WaterWay -- Chapter 13
Rashad in Miami -- The Bait
By: WaterLuv@etzine.com   Copyright 1996, by ET!zine   All rights reserved

Monday we had spent in training and play, anchored off West End at the Western tip of Grand Bahama Island.  Tuesday, we took the launch to shore and enjoyed the sights and sounds.  That afternoon, we weighed anchor and turned West for a return to the mainland and all the clouded threats brooding there.  The past two days had been blissful, leaving us both in an exuberant frame of mind.  There was a distinct sobering of our mood as we swung back toward the USA and its dangers.  

We had been in touch with Jazmand in New Smyrna Beach.  Her trip had gone well.  She had an offer on her condo -- almost $10,000 more than the Real Estate saleslady had suggested she ask.  She had only to await financing approval, a thing virtually assured by the buyer's net worth.  Better still, Jaz had heard not a peep from Rashad.  It seemed our disappearing act in Miami had sufficiently derailed his tracking efforts.  

After tying up the few remaining details for the sale of her house, Jaz was set to catch a return flight to Miami Wednesday morning.  However, in our last telephone contact, I suggested she revise her plans.  Daytona is about 200 miles from Grand Bahama.  WaterWay could cruise the distance easily in 8 hours.  Leaving Tuesday afternoon as we were, we would make the last leg of the journey, near the Florida coast, under cover of dark.  We'd be in Daytona around midnight.  I arranged for Jaz to meet us at Daytona Marina and Boat Works, knowing that their facilities are open 24 hours a day.  We'd depart again after collecting our friend, and anchor of shore for the night.  No need to make things too simple for our would-be stalker, Rashad.

By 1 AM Thursday morning, we were at anchor and bedding down for the night.  Even though this was a reunion, we were all too tired to do anything more than immediately turn in.  

Despite the late-night activities, we were back up shortly after daybreak.  Over breakfast, prepared for us by Jaz as a welcome back, we discussed the day's plans.  We had much to talk about, most of it deadly serious.  We would need to engage Rashad soon -- steering him toward our trap.  The planning was intensive, and soaked up our attention for most of two hours.  Still, through its distraction, Jaz was perceptive enough to notice a change in the way you and I were treating each other.  

"Y'all seem so close now," she said wistfully during one of the lulls in the Rashad planning session.  "What happened while I was away?  You must have gone a step or two more with Mary's training.  Damn, wish I'd been there.  But I had to be off making a lousy 20 grand selling my condo.  Can't fate be cruel?"

We promised that, as time permitted, we'd tell her all about what we'd done.  On the surface, this seemed to placate her.  But there was an undercurrent of change in Jazmand that left me disquieted.  Is she jealous?  I wondered.  Does she really love me, or maybe you, or our triangle?  Is it more than just the good times I provide?  Will the newborn closeness between Mary and me threaten the teamwork the three of us need to handle Banton?  Important questions as we set sail toward a potential showdown with so dangerous an adversary.  Important -- and difficult to answer.  Perhaps, like my previous concerns, only time would tell.  But such worries will have to wait a time when I can afford them more thought.

During our on route conference, here's the plan we hatched.  We wouldn't go straight back to Miami.  Too dangerous.  A call to our private detective, Bob Templeton, confirmed that Rashad was still there, apparently searching for our trail.  Templeton's men had overheard him making inquiries at the Alexander and the cab company.  Fortunately, our cab swap had worked.  He'd bought tickets for Daytona beach -- leaving this afternoon.  He'd been able to track Jaz, who stayed in the original car, but not us.  That being the case, he probably knew nothing of the boat.  My hope was that he would concentrate on chasing his target, Jazmand.  If he did, that would leave the two of us relatively free to move about, separate of Jaz.  We could do the work needed to set the trap without too much concern about being kidnapped or killed in the process.  With due diligence to ensure her safety, we could even let Jaz act as a decoy, keeping him hopping about and out of our hair while we engineered a snare for him.

So if not Miami, where.  Surely, Rashad would soon learn if we went back to Key West.  Bimini Island, just 48 miles east of Miami, made best sense, I thought.  Reasonably close, yet thoroughly isolated from the mainland's activities.  Its harbor would make a great base of operation, at least until such time as Banton might discover my purchase of WaterWay.  That was something to consider.  If he did learn of the boat, he could easily have all ports watched for her distinctive appearance.  I should find . . . What do the spies call it? . . . A safe-house.  Also, I should plan what to do with WaterWay while ashore perusing Rashad.

That decided, we began a leisurely trip from Daytona to Bimini.  Around noon, we anchored offshore of Fort Pierce, FL for a swim and then some lunch.  We used the time to lay plans and make contact with the people we'd need to implement them.  I called Harvey Stone, a friend in Real Estate, and asked him to lease a suburban Miami furnished house for me.  I gave him specifications -- three bedrooms and three baths, lots of privacy, maybe a fenced yard, in a low traffic area, quiet.  He went right to work.

Next, I checked in with Tony Rueger.  "Tony, this is Jim West."

"Hi Jim,"  Tony replied.  "Checking in for an update?"

"Right.  I picked up the new boat, and we've been on a shakedown cruise," I said.  "Now it's time to get back to business.  How's it been going?"

"Well, it's like Templeton told you earlier," Tony answered.  "He's gathered a good deal of information on Rashad, but none conclusively linking him to actual crimes.  Most of what he has is hearsay.  What we've been able to trace goes right back to Banton's own mouth.  Of course, given the fact you want our investigation to be covert, I didn't expect this to be a cakewalk."

