Under Water - Part One

Aug 31, 2018
My first story - be kind!

Under Water - Part One

Natalya and I climb out the side launch door and down to water level where the crew has
readied our kayak. It looks small to me, especially next to the freighter towering
above us. It is an ordinary tandem kayak, with one small modification, plus, the front
seat has been removed. The insertion plan requires that I reach our destination
unseen, as my face is well known to both Interpol and the RNLM. Even afterwards, they
will check surveillance cameras in the vicinity, and pick me out of the crowd. Our
destination is the Arts Festival at NDSM-Werf in Amsterdam, and if the insertion team
is correct, our kayak will blend in with other watercraft passing through the canals,
escaping notice by the Harbour Patrol.

In order to eliminate any chance of being spotted and identified by facial recognition
cameras, the insertion plan requires that I ride in the kayak. Not in the kayak seat,
but rather inside the kayak. I thought this foolish, but the insertion team measured
the kayak and assured me I would fit. No doubt these same experts base their
measurements on how well a sardine fits into a tin. But Natalya and I practiced, and
my comfort aside, the experts were right. Natalya, the leader of the insertion team,
will be paddling the kayak from the rear seat. At thirty years old, she stands just
shy of 160 centimeters tall, and still has the trim, muscular body from her younger
days as a gymnast. Her weight is a mystery, but rumors are that the last man to ask
got knocked on his arse, and got a closeup view of hers. Natalya's short brown hair
surrounds a face equal to any fashion model, even without make-up. She works out
relentlessly, even aboard ship, and is leaving behind a number of embarrassed crewmen
who dared challenge her to a test of strength.

I enter the front cockpit, facing the rear, and kneel down. Then, in a face-first
diving motion, duck down below the deck, ending up on my stomach, laying on the bottom
hull. My head points toward the stern, my arms toward the bow, resting along either
side of my body. On either side of my head are rudder pedals that Natalya will be
using. I try to extend my legs into the bow, but something is not right. The front
bulkhead is still in place! It is supposed to be removed so that there is room for my
feet. When I call out this fact, the crew says they were ordered to leave the bulkhead
for added buoyancy to help balance the weight.

A firm hand pushes down on my still raised lower back and a voice shouts for me to
slide further toward the stern. Using a worm-like wiggle I slid my upper torso deeper
into the kayak, trying to avoid the rudder pedals and cables. Now, instead of my head
being under midships, it is intruding into the open rear cockpit. The rudder pedals
are no longer near my head, but are now near my waist. I complain that this position
leaves my head exposed, but the crew says Natalya's spray skirt will hide me.

Laying there on my stomach in the dim morning light, I prop my head up onto my chin,
and watch as Natalya steps into the rear cockpit, her feet landing on either side of my
head. Using her hands on the cockpit rims to balance herself, she carefully lowers her
torso, lifting her feet up and sliding them over my shoulders in a thrust-like
gymnastics move. After her competitive gymnastics career, Natalya worked at a skills
camp in the Netherlands, and her fluency in Dutch and West Frisian are deemed essential
in the event that our kayak is stopped. Natalya's knees flex as her bum reaches seat
level, the crotch of her skin tight white swimsuit brushing against my nose. Her
thighs slide down both sides of my head, locking it into place. As she settles into
the seat, she reacts to this unexpected contact by spreading her thighs slightly and
shifting back on the seat. My attention shifts from launch preparations to the white
wall in front of my eyes. I trace the double stitching down each side of the wall,
distracted by its inability to contain a large number of short dark hairs. Some simply
peek out from beneath, trapped flat against her skin. Others enjoy more freedom,
curling around to reach back over the edge of the white wall. The fabric, through
stretched tightly, reveals little else of what lay behind it, save for several slight
bumps and ridges, leaving more detail to my imagination.

'Natalya, why did you leave the front bulkhead in place?', I ask. 'It is my decision.
Do not question it.', she snaps back. As the insertion team leader, she has command of
the entire operation, at least until we reach our destination. At that point, I am
supposed to be in charge, but other operatives have warned me that Natalya does not
like to share. Her feet settle into the rudder pedals, and as she tests them I feel
her thighs slide back and forth against my ears, her muscles alternately tightening and
releasing. My intimate view of her crotch is interrupted when Natalya grabs my hair
with her left hand and pulls my head up, straining my neck. She looks down at me and
says, 'You operatives get all glory, while the insertion teams take all the risks.
When you screw up, we're the ones that have to get you out of those tight spot. I
picked this kayak insertion myself, especially for you, and ordered the crew to re-
install the front bulkhead. Now you will feel what a really tight squeeze is.' She
pushes my head down, locking my head between her thighs, and squeezes. Moments later,
as she attaches her spray skirt to the cockpit rim, my world goes completely black.

