The Last Submissive – Mistress Elisabeth Hunter (32)
Thank God For Global Warming
It was an unseasonably warm late-winter day; the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, no hint of a breeze, the temperature in the mid-forties Fahrenheit. Even so, and even though I was running, my body shivered. What had Mr. Thompson done to Lillian? What did he mean, “the water’s rising”?
I found her at the bottom of a shallow, oval-shaped depression dug into the earth, not deep enough to be a swimming pool, more like a watering hole for livestock. Lillian was naked, spread-eagled, staked out between four steel rods driven into the ground. Water flowed out a submerged pipe at the far end of the depression, closest to her head.
The water was already about eight inches deep, forcing Lillian to lift her head up in order to breathe. In a few splashing steps I was at her side, kneeling. I slipped my arm under her neck to support her head. The water was surprisingly warm, like tepid coffee. “Lillian, are you okay?” “Oh my God, Paul, I’m so scared,” Lillian sputtered, her voice quaking, rivulets of water dripping down her cheeks. Her eyes darted in the direction of her wrists. “Can you undo the locks?”
Where Is The Key?
I saw that her wrists were held by iron shackles, padlocked to a short chain looped through a welded ring at the top of the steel rods. All I needed was the key . . . the key . . . the key which no doubt was on the ring of keys that I had left on the floor of the shed. The realization hit me like someone dropped an anvil on my head. How could I have been so stupid!
“Let me see if I can pull up the stake,” I said, easing my arm out from under her neck, forcing Lillian to again hold the weight of her head. I knee-walked over to the rod that held her right wrist and tugged it upward. Nothing, no give, not even a millimeter. I stood up and grasped the rod with both hands and lifted with my legs, using every ounce of my strength. It didn’t budge. Fuck.
“Mr. Thompson talked about opening a valve, something. Let me see if I can find it and turn it off. Can you keep your head up a while longer, Lillian?” “Hurry, Paul,” she gasped, the tendons of her neck stretched like taut cords.
Finally Closed The Valve
I scrambled out of the water and ran up and over the small embankment in the direction from which the water pipe came. There was nothing in the immediate vicinity, but a narrow foot trail led away from the watering hole, so I ran up it about twenty-five yards when I came upon a concrete pad with a rusty plate in the center. I lifted the plate, and about two feet down saw a white PVC pipe with a hand-sized valve handle. I twisted it counter-clockwise ninety degrees to an internal stop.
I sprang to my feet and raced back down the trail, over the earthen berm, splashing through the water back to Lillian’s side. I slipped my right arm under the base of her neck and lifted, bringing her head clear of the water. Her eyes looked glazed and unfocused. “Did you find it?” she gasped.
“I think so,” I replied, looking in the direction of the submerged fill pipe. I couldn’t see bubbles or any surface disturbance at the pipe head, but there was no way to know for sure unless I put my hand at the opening of the pipe. “Let me go check the pipe; I have to let you go again, just a second.”
Are You Cold Lillian?
Lillian nodded faintly, with an expression close to surrender. I slipped my arm free and the tendons of her neck popped out again as she held her mouth and nose clear of the water. I knee-walked over to the mouth of the pipe and put my hand over the opening. No water flowing. Thank God.
I sloshed back. This time, I squatted down in the water and dropped to a seated position behind Lillian and scooted forward, slipping my feet under her shoulders, sliding forward until my thighs supported her torso, shoulders on my lap, her bald head cradled in my hands.
For the first time in who knows how long, she was able to completely relax her neck muscles, with her head fully supported and chin safely above the water. I looked around. The watering hole was in the center of a small clearing, surrounded by trees that blocked the low, slanted rays of the setting sun. I shivered. “Are you cold, Lillian?” She shook her head. “No.” She sniffed and added dryly, “I was more worried about drowning.”
Remembering Scenes From The Movie Titanic
Always the wit, this girl. I realized that submerged in the lukewarm spring water, she was less exposed to the air, which was cooling rapidly. A convulsion of shivers wracked my body. “What are we going to do, Paul? We can’t stay here like this.” “I know. I think the keys to the shackles are in the shed. It will take me ten, maybe fifteen minutes round-trip to get them. Can you hold your head up that long?” She tilted her head to make eye contact, giving me a desperate look. “I . . . I don’t know. I’d have to rest for a while. I was holding my head up a long time.”
“I came as fast as I could.” “I know, Paul.” “Just rest, I’ll figure something out.” I was such an idiot, leaving the keys. In my rush, it just hadn’t occurred to me that I would need them. Now we were in a hell of a fix. Unless I could free Lillian, the water would become frigid during the night—I would die from hypothermia, and she would drown . . . in less than a foot of water.
