(Grace) Ever unpunished*

Grace blearily opened her eyes to a constricted, yet oddly weightless feeling. She had been dreaming she was on a ship: one of those old, wooden galleons of traditional pirate fame. One of her favourite series of young-adult fiction growing up had been the tales of a plucky young redhead who ran off to be a stowaway amongst the merchant navies. Always getting herself into trouble on one ship or tropical island or another… then getting out of it again with a cleverly-applied use of spread legs or silver tongue. Since then Grace's secret, innermost sanctuaries were always the swaying canteens of stalwart vessels, surrounded by goodhearted men in need of comfort. Or beautiful beaches lit by flickering torches where the indigenous populations utilized their strange visitor in all manner of dark and sacred rituals.

Of course, young Miss Yarland was well aware that the realities of that particular period of history more likely involved said ‘goodhearted men’ **** native girls from those far-off islands and forcing themselves upon them, dawn till dusk. The first time she had read historical accounts of ‘maidens being tossed from the back of the ship’ because they had been ‘used up beyond any further value’… had been a harder coming-of-age for her than any other, really. Though, even then, her particular brand of submissive romanticising could not help but imagine letting the cold waves close over you… after having your body pushed to the absolute end of its physical limits. Every nerve and stimulus burnt out and overloaded. Every hole stretched and gaping…

The sound of approaching footsteps suddenly woke her out of this cycling revelry. It was hard to tell how long you had spent just fantasising when suspended immobile like this.

“Grace, dear girl? Are you still here? Didn’t any of them think to let you down, you poor thing?!”

A pair of smart loafers appeared in her limited vision, recognisable as belonging to her professor and ‘personal development tutor’: Mr Davison. The 50-something year old’s calm, sighing voice was as reassuring a presence as ever.

“It really was good of you to devote your time like this… you’d think they’d have the decency to make sure you got back home afterwards, to sleep in your own bed.”

Grace couldn’t really see much of the man, from the crotch-high level at which she was suspended. But she could imagine the world-weary smile he would be wearing. He held all the warm, quiet confidence expected of old academia. Loved by almost all of his students as a wise counsel and open ear, always happy to listen to their worries or questions. It had been he who had suggested Grace join the ‘social support group’: an organisation of students dedicated to offering themselves over to those among their compatriots who… struggled with making connections over the course of their studies.

"They really did make a bit of a mess of you…" Offered Mr Davison, clearly admiring the little pool of semen Grace herself could see, puddled below her further end. All of that must have dribbled out of her over the course of her uncomfortable night, a rather impressive overflow even by her standards. She noted her supervising educator was still making no express efforts towards releasing her from this predicament either…

In fact, sure enough, she heard the telltale sound of a zipper being opened, and found her gullet being put back into its most common use. The old man continued his one-sided discussion with no acknowledgement of any change in circumstance:

"It makes me think of a fascinating thesis one of my older little proteges is working on… In considering the amount of seminal fluid you young ladies must consume in a year, and how it almost becomes an addictive substance, despite less than encouraging reports on the actual… err… flavours… involved. She hypothesises that, over the millennia, men might have evolved to produce hormones in their ejaculate that actually stimulate the female mind in much the same way sugary foods do. She has also calculated that the actual nutritional value of men's 'jizm' has in fact been steadily increasing over the course of human evolution… To the point where, if put in a survival situation: it might be better for a man to consume whatever food rations are available… and a woman to just gulp down what he naturally produces for her. Isn't that amazing?! Empirical proof of how our bodies have evolved in erotic altruism."

The man beamed down at Grace, clearly basking in the optimistic connotations he took from his own lecturing. Of course, his young student did indeed find his words of inspiring interest… She just struggled to express this as the provider of such wisdom began pouring his own nutritionally-valued gifts into the depths of her own oesophagus.