Lucia maneuvered in the tight space, water sloshing. She presented her back to Charles, her ass breaking the surface near Stefan. Charles’s fingers, slick from the water, immediately found her other hole, circling the tight furl. “This the one that took the equine toy? At the gala?”
“Yes, sir,” Lucia moaned, pushing back against his finger.
“Impressive.” He didn’t bother with lubricant beyond the chlorinated water. He spat on his hand, rubbed his cock—thick and unexpectedly hard—and pressed the head against her. “Open up, dividend. Pay out.”
He pushed inside. The initial breach was a hot, tearing stretch made stranger by the enveloping warmth of the water. He filled her with a single, steady invasion, his hips meeting her cheeks. Lucia cried out, a sharp, genuine sound that melted into a slurry of gratitude. “Oh God, yes! Thank you, sir! Thank you for using my ass!”
Stefan, not to be left out, guided her mouth onto his own erection, which had risen above the bubbly surface. She sucked him greedily, the taste of chlorine and skin flooding her senses. Lars watched from across the Jacuzzi, stroking himself slowly, a connoisseur observing a performance.
Charles fucked her with slow, deep, punishing strokes, each one driving her face further onto Stefan’s cock. The jets pummeled her stomach and thighs. She was a nexus of violation, suspended in hot liquid, used at both ends. She lost track of time, measured only in thrusts and gulps.
Charles came first, with a guttural groan, his body stiffening as he pumped his load deep into her bowels. He pulled out, patted her ass twice, and lounged back. “All yours, Stefan.”
Stefan pulled her off his cock by her hair. “Up. On the deck. On your hands and knees.”
She climbed out, dripping, the transparent bikini nothing but a wet rag clinging to her form. The sun seared her wet skin. She assumed the position, the hot teak burning her palms and knees. Stefan emerged behind her, water streaming from his hairy body. He mounted her, taking the same, slick channel Charles had just vacated.
He was rougher, faster, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “Fucking perfect fuckhole,” he grunted, his pace jarring her whole body. “No thoughts. Just a warm, wet sleeve.”
Lars finally stood, stepping out of the Jacuzzi. He walked around to her front. His cock was long and thin. He didn’t feed it to her mouth. He slapped it against her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. “You’re a thirsty little thing, aren’t you?”
“Please,” Lucia begged, trying to catch it with her mouth as it danced before her. “Please, let me suck it. I need it.”
“You need it?” Lars teased, tapping the head against her tongue for a second before pulling away. “What do you need?”
“I need to taste your cock, sir! I need to swallow your cum! It’s all I’m good for!”
Behind her, Stefan roared, pounding into her one final time before collapsing over her back, spurting inside her. He slapped her ass, a red handprint rising on the wet skin. “Fuck. Yeah.”
As Stefan withdrew, Lars finally gave her what she wanted. He shoved his length deep into her throat, holding her head still. She gagged around it, tears springing to her eyes, but her throat opened, trained and obedient. He fucked her face with short, brutal thrusts, his balls slapping against her chin.
“Swallow every drop, you bimbo bitch,” he hissed. “This is your lunch.”
He came, and she swallowed convulsively, her throat working around each pulse. When he was done, he pulled out, wiping the tip on her forehead.
She remained on her hands and knees, panting, a mixture of fluids and chlorinated water dripping from her face and between her legs onto the sun-bleached teak. The three men returned to their champagne, their conversation shifting to stock portfolios and a recent golf tournament.
She was invisible again. A used appliance. The flat cage felt like a blessing. It meant there was nothing to attend to, no confusing arousal to manage. Just the hollow, satisfied ache of a function fulfilled.
Hours bled into one another. The men napped. She was told to kneel by the sunbed and oil their backs. Her fingers worked their muscles, her body on display. When Charles woke with an erection, he simply pulled her down onto it, letting her ride him lazily under the afternoon sun while he checked his phone.
As evening stained the sky with bruised purples and oranges, they dressed for dinner. She was given a sheer black mesh cover-up that hid nothing and told to serve. She carried plates of lobster and poured wine, her body a moving shadow behind the translucent material. During dessert, Stefan pulled her onto his lap, fingered her under the table until she whimpered, and then made her get under the tablecloth to suck him off while they finished their tiramisu.