"Tony," I suggested, "maybe we could check into the car the police recovered -- the one the shooter used.  It was stolen, according to Detective Johnston of the Key West Police.  You tell me.  Would grand theft auto be a start, or is just a ticket to pass through Florida's revolving prison door?"

"Well," Tony mused, "It's worth checking.  GTA doesn't do much in-and-of itself.  But it might just lead to something bigger."

I gave Tony the details on the car.  He indicated he'd follow it up.  I also asked him about some top-notch protection for Jazmand.  "Tony," I insisted, "I'm not just looking for muscle.  Jaz needs to be able to move around without Rashad having the faintest idea she's got any company.  We know now that Mr. Banton will be watching.  I don't just need some fighters.  I need some stealth fighters."

Tony chuckled at the metaphor, then said, "I've got just the security service for it, Jim.  I'll get it lined up.  You just let me know when and where Jazmand will arrive, and I'll take it from there."

Next, I checked in with Detective Johnston in Key West.  His typical "Johnston here," boomed through the ship's phone as if he were shouting in my ear.

"Detective Johnston," I said, my voice rising in response to his, "this is Jim West.  I've been out to sea giving my new boat a shakedown, and I thought I'd better call in.  Is there any news about the guy that shot at my house?"

"Yeah, West, I was just about to call you," he continued.  "Preliminary reports on the slug in your door frame are consistent with an Uzi.  Of course, it'll probably be six weeks or so before we have a positive ID on it from the lab.  Those boys only move fast for coffee and donuts, you know.  Ha, ha! . . . Ha, Ha, Ha!"

I was thinking I wouldn't have to work hard to dislike this man.  The next thing he said cinched that position.  "West, we need you in here.  Can you drop in this afternoon some time?  Got some things we're concerned about."

"Can't we cover it by phone?" I pleaded.  "I'm still at sea about 300 miles North of you.  And I've got some other business that I really must tend to."

"Look, West!  The phone won't do," he thundered.  "We have reason to believe you're running your own investigation.  You stay out of police business, West, if you know what's good for you.  Don't you think you're in enough trouble already with this hit man using your girlfriends for target practice?  You be in here no later than tomorrow!  You hear me?"

"Detective," I said, "We're not the criminals in this, we're the victims.  If you have charges to bring against me or my friends, then issue a warrant.  I'm out of town for now.  Until you catch the people in Key West that shot at us, we have good reasons to stay that way.  Good day."  I hung up before he had a chance to launch a rebuttal.

Great!  With everything else we have to worry about, now this guy Johnston wants to clip our wings,  I thought.  And how did he find out about our 'investigation'?  How should we deal with him?

I called Tony again, and told him about the exchange with Johnston.  I asked him to have his detectives discretely look into how the Key West police learned about our investigation, and just how much they knew.  If too much, we might have to pull the plug on the whole operation.  If just a little, maybe we could redirect their understanding of our activities onto a dead-end road.  Tony understood perfectly, and went right into action on it.

Oh well, I thought, when you don't know why you ought to turn back, press on.

Press on we did -- to Bimini harbor.  The Biminis -- rich, slightly fetid odor of human activity in all its decadent wonder. These tiny Islands were as much a Mecca of life in the vast Atlantic as is an oasis a Mecca of life lost in the sandy dryness of the Sahara.  We anchored close by North Bimini's sedate, rustic beauty.  We were close enough to Alice Town.  We could easily go ashore if the need arose.

We did not go ashore, though.  There was much to do without looking for mindless activities.  Once relieved of sailor's duties, we immediately set to work planning our surprise for Rashad.  We would need a building to serve as the secret society's training center.  The center would require outfitting, something Madame Brighton could handle for us.  As we talked about these things, we soon realized that we needed names for our center, our secret society, and the overall operation.  We settled on Operation Resupination because it was unique enough to avoid confusion, sounded a bit like Rashad, and described just what we were planning to do to him.  Also, it held a hidden reference to the orchid, that flower that, to me, represented Jazmand's feminine folds, and which seemed to be a recurrent theme in our relationship with her.  That suggested to us the next name.  We would call the Secret Society The Orchid Management Society.  We were betting Rashad wouldn't connect the name to orchid's Greek root, orkhis, testicle -- orchid (from the slope of its root).  In its first action, the Orchid Management Society would bring his run-away testosterone production under control.

We thought about putting the Real Estate office on the search for a building for OMS, but decided the job deserved our personal attention.  We'd start as soon as it was safe to move about in Miami.  Since Operation Resupination would be carried out in the OMS building, we decided to give its central chamber the cryptic nickname of The OR Room.  Rashad would assume that it was meant to conjure up images of an operating room, and that thought wouldn't be too far from the truth.

Which brought up the next item.  How would we get Rashad out of Miami for a time?  The way we'd left it with Tony Rueger, we would meet him and his protection people somewhere in Miami.  I reasoned that our Hatteras dealer's marina would be safe.  Rashad hadn't discovered that I owned WaterWay.  Even if he did, it would take him some time to track back from where I took delivery to where I bought her.  So Allied it would be.  I phoned Tony and made arrangements to meet there.  He would have the protection service with him.  We'd have Jaz well disguised, and the protection guys would drive her back to Key West.  Once there, she would set up very visible housekeeping in my estate.  We'd just wait for Rashad to discover her whereabouts and head South from Miami.  When Templeton reported Rashad leaving Miami, we'd have her return North the same way she left -- disguised and with the muscle boys in attendance.  She could even wave to Rashad as they passed on the causeway and he'd never be the wiser.  This little ruse should buy us several days at the least while our Jamaican sleuth scoured Key West for his target lady.  It's easy to find something that is there.  It can take forever to realize that you're looking for something that isn't there.