“Lillian, you remember that scene from Titanic, Jack and Rose clinging to a door in the middle of the Atlantic, slowly freezing to death?” Lillian groaned. “That was Hollywood, Paul.” I nodded. “Yeah, but we’re both gonna die if I don’t do something soon. It gets dark, the temperature will fall; this water will eventually freeze and ice over. I have to get those keys.” “I know, Paul. I’m just so tired. Give me a moment to rest.”
I cradled her in my arms, my eyes drawn to the slight protrusion of her belly, just under the surface of the water, her chest gently rising and falling, the mounds of her breasts like two islands, nipples erect, breaking the surface, then submerging with each breath. “Lillian, I love you . . . if we get out of this, I want to marry you.” She was silent for a long moment. “Was that a proposal, Paul?” “Yes.” “Do you have a ring to go with it?”
I laughed. “Four of them, one on each of your wrists and ankles.” She snorted. “You’re such a romantic, Paul.” “Given the circumstances, it’s the best I can do.” “I’m pregnant, Paul.” “I know.” She sniffled. Tears welled in her eyes. “It might not be your baby.” I wondered who else might have had sex with her. How could the baby not be mine? “I don’t care,” I said.
Lillian hiccupped. “I’m pretty sure it’s yours.” She took a deep breath, arching her back and lifting up so that her belly crested the surface. She tugged against the shackles. “I’m so sore, Paul. My muscles are cramping. I can’t last like this much longer.”
You Saved My Balls
“Yes, you can. Hang in there. I won’t let you go.” “That’s Rose’s line,” Lillian snorted.I looked at her, confused. “What?” “In the movie . . . Rose says that. I must’ve seen Titanic a dozen times growing up.” I shook my head. “Right. Well, Jack made Rose promise she wouldn’t give up. Promise me, Lillian.” She settled back down, her chin and forehead above water, shaved head mostly below. “I promise.”
We lay still for a few minutes, breathing in synch. Looking down at her, an unspeakable love welled in my chest. Lillian was tough, a survivor, like Rose. Somehow, we’d get through this. “Lillian, I have a question for you.” “What, Paul?” “How did stay up on your toes so long in the shed this morning?” She snickered, “I like your balls, Paul.” I laughed. “Yeah, the family jewels. But seriously, how?”
“Ballet . . . I started lessons at four, danced all the way through college. I almost became a professional dancer, before I met Mistress Hunter. I have thousands of hours en pointe—on my toes.” I had fallen in love with a ballerina. Lucky me. “That’s why you’re such a good dancer.” “You’re not so bad yourself. You were a quick learner.” I smiled. Those were precious hours on the dance floor. Learning to waltz. Falling in love.
Mistress Hunter Finally Appears
Another five minutes passed. I was really feeling the cold, especially around my neck and shoulders. Shivers marched up my spine like waves of soldiers rising out the trenches to their deaths. I tried not to let Lillian feel my body shudder. I clenched my core muscles and did isometric contractions. I realized Lillian had never answered me. “So . . . will you marry me?” “It depends.” “On what?”
Just then, the sound of galloping hooves echoed through the forest. I looked down at Lillian. “I think that’s Mistress Hunter to the rescue.” “Thank God,” she said. A moment later, our savior burst into the clearing on a massive chestnut stallion. She dismounted in a fluid motion and slashed through the water in her riding boots, key ring in hand. She went straight for Lillian’s wrists, unlocking the shackles, then her ankles. In less than a minute, Lillian was free, and I was able to cradle her in my arms, lifting her to her feet.
“I have blankets at the horse, come,” Mistress Hunter commanded. We slogged out of the pond, me supporting Lillian’s weight with one arm wrapped around her waist. Mistress Hunter pulled two heavy wool blankets from a saddle bag and handed them to us. “We’ll talk about how this happened later. Let’s get back to the house before you freeze to death. Lillian, I’m afraid if I put you up on the horse you’d just fall off. Can you walk?”
Our Contract With Mistress Hunter
With the blanket wrapped around her head and shoulders, Lillian looked like Red Riding Hood, only naked, pregnant and dripping wet. “I can walk,” she said. We set off back for the house, Mistress Hunter on foot, leading her horse by the reins, me and Lillian holding hands, walking in trail.
At the house, Mistress Hunter instructed us to go inside and take a hot bath, while she led her horse to the stable. We climbed in together in the huge bathtub in the master bedroom. As we lay soaking in the blissfully scalding water, Lillian cradled in my arms, I pondered what I was going to say to Mistress Hunter. What were we going to do? Not just now, but with our lives?
I had nearly lost my balls and Lillian had almost drowned. For some reason, Mr. Thompson had snapped and gone rogue. That wasn’t entirely Mistress Hunter’s fault, but it was her responsibility. More importantly, we needed to decide if we were going to continue as her submissives. Our relationship had been profoundly violated, our contract breached. Was it over?
Next: The Road Less Traveled
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