Naturist-Slave Meloneras

A quiet evening, a night in his arms, and the next day the long way to the beach. Naked between hundreds of people – and yet free as never before.
in Experiences

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A quiet evening

He releases the ropes from my feet. I step down from the table. My hands are still bound. I hold them out to him. Why do I keep doing that? runs through my mind. Gently he takes my arms and pulls me toward him. I notice his arousal. His cock is hard. But him? In his complete calm, he loosens the ropes around my wrists. Then he turns me around. “Bend forward.” With his hand he checks my reddened backside. He strokes it. Then he walks to the fridge. “I’m going to put some aloe vera on you. Stay just like that.” The cool aloe startles me for a brief moment, but it feels so good, the way his hand glides over my skin. He works the gel in gently.

“You need to stand a few more minutes before you can sit again. More wine?”

I notice how completely I give myself over to his lead. It’s a beautiful feeling. It isn’t about having to follow him. It feels more like being cared for, tenderly. I can simply place myself in his hands. With these thoughts I notice myself smiling. He sees it, and smiles too.

We sit at the kitchen table for a long time, long after the dishes have been cleared away. Outside it has grown dark. The candle between us has burned down almost to the end, and I notice how I talk less and less, and simply am more and more.

He tells me about Gran Canaria — how he came here, how the island holds on to you once you let it. His voice has that same calm that won me over on the phone, and I listen without really following the words. I tell him about London, about my work, about things I’ve never told anyone before, because they always seemed too small to be worth telling. He listens as if they aren’t small at all.

“Come,” he says at some point, and stands.
I follow.

Bound in the Living Room

In the living room he stands me in the middle of the room, under the staircase, in the spot that was empty just a moment ago. He binds my wrists together in front of me, then slowly draws them upward until I’m standing on my toes. I feel my shoulders stretch, a pull that doesn’t hurt, but simply makes me very aware that I am standing here. Right here. Exactly like this.

He walks once around me. I hear his bare feet on the stone floor, catch him at the edge of my vision, then lose him again. He touches me — not much, not everywhere. A hand at my hip. A finger tracing the line of my spine. I close my eyes, because I notice it’s easier to feel him when I’m not searching for him. I surrender to it.

“You’re doing well,” he says once, so quietly that I’m not sure whether it was meant for me or only for himself. I don’t know how long I stand there like that, being caressed. At some point he unties the ropes again, as calmly as he put them on. He guides each arm down gently as he releases it, supporting it, lowering it against my body in slow motion. I am held, I am guided, and it feels so good.

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The Night

In bed, he lies down behind me. In the spoon position, I feel that his cock is still hard. He presses it firmly between my cheeks. He lays his arm across my belly. I feel his breath on the back of my neck. I haven’t slept like this in years — with someone who simply holds me. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the beach,” he says, just before we drift off peacefully.
“Lovely,” I murmur, already half in a dream.

Breakfast Without Clothes

When I wake late in the morning, the bed beside me is cold. I hear him downstairs, the clatter of dishes, and catch the smell of coffee drifting up the stairs. I enjoy the bed for one more moment and turn over again — not to fall back asleep, but to see the sun coming through the bedroom window. My foot is lit up by it, warmed by it. The sun here is really warm. I stretch pleasurably in bed and get up.
I know, without him having to say it, that I should go down just as I am. Naked. I stand for a moment in front of the bedroom mirror and look at myself. I find it comes easier now than it did at the beginning. Simply naked out of bed and naked into the day.

Downstairs he’s standing at the stove. “Good morning,” he says, glancing back briefly, and I sit down at the table where the candle stood only yesterday. I see that he’s hard again, and I find myself staring at his dick, probably a moment too long. He notices and comes over to me. He stands right in front of me. “That’s my morning wood. It needs a little care.” I can’t manage to lift my gaze up to his eyes. Without thinking, without a moment’s hesitation, I take his dick into my mouth. It’s warm, hard, and quite large. I feel it against my tongue and I close my eyes, wanting to take it in properly. It all happens as if someone else were steering me. This isn’t something I normally do. But already he’s pulling it out of my mouth. “We’ll work on that,” he says fondly, turning away.