Next, the writing of the disciple's handbook.  I won't spoil the revelations to come by telling you now what it said.  Just know that, over the next two days, we wrote it . . . and that doing so was a source of much fun.  If Operation Resupination goes well, Mr. Banton will be a position to describe its contents firsthand.  These kinds of things are always more interesting from a first-person viewpoint, don't you think?

By Friday evening, all was in place to head into Miami and harm's way.  Rashad had not returned from Daytona.  He hadn't been able to track Jaz back from there.  He was stuck looking for someone who isn't there.  This would be a good test of how long he'd look before giving up, and where he'd head once he became discouraged.  With Templeton secretly following him, we'd know the minute he despaired of the hunt.  Bob reported that Rashad had discovered Jazmand's reservation for a Wednesday morning flight to Miami, and that he also knew she had canceled the booking.  It might not be too long before he'd deduce that she'd gone South by some other means, and hop back to Miami.

With Banton safely detained 270 miles away, we set out on the two hour trip to Miami Saturday morning.  Jaz, who had been so bright and alive throughout the planning sessions and the writing of the OMS handbook, now fell into a funk bluer than the Gulf Stream waters.  You tried to minister to her, hugging her to you and assuring her she'd be safe through the whole operation.

"Yeah," she murmured.  "The plan's solid enough.  I know I'll be OK."

"Well," you said, "you look awfully depressed."

"Umm."

"Come on, honey," you continued.  "You know how much I love you.  I can't let you leave us in Miami if you're going to be like this.  We'll get tickets to go skiing or something."

You were teasing with her, trying to cheer her up.  It didn't work.  Jazmand buried her head in your bosom and began to sob.  You hugged her tightly, soothing her hair back, shushing her like a loving mother.  When her emotion was spent, you gently whispered, "Jazmand, darling, you're not shut out  I love you.  Jim loves you.  As long as you'll have us, we'll be here for you.  The only thing that's changed is me.  I'm more a part of the three of us now."

Jaz wrapped her arms around you and kissed you deeply, pouring her fears into the passion of her embrace.  Fears of losing you.  Fears of loosing me.  Fears of facing Rashad.  So much going on.  Such a kiss going on.  Jaz pulling you into her tear-wet embrace.  It started as tenderness expressed.  It turned to need.  I saw your knees begin to buckle  -- you falling back into your chair at the planning table . . . Jaz down in your lap, kissing, touching all over.  It had been one week . . . She needed to know . . . Would the magic still be there.  And I was at her rear, kissing, tasting, assuring her in the most intimate way I know that she is precious to me.  But we were nearing port.  The embrace, fueling the fires within the three of us, would have to be a harbinger.  It could herald things to come, but things in the uncertain future, not things of this day.  In this day, in the next few minutes of this day, we would meet Tony and his Protection Agency guys for lunch.  

Just before pulling into the Allied dock, we got a call from Templeton.  Rashad had apparently decided that Jazmand must be back in Miami, and he was at the airport waiting for the next flight.  He'd be in Miami in less than three hours.  And Templeton would be on the same plane.  The timing should work well.  By the time Banton left the Miami airport, Jaz and her guards would be well along the way to Key West.  We tied up and headed to our lunch meeting.

Over sandwiches and beer, we explained the plans.  Lunch was all pleasantry and enthusiasm for the fun of the hunt.  Parting was another matter.  Knowing how distraught Jazmand was, how needful of our love, delivering her into the hands of the protection service, however competent they might be, was painful to us both.  But we screwed up our courage and went ahead with the necessary action.  The most difficult moment was when Jazmand rose from the table to leave with Bert Rankin and the men.  She was near tears.  She kissed me, then you -- not the embrace of a departing friend but the open-mouth kiss of a lover.  There was an undercurrent of interest in the restaurant at two women behaving so, one of them white and the other of uncertain racial background.  Despite being overrun with Yankees, the Old South is not totally gone from Florida's sunny shores.  However, propriety was not the center of our attention at this parting.  You and I, and Jazmand I'm sure, were busy avoiding a public outburst of tears.  In the end, the need for decorum prevailed.  With a will of steel, you tore yourself from her clinging arms.  You mumbled a few words of well wishing, lost in the background noise of the restaurant and your choked-back emotion.  And she was gone, off to her adventure in Key West

We were off to our tasks in Miami.  Once clear of the charged atmosphere of our parting with Jazmand, the day seemed to brighten visibly.  The sun, having scaled the craggy summit of an Atlantic cloud bank, was now bringing its cheerful heat to South Florida, as if Miami needed the thermostat turned up.  We caught a ride with Tony as far as the Realty Office.  Harvey Stone, my Realtor friend, had three possibilities for a safe house.  He took us to see the first.  It met all our criteria for accommodations, space and so forth, but it wasn't secluded, not the way we wanted our base to be.  Coming and going would be quite public.  The second house was worse than the first.  

I was beginning to wonder if I'd made a mistake in trusting this project to Harvey.  After all, there was little in it for him, financially.  He knew we also wanted a building, and that I'd probably buy that.  That was probably the only reason he'd become involved in showing lease property, bypassing the rental department of his firm.  I was hoping that the old third-time-is-a-charm saying would prove true.  It did.  Our last stop was love at first sight.  It could hardly have been better if we'd designed it using a magic wand.  

