Here I am, sailing solo on my dinghy, clearly much too far from the French coast from where I left. The weather is nice but cool, and the swell on the Channel is still reasonable. Suddenly, within a few minutes, the fog sets in. And very quickly visibility is reduced to only a few meters.
This is where another sailboat that I did not see coming hits me. It is a keelboat about fifteen meters long and my little dinghy is literally annihilated by the shock. I find myself thrown into the sea, and have just time to shout for help. My lifejacket is equipped with a waterproof and powerful lamp, thanks to which the skipper who struck me spots me. He shouts at me in English to stay calm and to wait for him. A few minutes later, I see his boat pierce the fog a few meters from the debris of mine to which I am clinging, and he throws me a life buoy attached to a rope. I catch the rope, which he brings to his boat, and he hoists me on board.
He is a man of about 55 years who is sailing with his son aged about 30 years. When the maneuver is over, he returns to the helm he has left to his son and, on his way back, shouts to him to take me down to the cabin to dry. All this is so quick I do not have time to say a word. I do not even know if he heard me thank him for saving my life.
In the cabin, the son gives me a towel so that I dry. But I shiver in my soggy clothes. The father, seeing me shivering, tells me to undress and tells his son to give me dry clothes. The young man pulls a sack from under a seat and digs into it:
- We have pants, but we don't have a top.
- Then give him the pants and take off your jumper so he can wear it. You will stay inside with him and if I need you out here, you’ll wear my pea coat.
I’m beginning to find this father and son very welcoming. In addition, the son is very handsome, and I have a fetish for woollen sweaters: the idea of wearing his thick red rib fisherman sweater turns me on.
Then the father continues:
- Then tie him up. In case I need you out here, I want to take no risk.
And addressing me:
- Sorry, young man, but we don’t know you. You’ll have to agree to finish the crossing tied up in the cabin before we hand you over to the police at the port. I advise you not to resist, otherwise I am the one who will take care of this and it will not be the same: you might want to know that I am an active Royal Navy officer.
Then, back to his son:
- Use the ropes under the bunk, you'll find lots of them in various lengths.
The idea of being tied up by this handsome guy and besides wearing his jumper excites me to the highest point, especially since I know I’m safe. Therefore I have absolutely no desire to resist. I watch the son rummage in a bag he has extracted from under the bunk. At the same time, I undress, the cold water of the Channel being not too much to calm my excitement, and I put on the pants. The young man takes off his jumper and hands it to me. I hasten to put it on while it still carries his heat and smell of strong but clean sweat.
He looks at me, embarrassed, holding a rope in his hand. He asks me to lie down on the bunk and folds my arms in front of me on my chest. He binds my wrists firmly by crossing the rope several times, before passing it under my back, bringing it back to the sides, winding it several times round my biceps, and tying it over my wrists, Out of reach of my fingers.
A second rope secures my elbows with my torso. A third ties my ankles together. A fourth my knees.
Believing that he has finished his work, he looks at his father, who tells him to also tie me down to the bunk, so that I will not fall if the boat pitches. The bunk consists of a narrow mattress on disjointed parallel boards. The young man starts to tie me with a rope which, plank after plank, securing me to his bunk.
Having done this, he looks at his father in search of his approval, which he receives with a simple nod.
- Stay watching him and only go up if I call you. Keep a knife next to you so you can release him quickly if needed.
Strongly bound to a couch, in the thick woollen jumper of my young jailer, the effect of cold water dissipates, and the young man perceives it.
- My name is Peter.
- Mine is François.
He sees my crotch, scandalously swollen. With a look he shows me that his father can see us and invites me to be cautious. Or rather, explains to me his own cautiousness as there is not much I could do.
Pretending to check his knots, he passes his fingers on my chest until spotting my nipples and stroking them through the thick, rough wool of his jumper. The condition of my crotch worsens.
Then he leans his face above mine. Will he kiss me, when his father could see us? Instead, his mouth above mine, he lets out a bubble of saliva that he brings immediately back in, waiting for my assent. I open my mouth explicitly, and he lets go a long and contions flow of saliva that I swallow with gluttony. He renews the game several times, aiming more or less well because of the roll and pitch, alternating with essential "knot checks" above my nipples. The swell that rages outside is nothing in comparison with the hustle and bustle of my crotch.
Once again his father:
- Is everything ok, is our French guest calm?
- Yes, papa, he even fell asleep.
- Perfect, but do not stop watching him closely.
- No risk, papa, rely on me. Take care of the navigation, I’ll take care of the Frenchman.
All this being said accompanied with a wink and a smile addressed to me.
In order not to deny him, I close my eyes and open my mouth. More saliva comes to quench my thirst.
- If he wakes up, give him to drink and eat. There is still water and biscuits.
"It's okay, I've already given him a drink."
"Very well, he will not complain for having been treated badly. After all, he is no enemy.
- No he is not. Certainly not. Again with a smile and a wink. It’s starting to rain, I close the door of the cabin. Just knock on the door if you need me.
Well done, he managed to create some privacy in this quite non-classical condition.
To be continued...
(I found inspiration for this story after seing Nolan's movie Dunkirk. Whoever saw it will have noticed that all male characters are very attractive. Besides, having a fetish for woolen sweaters, I was even more turned on by some costumes, particularly the thick red rib fisherman's sweater that one of the young rescuers wears all along the film, or the white turtle neck worn by the RAF pilots.)