Later, on the wide aft deck under a canopy of stars, Lars produced a glass vial of powder. “A little incentive,” he winked. She didn’t ask what it was. She knelt, tilted her head back, and he fed her a small dose, then a larger one. The world fractured into crystalline hyper-clarity. Every sensation magnified. The breeze was a chorus of whispers on her skin. The stars pulsed.
They used her simultaneously. Charles took her ass again, bent over a low console table. Stefan fucked her mouth. Lars, kneeling before her, forced her to suck his balls while fingering her clit with a rough, demanding rhythm. The drugs made it endless, a feedback loop of raw sensation with no hope of release. She screamed around Stefan’s cock, her body convulsing with anal and clitoral stimulation that had nowhere to go, circling the void of her cage in a frenzy of frustrated bliss.
When they were spent, they left her there, twitching and mewling on the deck, the stars spinning overhead.
A crewman, silent and efficient, hosed her down with cold freshwater at dawn. He threw her a towel. She shivered, coming down from the chemicals into a brittle, raw exhaustion. The diamond collar was cold against her throat.
Her phone, a slim pink device that only received messages, chimed. It was a photo. A document. A familiar face.
It was Logan. His eyes wide behind his glasses in a “before” picture, then shocked, with makeup, in a training room. The text beneath was from Mistress Valeria: Your success paves the way. Observe. His resolve crumbles. His transformation accelerates. You are the standard. He will be the masterpiece.
Lucia stared at the image. A faint echo, a ghost of a feeling that might have been empathy or recognition, flickered and died. It was replaced by a warm, smug satisfaction. She was the graduate. He was just the trainee. She had been where he was. Now she was here, on a yacht, fulfilling her purpose.
She typed a reply, her fingers clumsy. He’s lucky. Can’t wait to see him when he’s finished. He’ll love it.
She hit send. The sun was rising again, a fresh hell of brilliant light. She heard Charles stirring in the master suite. She wiped her face, adjusted the tiny bikini, and fixed her vacant smile. Her function was calling.
Her function was calling. The sound was Charles clearing his throat in the suite’s main room, a dry, expectant noise. Lucia pushed the cabin door open, the morning light cutting across the lavish bedding and his robe-clad form. He stood by the panoramic window, gazing at the endless blue, a phone in one hand.
“There you are.” He didn’t turn. “We have guests arriving today. A proper party. You’ll be the main attraction.”
“Of course, sir.” Her voice was morning-rough, eager. “How may I please them?”
Finally, he looked at her. His eyes traced the faded handprint on her ass, the slight tremor in her hands from the chemicals and exhaustion. “However they wish. Be inventive. Lars mentioned you have a taste for… spectacle.” A thin smile. “You impressed him. Don’t disappoint.”
The day blurred into preparations. She was given a new outfit: a harness of thin, black leather straps that carved into her flesh, framing her tits and converging between her legs to hold a large, buzzing remote-controlled egg against her caged mound. A tiny black G-string did nothing for modesty. She oiled her body until it shone, reapplied her smeared makeup with a vacant precision, and waited.
The other yacht arrived at dusk, sliding alongside with a whisper of engines. Laughter and music spilled over. Twenty people, maybe more, streamed aboard—men in linen, women in sharp silks, all carrying the casual cruelty of absolute wealth. They congregated on the main deck, a jazz trio playing softly under strings of warm Edison bulbs.
Lucia circulated with a tray of champagne flutes, the egg inside her humming on a low, persistent setting. Her smile was fixed. Eyes raked her. Fingers pinched her ass as she passed. She offered the tray and herself with the same blank availability.
“This is the Academy’s latest model?” a woman with a severe blonde bob asked Charles, her gaze clinically assessing Lucia’s hips.
“The graduate. Fully realized. No will, only function.”
“Charming.” The woman reached out, not for a glass, but to flick the vibrating egg through the G-string. Lucia gasped, her knees buckling slightly. “Responsive.”
It started subtly. A man pulled her onto his lap as he sat on a cushioned bench, his hand sliding under the harness to grope her breast. He kissed her neck, his other hand guiding hers to his hardening cock under his trousers. “Work it, sweetheart. Make a show.”