The house had the airy, open look of a California beach home in the Malibu hills.  The furnishings were modern, tasteful and all looked new.  Everything was done in eggshell and cream with accents of bright color in throw pillows, area rugs including one exquisite Oriental in the living room, and wall art of various types.  The front entry and living room was all glass.  Through its open view, the red of bougainvilleas painted the white of the front fence and lent a warm glow to inside the house, even reflecting off the high, cathedral ceilings.  But privacy was equally ensured by that red bastion, standing guard along the front of the property like a line of Royal Guards at Buckingham Palace.  And the fence's height, equal to that of the plume on a tall soldier's helmet, made the barrier a much better defender against prying eyes than soldiers would have been.

There were three large bedrooms, each with its own attached bath, and a fourth, very generous communal-bath in the hall.  These things are important to the three of us.  I thought the bidet in the master bath was a particularly nice touch.  

The kitchen, all white with large, Italian ceramic-tile, was another delightful plus for this house.  The cooking surface and built in microwave/convection ovens were in a maple-butcher-block island in the center of the room.  The kitchen was spacious and not, like so many houses, cheated of windows.  There was a huge expanse of glass, looking out into the back yard.  

And that back yard provided an exquisite view.  It was full of fruit trees, citrus, palms, and even a collection of hardy orchids and elkhorn fern perched in the fish-scale bark of the large palms.  The taller palms and one huge live oak added a rustic touch -- their generous beards of Spanish moss swaying lightly in the breeze.  The centerpiece of the yard was a large pool and hot tub.  Of course, because of the pool and more importantly, the hot tub, there was a high, redwood privacy-fence around the entire area.  An unusual and very useful feature was the rear drive and entry to the attached garage.  A motorized gate in the fence allowed automobile access to the back of the house from an alley running behind the property.  Our goings and comings could be quite private if we went through this fence and overgrown, vine protected alley.

We thanked Harvey profusely, him standing back grinning.  The sly fox had known all along this was the place.  He'd only been playing with us when he took us to the first two, close enough to spec. to support the joke, but certainly nothing to compare to this house.  

Harv gave us a lift to National Rental Cars, where we would pick up a Mustang convertible for our stay.  On the way, I gave him our requirements for the OMS building.  You were amazed at his dead-pan response as I detailed our needs for restroom facilities, soundproof walls, veiled access and the like.  I hadn't told you that, like Tony Rueger, Harvey is a friend I met through my activities in the Miami D/s lifestyle.  He knew exactly why I wanted such a building.  He was more than happy to help us find it.  If we ever opened it to the public, Harvey would be standing at the head of the line, waiting to get in and have a stern Mistress train him.

As we completed the picture of our desired building, Harvey was going through his mental list of commercial property, drawing a blank.  When I was done, he said, "Jim, I don't have anything listed, but I think I know where the ideal building is.  I'll go see if the owner is interested in selling it.  I should be able to let you know something in a day or two, assuming the owners are in town."

Harvey dropped us off at the National Car Rental office, him with his marching orders for the OMS building, and us with ours.  We picked up the car and headed immediately for our new base in Miami.  It would need a name.  I jokingly suggested Bougainvillea Flats.  You picked up on that, and offered The Orchid House as a more manageable alternative.  And so it became -- The Orchid House, our first stop in the rental car.

There was much to do.  We had a furnished home, but there were still many things needed before it would be livable.  You began making a list of supplies.  We had another Miami shopping spree ahead of us today.  Not like the last one.  No nearly so much fun.  There were all the essentials to get.  Things to fill all these bare cupboards.  But there is a fun in doing so, like kids playing house -- a sense of all the potentials of a new start.  

We also paid a visit to Madame Brighton.  We had a delightful time there, catching up on her affairs and bringing her into our conspiracy to derail Jazmand's stalker.  I left her with a long list of items we would need for the OMS building.  She was utterly taken up by the project, and promised she would, to the degree we let her, take a very personal interest in all that we did.

On the erotic side, you might think that Madame Brightons' shop would have been the zenith for this day.  An exhausting day of chores followed.  K-Marts are not nearly as much fun as sex marts.  Yet there is that jollity of debating what color this, what size that, what's needed, what would just sit on an unvisited shelf -- life's little decisions and arguments over them.  It's the stuff that reminds you there is ground to walk on.  Still, so much flat earth left me eager to once more take you up the heights of ecstasy.  Had I not spent the later part of our shopping travels teasing and flirting with you?  I love that growing sense of anticipation that such flirtatiousness produces.  It's like the lowering skies before an approaching hurricane.  The gentle, slowly building wind seems to be saying to the coconut palm, "Hang onto your nuts, honey.  This ain't going to be no ordinary blow job."

The BJ alert seemed to settle into both of us.  After our day's errands, we still had the domestic chores to discharge -- opening our packages and storing all the booty -- preparing dinner -- washing the dishes.  But through all this activity ran an undercurrent of sensual flirtation.  As we washed the dinner dishes, even the slightest brush against your skin sent bolts of charged energy racing through me.  From the way you stiffened at my touch, I sensed that the same was true for you.

In a half-hour stint watching CNN, we caught up on world events.  Even the murders and mayhem of the evening news could not dampen our growing passion.  Turning of the TV on the way out, we headed, hand-in-hand, for the bedroom.  I thought we should christen our new bed with a night of burning Vanilla loving.  No fancy toys or involved B&D scenes, just a man and a woman coming together in the timeless dance of inner need.  But we ought to call Jazmand first and see how her first day in Key West had gone.

We had spent but a few moments discussing our mutual love, pondering the depth of her emotion and her discomfiture at our parting, when our conference was interrupted by the jangle of the phone.

Jazmand's breathy voice came through the speaker phone, small, a bit strained, "Master, Mistress Mary, I miss the two of you so much."

"I miss you very much, Jaz," you replied.  "We were just talking about you."  I could see the emotion well up, a veil of wetness covering your eyes.  You continued, "Letting you go South without us after that last kiss, Oh Jazmand, it really hurt."

