Wednesday, November 20, 2013

A new book is in the works.

Too early for much details but it is the story of two young women's descent into the depths of S&M. It is meant to be romantic as well as strong. The scenarios will be Spain, the US and possibly France.
The working title is: "It happened in Madrid." but it is subject to change.
Also the plan is for a simultaneous release in English and Spanish. Let's see how that works.

Here is chapter 1:

Fishing.

Mila and I stood, uncertain, on the grass covered slope. My resolution wavering as the moment approached, I looked at my friend. Her short, spiky black hair framed her pale face and her almond shaped, almost black eyes. She smiled at me and I wondered how could she smile so, at a time like that. She laughed and pulled off her t-shirt. Her breasts swinging saucily on the late September breeze. I could not help but noticing Pedro, my boyfriend and Santi, her's avidly ogling her boobies. She laughed again, reached for the waist of her mini skirt and pulled it, and her panties down. She sat down on the grass, removed her ballerinas and changed them for the latex sandals that we used to wade on the beach during the summer. She looked up at me and laughed once more.

"Come on!" she said, "your turn."

I had not removed my clothes yet. Not because I was self-conscious before Pedro and Santi. They had seen us naked many times of course. I hadn't stripped yet because I was scared shitless. I watched the two young men standing beside us on the grassy slope, lit by the westering sun. Each one held a long fishing pole, not the flimsy trout poles but the sturdier poles they used to fish in the sea.

"Come on," Mila insisted.

I had to do it. I removed my t-shirt and my bra. My pert boobies rose on my chest, crowned by their pink nipples, provoking a stupid grin from the boys. As if they hadn't seen them before. My hands shook as I unfastened my jeans. I sat on the grass and pulled them off. I pulled off my boy cut panties, put on the wading sandals and sat as naked as Mila. I gave her a faint smile.

The boys laid down their poles. Pedro opened his tackle box.

I jumped up, "I gotta pee."

I ran across the side of the hill towards some boxwood bushes that grew near the top of the hill.

"I'm coming too," Mila said and ran after me.

We returned to where the boys sat assembling the rigs. I didn't dare look at them. How could we, how could I have agreed to this.

Mila knelt beside Santi and watched as her boyfriend tied a heavy spinner to a length of 14 pound mono filament nylon, stripped about a yard of line, threaded a barrel swivel on to the line and tied a second spinner to the opposite end of the line. I tried not to look at the treble hooks at the business end of the spinners. Beside me, Pedro assembled a similar rig.

I looked down hill, the slope ran for four or five hundred yards of grass until it reached a copse of spindly young willows, where a stream crossed the meadow. That was not too far to run. Mila looked at me and I knew she had the same idea. My hands went up to cup my breasts and cover my nipples with my palms. I shivered though it wasn't cold.

"All right girls," Pedro said. "Stand."

We both stood up, I saw that Mila was shivering too.

"Hands behind your backs," Santi ordered.

We did so, crossing our wrists behind our waists.

Santi tied my hands with a narrow leather strap. To my right I saw Pedro doing the same to Mila. There was to be no cheating.

Santi picked up the nylon rig. I shook on my feet. He placed the mono filament line over my shoulders and behind my neck. Both salmon spinners hung beside my breasts. I trembled standing, defenseless, knowing full well what he was going to do now. I looked at Pedro, doing the same with Mila. She looked at me and I saw the fear in her eyes.

Santi picked up my breast in his hand, the right one. I closed my eyes. I felt him tighten his grip on it.
"Are you ready Pedro?" he asked.

"Yes," he replied, "Ready girls?"

"No," I answered, but it was a rhetorical question.

I felt the barbed hook stab my breast and screamed. So did Mila, I guess, but I did not hear her. I opened my eyes and saw the hook, barb and all, sticking out of the top of my areola, just behind the nipple. I was gasping for breath, like a landed fish. Santi held my left breast and squeezed it firmly. I began to scream even before the second spinner's hook stabbed my left breast.

I struggled to control my breathing. With each breath, the heavy spinners dangling from my nipples shook the hooks embedded in my flesh. I saw Mila beside me, her breasts similarly adorned.

The boys now attached the lines in their rods to the barrel swivels dangling behind our necks.

They opened the bails on their reels and stepped back, about thirty yards. We looked at them, over our shoulders. We looked at the spindly willows on the banks of the stream, five hundred yards downhill. Pedro's rod was attached to Mila's line and Santi to mine. That way there would be no cheating. No chance of me, or Mila giving our boyfriend an easy victory.

Not that that would have happened anyway. Too much was at stake.

We heard the bails on their reels snap shut.

"Get ready fishies," one of them said.

I examined the terrain carefully. With my wrists tied behind my back it would be difficult to get up if I were to fall.

Mila would run at my right side. I looked at her. She looked at me. Perhaps we should have wished each other good luck but we wouldn't really mean it, so we didn't. We simply acknowledged each other with a nod of our heads.

