Unnamed Island, South Pacific – Dusk, October 11, 2008
With dinner served, a day of heedful observation ends... no ships to be sighted, no airplanes to be heard. Captain Cocoa’s feeling of discouragement is normally well countered by the servility of her caged Gimp. Yet as she holds his altered penis and directs his flow, her despondency continues despite thoughts of the leisurely oral servitude which will follow.
She never thought she would tire of the unbridled cunnilingus offered by her Gimp. Her comfort level is such that her imagination freely flows while the Gimp licks and sucks. Her mind floats to another place, another time. Yes, in her masturbatory fantasy she slakes revenge on the male gender, tormenting all with stiff phalluses and the desire to offer penetration. Her near rape has emotionally scarred.
The bowl is emptied into the lagoon. Captain Cocoa returns. It is time for her to straddle the cage and put her Gimp to work... her reward for feeding, toilet assistance and her maternal care. She opens the small door but on this night her lustful mind brings pause. This morning’s countless orgasms not only temporarily exhausted, such also brought a degree of ennui.
Once again Captain Cocoa smiles to herself. Morality curiously becomes a relative attribute when so consummately isolated. Yes, the Gimp is another living being, a creature to be valued. Yet he is one under her complete governance. He lives by her hand... even relying on her bodily juices to sustain life.
Is it not hers to dictate all?
Why should her fantasies not be realized. This island could become her final resting place. Her demise... by accident... by injury... would result in the slower demise of her caged companion.
She thinks of the physical effort required to harvest cocoanuts and other fruit, her muscular form climbing high into the tropical canopy in order to offer her Gimp his meals of mashed fruit. Should she not be rewarded for her risky efforts by not having to temper her predilections?
The internal debate ends. Captain Cocoa straddles the cage backwards, her pudendum not presented to the opening but instead the crevice of her gluteal cleft. She reaches back and finds the nostril chain and tugs, her Gimp instantly responding. She smiles to herself as he knows to rise on his haunches to position his head and thrust his tongue and lips through the opening. On this evening such will be greeted by an odorous aperture.
Still she feels the thrill of an initial lick. And surprise, surprise... the design of the clever saddle permits her to reach down and toy with her soft sensitive pinkness.
Yes, while her Gimp performs analingus, her fingers toy and knead both labia and clitoris.
“Thrust your tongue forward and you’ll capture some juices, my Gimp.”
Captain Cocoa arches the small of her back to better offer herself. She is amazed when the prodigious appendage does just that, slithering past her perineum to savor her drooling essence. Her Gimp has been trained to serve there as well. He relishes the entire female form.
Unnamed Island, South Pacific – Midday, October 20, 2008
After months of watchful observation, Captain Cocoa tires of scanning the horizon for ships which she now understands will not come. Months ago, her spirited attempt to alter course and gain the lead in the race brought her ketch to waters rarely navigated. The coral reefs preclude large ocean going ships from venturing nearby. The island is beyond the range of smaller vessels, the foray in her racing ketch notwithstanding.
It is apparent that the sole sign of civilization and possible rescue, the cargo plane dropping her caged gimp, was an anomaly. Someone chose an uninhabited island as the Gimp’s final resting place, her presence is just a happenstance.
And so Captain Cocoa sits on the beach, basking her finely honed nakedness in the tropical sun, practicing with the mirror, a lesson learned from her unpreparedness when the Gimp parachuted into the lagoon.
She turns to face the lush vegetation, holding the concave mirror such that the sun’s rays reflect to bring a concentrated beam to the trunk of a mango tree. She amuses herself, holding it steady to practice her ability to aim. Her mind wanders as the dark wood seems to burst into light. With her only meaningful diversion being the endless cunnilingus and abject male servitude, her imagination foments...
Imaginary leash in hand, a naked male crawls behind her. As Captain Cocoa steps, the length of leather tightens. She stops and turns.
‘Bad doggy,’ she admonishes.
Her free hand dons a quirt. In her reverie she smiles as she envisions applying a nasty correcting stroke to well exposed testicles. Her human doggy whimpers in pain, lurches then obediently heels as Captain Cocoa resumes her walk.
Her reverie of supreme dominance over the male is fan