"Hi Jaz," I said.  I miss you too.  We were just planning what to talk to you about, then we were going to call you," Then, remembering the difficulties she was facing, I added, "How's it going down there?"

"OK, I guess . . . Oh, Terrible! . . . I just don't know.  I need you two so much.  It's all I can think about.  But there is news.  That detective came by."

"Johnston?" I said, a clear note of dislike permeating my one word.

"Yeah, Johnston," Jaz replied, echoing my displeasure.

"Well, that must have been high fun!" I said sarcastically.  "What happened?  What's he like?"

"What's he like?  Did you ever see Nightmare on Elm Street?" she asked.  I knew she was trying to break the tension, and gave her the needed laugh to show she'd done it.  "No, seriously," she continued, "He's a big, fat, loud man.  Overbearing, if I had to put it in one word.  He looks like a guy who had a long, muscular neck once upon a time, but it melted.  His shirt collars are so tight it couldn't run down, so it forced out into his chin.  Now his head just balances on all those chins.  You know, more chins than a Chinese phone book.

"In other words, you don't like him either," you interpreted.

"Not after today," Jaz replied.  "He asked me all sorts of questions about the two of you.  And he went into detail about my past.  Seems he knows a lot about me.  He thinks I'm bringing you my trouble, and that's what really hurt.  He's right."

"Now Jazmand Antoine, you cut that out," I ordered.  "If I'm going to be your Master, then you WILL do exactly as I tell you.  No crying about the trouble you bring.  I know the cost of loving you, and I already determined to pay it.  The subject is CLOSED!  Understand?"

Humbly, "Yes Master."

"The same goes for me, Jazmand," you sternly added.

More quietly, "Yes Mistress.  But Mistress . . . Master . . . Could I just ask one dispensation?

I answered, "What is it you desire, Jazmand?"

"Oh Master, please . . . Please use me.  Do it over the phone.  Make me do something . . . Something painful . . . Maybe a big, big enema . . . I need you to . . . To hurt me! . . . Help me! . . . Master -- Mistress, please help me."  

The plaintive tone of Jazmand's breathy plea left no doubt of her seriousness.  I knew we would have to do something, but I needed time to organize a plan.  At that moment, I realized the difficult job faced by phone Dommes.  Phone sex was not a task I was accustomed to doing.  Also, unlike the professionals, I had no waiting script to unfold.

"Hurt you, Jazmand?" I asked.  Surely, you've heard the SM joke.  The masochist says, 'Hurt me, hurt me.'  And the sadist answers, 'NO!'  No, Jazmand, I won't order you to hurt yourself.  Nor will Mary.  We will take care of you, though.  You are our Precious Jazmand.  We will give you more than you need, more than you even think to ask."

"Oh Master," Jaz purred, "I can't tell you how tingly it makes me feel, hearing you say that.  Please . . . Please do."

"Oh, I will, little one.  I will," I promised.  I was buying time as a plan of action crystalized in my brain.  I needed all the details on Detective Johnston's visit, but that could wait.  However much the idea appealed to me, I had turned down her request for a large enema because I didn't wish to do something like that without being there to intervene if things went wrong.  Too dangerous.  We'd need something safe, yet extreme even for a seasoned submissive like Jaz.  I sensed Jaz's need to push beyond her normal limits.  I knew she had an urgent compulsion to feel the powerful connection of D/s tonight.  When a dominant and submissive really connect, it is nothing short of religious ecstasy.  That's what our love needed from us.  And there was an area I felt Jaz wanted to explore.  It was replete with forceful submission and humiliation.  It might do perfectly.

"Where are you, Jazmand?" I asked.

"In the guest bedroom," she replied.

"And where are the bodyguards?" I went on.

"One's in the living room, and the other two have set up sleeping quarters in the game room," she said.  "They're taking shifts."

"Perfect," I responded, "What are you wearing?"

My silver-white nightgown.  That's all.

"OK," I commanded, "Now here's what I want you to do.  Take off your nightgown.  I want you to wear only your clear latex skirt and your black latex underbra, the one that just pushes your breasts up, but leaves them open.  Got it?"

"Yes, Master.  I'm changing now."  We could hear the sounds as she shuffled through drawers.

"I'm done, Master," she proudly pronounced.

"Good," I said.  "Now baby, I want you to get your enema bag.  What did you have for dinner?"

More shuffling sounds through her speaker phone, as she answered from a distance, "Nothing.  I didn't feel like eating.  

"So much the better," I cryptically replied.  "Tell me when you've got the enema syringe."

"'OK, I've got it," she quickly confirmed.

"Good girl," I praised.  "Now, put it in your overnight bag.  Slip on your robe, and go get two beers from the refrigerator.  It isn't usually good practice, I thought, to mix alcohol with S/m play, but tonight I have a reason.  I'll just have to be doubly careful with her.  "Before you leave, I want you to hang up here," I said.  "When you get the beer, take it and your bag to the Master bedroom, and call me from the speaker phone in the master bath.  The number here is" . . . and I gave her the number.  "OK?"

After having written it down, Jaz correctly repeated the number.  "OK, Master," she confirmed.  "I'll call you in just a few minutes.

The brief intermission gave us only time to settle onto the big bed.  We had no more than laid down when our phone rang.  Jazmand's sultry voice, now charged with sensual desire, came through the speaker, "Master, Mistress, are you there?  I'm ready."

"We're ready here, honey," you breathed back to her.  The electric charge of the moment suffused your words with sexual energy.