She did. She unzipped him, took him out, and began stroking in full view, her head thrown back in a parody of ecstasy. The conversation around them dipped, then resumed with a new, heated curiosity. Someone turned up the music.
“I want that mouth,” another man said, pulling her off the first by her hair. He was younger, smelling of gin and salt. He led her to the wide, flat capstan at the deck’s center. “On your back. Head over the edge.”
She obeyed, lying back on the cold metal, her head and shoulders hanging off one side, her throat exposed. He fed his cock into her upside-down mouth, a confusing, deep invasion that made her gag reflexively. She fought it, relaxing her throat, as he began to fuck it.
A circle formed. A woman in a silver dress crouched, watching the penetration with a cold smile. “Can she breathe?”
“Does it matter?” the man grunted, picking up pace.
Lucia’s world narrowed to the pounding in her skull and the thick slide in her throat. Drool pooled in her ear. When he came, she swallowed convulsively, the inverted position making it a strange, gravity-defying trick.
He pulled out. She gasped for air, still inverted. Another man was already there, unbuckling. “My turn. Hold her legs open.”
Hands—belonging to guests she couldn’t see—gripped her ankles, spreading her wide. The leather harness was yanked aside. The man spat onto his fingers, rubbed it over her asshole, and pushed in without ceremony. This penetration was a brutal, downward stroke, aided by gravity. She screamed, a raw, wet sound.
“Love that scream,” someone commented.
“Sound of a perfect product.”
He fucked her hard, his balls slapping against the curve of her ass. The vibrating egg was crushed between their bodies, its buzz becoming a maddening tremor. Another man fed his cock into her mouth again. She was a living, breathing fuck-toy, pumping between two points of violation.
They used her in shifts. A line formed. She lost count. Her mouth grew sore, her jaw ached, her ass felt raw and stretched beyond its limits. They came on her face, in her mouth, across her tits. They made her lick clean a woman’s spiked heels. They passed the remote for the egg, laughing as they cranked it to its highest setting until her body trembled uncontrollably, a puppet jerked by electricity.
“Think she can take more?” Lars’s voice cut through her haze. He held something—a thick, double-headed silicone dildo, black and glistening with lube. “Bridge for two.”
He positioned her on all fours. One end was shoved brutally into her ravaged ass. The other end, he presented to a grinning male guest. “Go on. Fuck the fuck-toy. See if you can meet in the middle.”
The guest, a bulky man with gold rings, knelt and pushed into the other end. They began a rhythm, pounding into her from both sides, the dildo stretching her insides to an impossible degree. Lucia choked on nothing, her vision spotting, a deep, internal fullness threatening to split her open. The guests cheered, a rowdy, betting crowd.
“Taking it like a champion!”
“That’s a thoroughfare now!”
The men groaned in unison, their thrusts growing erratic. Lucia felt the silicone shaft pulse as both of them came, their climaxes imagined but their force very real. They pulled out, leaving the dildo lodged inside her for a moment before it was yanked free with a wet, sickening pop.
She collapsed onto her side, trembling, a mess of sweat and fluids. The party swirled above her. A foot nudged her.
“Still awake? Good.” It was Charles. He held a bottle of premium vodka, the cap off. “Clean-up time. Open.”
He poured the clear, stinging liquid over her face, her chest, her used holes. It burned in a dozen tiny cuts and raw abrasions. She sputtered, licking her lips, the alcohol mixing with the salt of semen and sweat.
“Lick it all off the deck,” Stefan commanded, pointing to the puddled mess beneath her. “Every drop. You made the mess, you clean it.”
Crawling, she did. She lapped at the teak, her tongue collecting the bitter, mingled fluids, the vodka a disinfectant fire in her throat. The guests watched, some in disgust, most in rapt fascination. She was an animal. A perfect, debased pet.
When she finished, she looked up, her expression one of utter need. The hollow bliss was total. The flat cage was a comforting nullity. Her mouth still hung open, hoping.
“Please,” she slurred, her voice gone. “More.”
Charles smiled, glancing at his watch. The party was winding down. “All in good time. The Mediterranean is a big sea. We have miles to go.” He tossed a towel at her feet. It landed in a wet heap. “Rest. You’ll be needed again soon.”