My thoughts spin. I only wanted to do something good for him, and now he’s gone. What did I do wrong? I had him in my mouth. He comes back. “We have time. Let’s take it slow.” His smile, and his hand resting on my arm, draw my gaze up to his eyes. I feel that strange sense of being held again. Somehow I can’t do anything wrong with him. Whatever happens. “Everything is fine — very fine,” he whispers, and turns back to the kitchen.

His words are still echoing in me when he slides a plate of bread toward me. “What do you want on your sandwich for the beach? Cheese? Ham? Both?” The question is so ordinary that I almost laugh. I’m sitting naked at his kitchen table, I can still feel him in my mouth, and he’s asking me about cheese and ham.
“Both,” I say. “And tomato, if we have any.”

He nods, as if it were an important decision, and gets to work. I find myself lingering on my own word — we.

The Way to Meloneras

Around midday we walk to the bus stop. The sun is already high, and for the first time since yesterday I’m wearing clothes again — a light dress, nothing underneath. That was his suggestion. It feels strange. I’m walking in public wearing no underwear. It feels wonderful. And no one can see it.
We wait at the stop. A few other people are there — an older couple with shopping bags, a boy with headphones. No one pays us any particular attention. I wonder whether they’d know, if they looked me in the face, what happened yesterday. Whether something like that can be seen.
The bus arrives late, a delay that clearly surprises no one here. We sit toward the back. He knows the way — I can tell by the calm with which he looks out the window, while I let the streets and houses drift past without really taking them in.

The Sea in the Window

In Meloneras we get off, walk toward the big tower, and turn left into a lane lined with small shops on both sides. The stalls are full of sunhats, seashells, and colorful scarves hanging in racks by the doors, stirring in the wind. I still can’t see the sea, only the occasional strip of blue between two houses, gone again as soon as we walk on.
He turns abruptly into a narrower lane, tighter and more winding than the ones before. I don’t hesitate; I follow him. The houses stand closer together here, the sun falling only in thin stripes across the ground. Coming through this winding alley from behind, we reach a door with “Paddy” painted above it in faded letters. He holds it open for me and lets me go in first.
Inside it’s cooler, dim at first after the bright light outside. And then, through the large windows on the right: the sea. Vast, glittering, far bigger and closer than I’d expected. I stop for a moment. It’s as if the sea had come right into the pub.

Two Beers on the Way

Outside, we sit down on a small terrace. He orders two beers inside, without asking me. He takes the lead as though it were the most natural thing in the world. I like that by now. It spares me a decision I wouldn’t have wanted to make anyway.
The beer is cold, the first sip almost painfully good in the heat. I lean back, feel the sun on my arms, hear gulls somewhere above us. Many people wander back and forth along the little wooden boardwalk in front of us, between us and the sea. I have to hold onto my dress now and then, when gusts come in off the water. But for the first time since I arrived, a feeling rises in me that I can only call a holiday. Not arousal, not fear, not trust in the larger sense — just: vacation. I smile, for no particular reason.
We order another beer. Then he stands. “It’s still a bit of a walk to Bude Seven,” he says.

Naked Among People for the First Time in My Life

The walk drags on. The sand is hot under my feet, which is why we stay close to the water. The further we go, the less clothing I see around me. Sparse at first, then more and more, until at some point almost no one is wearing anything, and it feels as though a line had shifted without my noticing. Well before we even reach Bude Siete, most of the people are already naked. I’ve never seen so many cocks gathered in one place in my life.

At Kiosk Seven he takes off his shirt, then his trousers. I do the same. The dress falls into the sand; I pick it up and set it down with our other things. No one looks over. That’s the strangest part. I’m standing naked among perhaps a hundred people, and it’s — normal. As normal as I never could have imagined. I remember sitting shaking in front of my laptop, agonizing over which words to write. And now: I’m naked among the naked!
We spread our towels out on the loungers. I lie down, sun on my skin, no fabric between us. I close my eyes.