"Jaz," I said, "There's some candles and candle sticks in the top drawer to the right of the bathroom sink.  Take all the candle sticks out, put a black taper in each and position them in safe places, all around the room.  You'll be playing in the whirlpool tub and on the toilet, so make sure there are none too close to those points.  When you have them all in place, light them with the lighter at the back of the drawer, then let me know you're set."

We could hear her bustling about, carrying out her assigned tasks.  It took a bit, but she soon reported, "I'm finished, Master."

"Good girl.  OK, Jaz, as we go through this, I don't want you to take any action until you ask and receive permission.  Don't even burp without begging to do so.  Is that clear?

"Yes.  Clear, Master.  I'll ask permission.  Even my body functions are yours to control."

"Excellent.  You are quick on the uptake tonight, dear," I praised.  "Now get a beer and drink as much as you can comfortably take in one sip."  Gentle gulping sounds confirmed this was being done.  "Mmmmm.  I've done that, Master."

"Great.  How much did you drink?" I asked.

"Oh, maybe half a can," Jaz replied.  "I feel like I need to burp.  May I burp, Master?"

"No, Jazmand, not now," I dissented.  "First, finish the rest of the beer."  I knew Jazmand hadn't been a chug-a-lug partier in school.  Downing a can in two goes would be a strain for her.  The fact that she needed to belch would only make the second assault more difficult.  I wanted to stress her control of bodily functions, and this exercise would set that stage.

Her second draught took much longer.  We could hear the uneven swallows.  Even by speaker phone, there was a palpable sense of the struggle she was fighting with her rebellious body.  But, in the end, willpower triumphed over visceral reactions, and Jazmand said in a halting voice, "I di -- id it."  Her breathy tone was now distorted as by the sound of beer still bubbling in her throat.

"OK, very good girl," I commended.  I always call Jaz girl when in a session.  I know how it piques her feminist feelings.  And she knows I do it deliberately, not from any chauvinistic misapprehension that females remain perpetual children, but for dramatic effect in the scene we play.  After a suitable delay, I gave Jaz her much needed relief, "All right dear, you may burp."

Through the speaker phone, we heard a loud and bubbly, belching blast, followed by several less dramatic bursts of gas.  Then, "Thank you, Master."  And her unusually breathy voice left no doubt her discharge had eased some serious discomfort.

"I'm very proud of you for having been able to control your body under such stress, girl," I chuckled.  Jazmand, too, was giggling at herself in the face of her very unladylike eruption.  I told Jaz, "You deserve another beer for that performance.  Have it now.  You may take your time drinking this one."

"Yes, Master," she intoned.  There were several sessions of swallowing sounds.  Jazmand's not a heavy drinker.  So much so quickly was taxing her capacity.  I could guess she was beginning to feel a bit light headed.  Her inhibitions would be hibernating.  This was the one-two punch I was looking for, control of visceral reactions and loss of inhibitions.

Now I needed to buy time while the beer made its rapid trip through Jazmand's entrails.  "Jaz, sweet salve," I ordered, go kneel before the full-length mirror opposite the sink."

"Yes, master."

"Now, slave," I continued, "lick your fingers, both hands, and tease your nipples till they are standing straight out.  Get your breasts and even that latex push-up bra all wet with your saliva."

"Ummmm.  Un-huh.  They're standing out like little dicks, Master."

"Wonderful.  Good slave.  I want you looking so slutty you totally seduce yourself tonight, pretty girl.  You keep your sexy tits wet and tight all through this session, OK?"

"Oh Yesssss, Master.  I will."

"Jazmand?"

"Yes, Master."

"Those fingers that were just working the flesh of your breasts.  How do they smell?"

Deep intake of breath.  "Hummmm.  A little like beer, Master."

"Ah!  That will never do.  You need some personal perfume on those pert nipples.  Lick your right hand till it's all sloppy wet.  Now lift your latex skirt, spread your knees apart, and slide your fingers around in your sweet pussy-slit, slave.  Are you getting wet?"

"I've been soaking for the the last hour, Master, ever since I first thought of calling you.

"Great.  Then slide your fingers right up into your vagina and get some of the fresh perfume from way up inside your precious body."

"Ohhhhna!  It feels so wonderful.  All slippery.  Can I masturbate, Master?"

Not, now, Jazmand.  But put as many fingers up your cunt as you can fit, and force them real deep, hon.  Get your whole hand fragrant with your essence.

"Koohhhhh!  Ya.  Ummmmmm.  Oh Master.  I'm just so wet."

"Now, Jazmand," I commanded, "put your fingers all over your tits.  Smear those luscious boobs with your love syrup.  I want you smelling really slutty for me, girl."

"Eeeewwww, Master.  You're making me so . . . Ohhhhwwwww . . . So fucking horny!"

"You ain't seen nothing yet, slave," I taunted.  "It gets worse . . . Better."

"Make it better, Master.  Mistress.  Unnnnhhhh!  Please, please make it better.  Hurry."

"Now slave, don't go getting uppity with your Dominants," I warned.  "We've promised to take care of you.  Beyond your wildest dreams, we said.  Remember?"

"Yes, I remember.  Forgive me Master, Mistress.  I'm just so fucking . . . Ahh!  I don't know . . . Body so tingly . . . Smells so sexy.  Oh lord, I wish you two were here."

"We understand, Jazmand," I soothed.  "We understand Jazmand oh so well.  But we will not tolerate willfulness in a slave.  If a slave gets willful, the session stops right there.  No mas.  Comprendez?"

"Si, comprendez," Jazmand answered.  "Master," she continued, that beer must be going straight through me.  May I please pee?"

