Cling To Your Husband

Day 9 of 119

For the better part of the next three days, when I wasn’t at the helm making minor adjustments to our course and heading, I sequestered myself in my stateroom. There, I caught up on much needed sleep, watched movies, answered Gethsemane emails, but mostly I rested my abused cock. The few times I ventured out, either for food or to do laundry, I often found the boat eerily still.

Ronky remained in her stateroom as well, to heal her battered sex organs, and other than a few brief conversations with Sam, I spoke very little to anyone else. The other girls barely said two words to me, regarding me with a frustrating mix of fear and awe. How much of Ronky’s anal destruction had they witnessed?

Hours, Sam had said. Hours.

Regardless, the time had come to rejoin our little seven person society. If nothing else, the impromptu sex show had brought to the fore an important milestone that we’d all been dancing around, and now that it was out in the open, I didn’t intend for it to recede back into the shadows.

Before venturing out for a day in the sun, I logged in to Gethsemane’s admin portal to check for messages, relying on a labyrinth of VPNs and onion routing to mask my IP address and location. An email from one of the girls’ parents waited in my inbox. Damn. It had only taken nine days.

The parents had no other way to contact me but through email. Our phone number routed to an automated answering service with a frustrating, circuitous menu that eventually dumped callers into a full voice mailbox. We had no physical address, and all emails routed to this single catchall inbox.

Fuck. This certainly threw a spanner into the works. I had only ever spoken to Tabitha’s father, Austen. Cecilia travelled extensively, and hadn’t been involved during the process of enrolling Tabitha into Gethsemane.

By itself, that wasn’t too unusual. Most of the fathers to whom I’d spoken ruled over their families by dictatorial decree. Their word was law. I’d assumed the same dynamic existed in the Cargill household, but apparently Austen had used the occasion of one of Cecilia’s frequent business trips to Shanghai his own daughter into a Christian boarding school without her knowledge, and now she wanted her back.

That was problematic for a number of reasons. First, getting the girls back home to their parents at this point was a non-trivial exercise, despite what I’d told Bianca. We would have to turn around and return all the way back to St. Croix, which now lay well over six-hundred nautical miles behind us. I had no other options. The girls travelled without passports, so I couldn’t just take them to a nearby foreign country and put them on a commercial flight. Not without exit papers and visas.

Second, I wasn’t sure yet what Tabitha might tell her parents. She knew plenty about the other five girls. Enough that their identities, and therefore parents, could potentially be discovered and contacted. She also knew enough about our itinerary to clue them in on where we might be headed. It wouldn’t take a cartographic genius to locate the few private islands that were a thousand miles southeast of St. Croix, somewhere off the coast of South America.

Worse, they might learn that I’d defrauded them, which would almost certainly lead to a three-letter federal agency opening an investigation. Gethsemane’s website would probably be shut down, if not hacked by federal authorities to hunt for clues, and the maze of non-profits and shell corporations protecting me would become a target for their forensic analysis. I’d never intended for it to be a bulletproof shield. Just a convolution to disguise my tracks and prevent nosy parents from discovering my true identity.

I leaned back in my chair to think. I had to stonewall her. It was the only way. Turning back now would be tantamount to failure. Sam had said it herself. The last year of hard work was finally paying off for me, big time, and I’d be damned if I was going to let one fretful mother undo it all. But how?

Austen. He’d have to man up and keep Cecilia under control. I hit the Reply button, cracked my knuckles, and composed my response.