A Walk Through a Crowd of Naturists

There’s always a light breeze coming off the sea, which makes the blazing sun bearable. I want to enjoy these moments. “May I go in the water?” He smiles and nods. I go into the sea alone. The water is cool and pleasant after the sun, and I let the waves carry me, without a thought in my head. No thought of London, of my mother, of my work. Only the water, my free, naked body, gliding along on the swell.

When I come back, he’s lying on his back, eyes closed. “Can you get us two beers?” he asks, without moving. I look down at myself. “Naked?”
“Of course. Take your phone.”
I stand there for a moment. My first instinct is to reach for the dress. Then I think of what he said yesterday. Never be ashamed of your arousal. This is something different, but it feels similar. A line I drew for myself, without knowing whether it was even necessary.
I set off, flip-flops on my feet — the sand is far too hot now.

The path to the kiosk passes many people. I feel the sand beneath my sandals, the wind on my skin, and I notice my heart beating faster — not from fear, but from something I can’t quite name.

I join the queue. Ahead of me a man ordering ice cream, behind me two women talking about their kids. No one stares at me. Maybe a quick glance, in passing, the way you glance at anything that moves past you. I order the two beers. My voice is calm, which surprises me almost more than anything else. I pay with my phone, say thank you, and walk back. People are looking at me now. But I don’t think they’re looking at me — I think they’re looking at what I’m carrying. It’s all so strange, and so thrilling.

When I sit back down beside him and hand him his beer, I notice my hands aren’t shaking.
“And?” he asks. I think about it. “I thought I’d have to make myself small. But I didn’t have to.” He nods, as if that were exactly what he expected. And with that, I know I can always feel safe with him.

Sunscreen and Touches

Later I rub sunscreen into his shoulders and his back while he lies there, still. I dare to run my hands over his bare backside too. No flinch, no reaction from him. I do it again, deliberately. It feels good. Then he turns over, lays his arms above his head. I suppose I’m meant to do the front as well. So I do. From the outside, I try to look as though I’m simply putting sunscreen on him. But I know — he’s naked, and I’m going to touch him everywhere. So I run my hands over his cock too, reach between his legs, and rub cream over his balls as well. No one is watching. Simply no one.
Afterward he sits up and does the same for me, his hands calm and thorough, unhurried. He, too, runs his hands over every part of me. Over my breasts, between my legs. As if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

We eat the sandwiches over the course of the afternoon, sometimes with sandy fingers, sometimes with clean ones. It tastes wonderful. Memories rise up of camping trips with my parents, long ago. Being by the sea, eating something, feeling that lightness. I feel very much at ease, almost like a small child living out her joy inside a sense of safety.

Later I want to go back into the water again. “May I?” I ask again, even though I already know the answer is probably yes. I like to ask anyway. “Go ahead — enjoy it,” he says.

Weary from the Sun

After about four hours at the beach, we pack up. He says that’s enough sun for the first day. I reach for the dress, pull it over my head, and in the moment the fabric touches my skin, I feel something I hadn’t expected: a shame of loss.
It really is a shame. The whole afternoon, I was simply myself, with nothing between me and the wind. Now that’s over, and I notice how much I already miss it, before it’s even properly gone.
We walk back to Paddy’s and sit down once more on the little terrace. The beer tastes different than it did at midday — heavier, somehow, or maybe I’m the one who’s grown heavier. My skin feels tight from the sun, dried salt water everywhere, tugging faintly at my skin with every movement. Did I burn?

I sit beside him, and it feels as though I’ve accomplished something — not in the sense of work, more the way you feel after a long hike. Tired in a good way. For the way back we take a taxi. I lean my head against the window and watch the streets go by, as they carry us from Meloneras back to SubWelt.

Go and Shower

He pauses briefly at the front door, unlocks it, switches off the alarm, and lets me step inside.
“Go and shower,” he says, as he closes the door behind us.
“I have something planned for you.”
I look at him. He smiles, and there’s something in his eyes that says more than his words do.

What is he going to do with me?

Chapter 6: Flaggelation as Sex Slave