"Well, Jaz, I really can't let your previous insolence go unanswered.  I could just make you hold it, couldn't I?"

"Yes Master."

"Then hold it.  Take your other hand, lick it and get it all wet, and run it deep up into your vagina.  See if you can touch your cervix."

"Ugh.  My finger isn't long enough, Master."

"Of course it isn't, Jazmand.  Pull it back out.  Put all your fingers together like you would to slip a tight bracelet over them.  Now slide all five fingers in and fist-fuck yourself."

"Ungah!  OK, Master.  I ahhhhhun . . . I'm trying . . . Can't guuuum . . . Get it all the . . . Waheey . . . Way in."

"Push hard, girl," I directed.

"Ohhhhhhh Jaz," you sighed in empathy with her efforts.  I noticed your fingers were very busy in your own pussy.

"Ungah!  Oh, I . . . I'm puuuuushhhnnn! . . . Ahowuuuuugh! . . . It's innnnuh . . . Up innnnn meeeeee!"

"Beautiful, Jazmand" I moaned.  "My sweet, slutty slave.  I love you so much.  Fuck yourself so good for me, girl."

"Ommmm . . . Mmmyyyyy! . . . Puuuuushhhhy . . . Ayiah! . . . Ooooohhhhhh!"  The speaker phone let us listen to Jazmand's lust-crazed mewling and the squishing, sucking sounds as she thrust her hand deep into herself, withdrew it, and forced it back in again and again.

"OK, Jazmand.  Good girl.  Now stop before you make yourself cum," I ordered.  "Pull your hand out and rub your sex juice all over your pretty ass, honey."

"Pshhhhhhh," she breathed in.  A deep intake of her breath as she fondled her twin globes and drank in the pungent aroma of her self pleasuring.  "Oh Master," she whimpered, "I really must pee."

"Jazmand, you may urinate now," I relented, "But!  I don't want you thinking of it as piss.  Tonight, it is a precious golden nectar.  Remember that.  Your sweet urine is to go only into your enema bag.  Clear?"

"Uh . . . I can only pee in my enema bag?" she whined.

"You have a problem with that?" I taunted.

"Oh no, Master.  I'll pee in my enema bag."  We heard quick movement as Jazmand fetched the syringe, then a loud sousing sound as she let loose a powerful jet of hot urine into the bag.

"Ah!  That feels so much better, Master.  Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear.  You have done quite well.  Now it is time for a reward.  Take your bag full of your hot golden nectar and hang it on the hook by the full-length mirror.  Now kneel back down in front of the mirror, on the blue rug."

"OK Master, I'm set."

"Good.  I reward obedient slaves.  What would you like, now," I asked.

"Master, it sounds so dirty," she protested.

"You must tell me, Jazmand.  You know I'm unshockable.  What do you want to do."

"I . . . I want to put the nozzle in myself and take an enema.  An enema of my own piss . . . Uh, nectar," she murmured.

"Well, Jazmand, that is pretty nasty.  You really wanted to get lewd tonight, didn't you?" I questioned.  I wanted to hear her constant affirmation of her desire for degradation.  What I had planned was extreme enough that I wouldn't be able to proceed unless I had that as a barometer of her need.

"Yessssss Master!  Make me do something really mucky," Jazmand gasped.

"I certainly will, girl," I promised.  "Reach up and get the enema nozzle."

"Got it, Master," came Jazmand's quick reply.  There was a new life in her voice, as if the knowledge she would do something incredibly low had somehow lifted her spirits on high.

"Good girl.  Now stick your whole hand back up your cunt, and get lots of slippery Jazmand juice to lube your nozzle."

"Ungh!  Yessssss, Master.  I'm not as tight this time.  Done."

"Oops, forgot something, Jaz.  We should let the air out of the hose.  But we mustn't get your piss all over the rug you're kneeling on.  Put the nozzle in your mouth, and open the clamp till the air's out.  You can shut it back off as soon as you taste your hot urine filling your mouth."

"My mouth, Master," came Jazmand's squeaking reply.

"Yes, Jazmand.  Your mouth."

"I . . . I will, Master.  I love you," she whispered.

"Good girl," I commended.  "Now do it."

The phone is near the spot where Jaz was kneeling.  We could hear her panting breaths as she struggled with her revulsion.  Then there was the subtle click as she opened the clamp on the enema-syringe hose.  A little burst of air, then the distinct noise of the spray coming from the enema tip, and dousing the beautiful submissive's mouth.

"Is all the air out, Jazmand?" I asked.

There was a pause while she considered how to answer.  Of course, the deed was done, but she was holding it in her mouth.  To answer, she'd have to swallow.  Then we heard the distinct sound of her doing just that, fighting her instinctive gag reaction.  She actually had to drink twice, and from the sound, was near retching the second time.  She must have let a good deal run into her mouth before closing the clamp.  Just like our precious submissive.  As instructed, she had made absolutely certain she got all the air out of the hose.  She panted for a moment, then proudly proclaimed, "I DID it!"

"Oh, Jazmand," you said.  "You're so incredibly brave.  I don't know how you managed that."

"Actually, Mistress, It wasn't as bad as I had feared.  It tastes . . . Well, it tastes like pee -- like my precious nectar, just as Master said."

"Well, Jazmand," I explained, "it was already inside you, so you're not going to catch anything from it that you didn't already have.  Truth is that urine from a healthy person is essentially sterile when it comes out of the body.  It used to be used in war zones to clean wounds when no sterile water was available.  The only threat of drinking your own is a psychological one.  I would never have told you to do it if there was a chance it would harm you, darling.  And you did admirably.  So now on to your reward.  Is your pussy still wet?"