"Now!" Pedro said.

At that moment I felt a lacerating pain in my nipples. Santi had 'set' the hooks by sharply pulling up his rod. That was our signal.

After a moment's hesitation I began to run downhill. The hooks pulled my breasts up, towards my shoulders, the pain was excruciating. I heard the drag on Santi's rod scream as I ran downhill stripping line from his reel. At the edge of my vision I saw Mila running too. I was sure that she was also stripping Pedro's line just as fast and just as painfully as I did.

The hooks pulled harder and harder on my breasts. The pain was too much. I had to stop. I was still two hundred yards from the line of willows. Mila still ran and Pedro's drag still screamed. But she, too had to stop and catch her breath. I saw her breasts, obscenely stretched towards her shoulders. She jerked her body this way and that whimpering all the time. I remained quiet, catching my breath and hoping that Santi would get overconfident allowing me the chance I needed to ran down further, to get further away from him and closer to the beckoning willows.

He was too experienced for that. He maintained enough tension on his line to preclude any relief from the atrocious pain in my nipples. I heard him wind his reel and felt the hooks tear and pull at my breasts. I sprinted again. If I caught him by surprise I might, just might, snap the line. But he released the tension, lowering the tip of the rod, I'm sure, and the brake squealed as I pulled ahead maybe twenty yards, before the pain made me stop once more.

Mila was only ten yards ahead of me, still running, her line taut behind her, the drag yielding line more slowly. Pedro must have tightened it. She was only seventy or so yards from the willows. If she made it past the willows she could turn back around a tree and the line would snap. She would win. She would be safe.

Trying to ignore the pain in my breasts I sprinted ahead again. Only sixty yards more, but I could not go on. The hooks were tearing my flesh. I whimpered. Santi gave me no slack. He did not pull harder, he just held me there. Mila too had stopped. She took a deep breath and lunged ahead, running towards the right before turning left. Pedro tried to control her flight and suddenly she gave a shattering scream.

"One's out!" she said.

"Stop!" Santi ordered.

I stopped moving and pulling, but he only released the tension a little.

Pedro came down the hill. Mila's left nipple was bleeding freely where the hook had torn its way through her flesh. Pedro took a pair of pliers and snapped off the hook. He then tied the spinner to the snap swivel so it wouldn't jump about. He returned to his rod, picked it up and drew the line tight.

"Go!" Santi said.

I felt him pull on the line, and fought the pain, not yielding an inch, but not gaining any either.

As I tried to gather my courage to run the final seventy yards or so I noticed Mila, only forty or fifty yards from the trees, suddenly turn around and run towards Pedro. Had she gone crazy?

I saw Pedro reeling in the line, spinning the handle frantically. Santi must have gotten distracted for my line slacked a little. Unfortunately, distracted by Mila's antics, I failed to take advantage of this.

Mila now spun again and launched herself on a mad run at full speed down the hill. The line tightened and she screamed as the remaining hook dug into her breast, she was only thirty yards from the trees. I began to pull too, not running, just steadily pulling and whimpering at the unbelievable pain on my breasts. Mila turned back, towards Pedro again but after only two or three yards she flipped and launched herself at full speed down the hill and, as the line tightened, instead of slowing down, she jumped forward, with all her strength while turning, spinning her body in the air. I heard a snap. I heard Pedro curse.

Unable to break her fall with her wrists tied behind her back, she fell on the grass, twenty yards or so from the stream, but she was free. She'd broken the line with that desperate, final maneuver. She won.

That left me.

The game was not over yet though. Renewed pain in my nipples announced that Santi had resumed retrieving line. I stumbled back, confused. I tried to pull ahead but the pain was too much, I had to yield. A yard or two, before I remembered what was the price of failure. I tried to run again, but only regained the ground I'd lost. Then I yielded ground again, and again. My efforts were useless. The pain too strong. Defeated, I walked up the grassy hill, obeying Santi's line, until I was no more than a yard or two away from him, my nipples bloodied by the hooks embedded deep into the soft flesh.

One thing remained.

I had to be gaffed.

Of course they would not use a real gaff. A lasso on a pole around my neck to bring me to the ground, not that I resisted, a loop of rope around my ankles and I was secured. Santi carried me back to the chalet at the top of the hill where, slinging a rope over a convenient branch, they hung me, upside down, while Pedro took his picture with his trophy.

I remained hanging while they tended to Mila's lacerated left nipple. They doused it with alcohol and, after she stopped screaming, they slapped a bandage on it. Pedro clipped off the barb on the hook in her right breast, removed it, doused the boob with alcohol and covered the nipple with a large band aid.

They did the same thing with my breasts, while I hung conveniently from the tree. Only then they lowered me from the branch and freed me.

I lost, Santi won.

I hung my head. There was a price to pay for failure. If you were a girl.

There was a reward for victory, if you were a guy.

Santi would collect his reward. He would be the master of ceremonies for the weekend.

I would be the victim.

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