"Oh Master, I'm dripping on the rug."

"Excellent.  Then close your fingers together again.  Get some more of that sweet love nectar, and relube your nozzle."

"Yesssssss . . . Yesssss, Master.  It's all slippery now."

"Good girl.  Now, Jaz, pull your rubber skirt up in back, and slide that slimy enema nozzle straight up your beautiful backside.  Push it up deep in your ass, girl."

We could hear her softly whimpering as she worked the tool into her needy rectum.  "It's way up in me, Master -- all the way in, she reported."

"Perfect.  Now fuck your pretty ass with it, honey.  Don't open the valve yet.  Just work it all around inside to get yourself real loose back there."

"Uuummmmm, Yessssss, Massss-tah!" Jaz exhaled.  Her rapid, suspiring pants made it clear that, not only was she complying, she was immensely enjoying it.

"OK, Jazmand.  That's enough," I told her.  "I've decided not to let you have an enema now."

"Oh, please, Master.  I'll be good.  Let me take it.  Please."

"No more begging, Jaz!"  I barked.  "You will take that nozzle out of your ass.  I have to know if it is clean.  Inspect it and tell me."

"OK, Master.  Its . . . Ugh, it's dirty, Master."

"See, Jaz," I teased, "now we wouldn't want something dirty up your pretty ass, would we?"

"No I . . . I mean, it's got my . . . I got it dirty," Jaz struggled to explain.

"How so, Jazmand?" I asked, knowing full well what she meant, but making her say it.

"It has my shit on it, Master."

"Oh, I see," I gibed  "Perhaps you do need an enema, girl.  But we have to be sure it's shit.  How do you know that's what it is?"

"Well," Master," it wasn't there before I put the nozzle up my ass, and it's brown like shit."

"Rub your finger on it, Jazmand.  See if it feels like shit."

A deep exhaling sound -- she was clearly revolted.  Then she announced, "Yes, Master.  I guess it feels like shit."

OK, maybe that's what it is.  Smell your finger.  You hold it right up under your nose.  Tell me if it smells like your own shit.

As she inhaled her own fetor, I could hear the tremor in her breath.  She was getting into the zone.  She knew full well where this was going, and she wanted it.  I knew she did.  Don't ask me how I knew.  I can't explain that.  There is a spiritual bond that forms between dominant and submissive.  At its best, it is so intense it's like being inside each others souls, two beings in one.  The distance from Miami to Key West was gone.  There was a line of force between us that would have linked us across infinite distance.

"Jazmand, darling, precious slave.  I want you to do something very special for me."

"Yes, Master.  What is it?  I want to do it for you."

"First, honey, put your clean hand down on that dripping vagina of yours, and play with yourself.  Just don't make yourself cum yet.  And don't put the dirty hand down there.  Shit can sometimes fire up an infection in your vagina."

"OK, Master, Mmmmmm, I'm masturbating for you."

"Good, sweetie.  You remember seeing that disgusting V. Moser video.  I want you to act out being one of those German SCAT actresses.  I want you to play shit-slut for me.  Start by becoming used to your own smell.  I want you to put that shitty finger right up under your nose."

"Master?  It won't hurt me if I get it near my mouth?"

"Well, Jaz, it's like pee.  If it comes out of you, then the bacteria in it are already in you.  But it's different from pee in one way.  If you put your own shit in your mouth, you definitely will get one medical condition from it."

"What's that?"

"Halatosis."

Jaz roared.  After she recovered, she carried on with the assignment.  Her panting proved the efficiency of her probing fingers.  "I've got my finger up under my nose, Master."  Deep breath.  "Mmmmmm.  It's sooooo strong.  Smells . . . Smells so Sexy."

That's my SCAT girl.  Get into it, honey . . . Learn . . . Let it flow . . . Put that finger right up in your nose.  Smear that smell around so you've got it all the time.

"Eeeeeeewwwwww!  Mast-auh! . . . Soooooo Dirty . . . Love it dirty with youuuuuuuuu."

Oh Jazmand, I love it dirty with you, too.  You know how I do.  Now get that dirty nozzle.

Ummmm.  Got it.

Put it in your mouth and taste yourself.

Hauk!  Ummmmmmmmm . . . Ohhhhhh!

Now open the clamp on the bag, and come for me, SCAT-girl.  Pretty, precious, submissive SCAT-girl.  Cum and cum and cum.  Such a HOT girl.

Jazmand was in a trance.  She was gurgling -- gulping down her own piss -- cumming -- putting on the most incredibly lewd phone-sex show -- sucking like a nursing babe -- drinking from an enema syringe.  The bag ran dry and still she was cuming -- fist fucking herself -- sucking on the shitty nozzle -- reeling in her own overwhelming sensate world.  You were slumped down on the bed, masturbating madly, an urgent look of burning need in your eyes.  I freed my own straining cock and slid over to you, letting it trail lust lines around your cheek before you turned your head and took me deep in your throat.  Just a few quick sucks and, into your hungry mouth went all the pent up love that this intense session had pumped into my swollen balls.  I don't even know if Jazmand heard us.  She was so lost in her galactic cum.  She told me later that she left her body. She was up in the corner of the bath, along the ceiling, looking down at herself doing all these dirty things, and that's when she really broke loose.  When she finally settled down enough to talk, she said, "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you both.  Master.  Mistress.  I love you both so much.  I needed something special tonight, and that was beyond special."

We said our good nights.  I would call Jaz in the morning and deal with business.  Now, if I could find it in my drained dick, I wanted to fuck you.  Plain-vanilla man-woman sex for the day I carried you over our new threshold.  I seemed to remember that this had been our original plan.
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