The kayak receives a strong pushoff from the crew and Natalya starts to paddle, her
thighs maintaining a firm lock on my head. I detect small back and forth movements of
her bum muscles as she alternately digs her paddle into the water. As we increase
speed, the kayak gently rolls side-to-side in response to her efforts. My head
remains locked into place, face down toward the bottom of the kayak. With my neck
muscles hopelessly outmatched by her thighs, I concentrate on where my next breath will
come from. The top of my head is actually touching the front bar of her seat, the
relative position letting me know her seat is elevated ever so slightly off the hull
bottom. As such, my nose is well positioned to draw breath from underneath the seat,
and presumably from the storage space behind it.

It isn't long before Natalya's thigh scissors reduce the blood flow to my ears,
resulting in a sensation of numbness. As Natalya shifts her legs periodically to
operate the rudder pedals, her grip on my head loosens, allowing blood to rush into
my ears, creating a strange tingling sensation. For a few fleeting seconds I clearly
hear the sounds of the water, of birds, of boats and ships and barges, and of Natalya
breathing. Then her thighs clamp back together, muting all sound except for the
rhythmic beating of her heart, discernable by the blood coursing through her thighs.

Time passes slowly, or quickly, I cannot tell, as I have no reference with which to
compare. My muscles ache, though I have not moved, and both of my sides hurt from the
rubbing of the rudder pedals and cables against them. The interior of the kayak is
stifling. Moisture trickles down the sides of the inner hull, as the perspiration from
Natalya's lower body joins my respiration and condenses on the parts of the hull wall
that are cooled by their contact with water. The hair on either side on my head is
drenched in sweat from her thighs, unable to evaporate due to the skin-to-skin contact.
Droplets break free every so often, following rivulets made by those before, running
down the sides of my face and joining together at the tip of my nose, before falling
down to the hull bottom.

I sense Natalya tiring, her paddling cadence lessening, and while her bum still shifts
side to side her strokes have lost their intensity. I need to find out what is going
on, so I force my head upward, the lubrication from sweat helping me break free from
her thighs. It remains totally dark, and even with my eyes now adjusted, my search for
a small pin prick of light is as futile as looking for stars on a cloudy night. With
both hands on the paddle, and her spray skirt in place, I know Natalya will not be able
to force my head back down. 'Natalya, what is wrong?', I shout loudly, but in response
she slides her bum forward, her crotch absorbing the front of my face, and her thighs
re-tighten around it. She squeezes my head forcefully and commands. 'Stay quiet!'.

A motorboat passes nearby and Natalya calls out in Dutch. Could it be the Harbour
Patrol? A male voice responds in Dutch, and Natalya replies. The motorboat slows to
stop and idles its motors as the conversation continues. Natalya begins paddling
again, but after a few strokes, stops. Then I hear other voices in Dutch along with
rubbing noises as the kayak is tied to the motorboat.

Natalya begins to undo her spray skirt from the cockpit rim, and sunlight filters in.
My eyes fight to adjust to the brightness. The white wall in front of my face has
turned translucent from Natalya's sweat, revealing its inner mysteries, but there is no
time for appreciation. Natalya uses her arms to lift her bum off the seat, and slides
her legs over my shoulders, drawing in her knees and bringing her feet to either side
of my head. Her knees straighten as she rises up and I fear the people on the
motorboat will see me, so I try to retract my head, like a turtle into its shell, but
there is too little room. I hear rustling above, and Natalya slides her spray skirt
down, using her hands to spread it out, affording me at least some cover. She lifts
her right foot out of the spray skirt, but her left foot seems to be stuck. She squats
down to free it, and whispers, 'This is a small Greenpeace Zodiac out on a training run.
They are willing to take me to the dock at NDSM-Werf. I'm trying to get them to take
the kayak too, but if not, be ready with Plan B.' Natalya stands up, exits the kayak,
and I can hear more distant conversation in Dutch.

A few minutes later, the kayak shifts and as I peek through the edges of the center
opening on Natalya's spray skirt, I see two hands grab the rear cockpit rim, followed
by a shadow passing over the rear seat. A strange woman in a light blue swimsuit drops
her bum onto the seat, her well muscled legs hanging over either side of the kayak,
leaving me with a perfect view of her smooth cameltoe. The kayak glides backward,
presumably pushed by the crew of the Zodiac, and I hear their powerful engines start
up. The woman in the light blue swimsuit shouts something like a farewell in Dutch,
and I see her shift slightly as she inspects the topside of the kayak. She rocks the
kayak side to side to test its stability, then I see her hand reach down toward the
spray skirt. As she grabs it and pulls it toward her, I look up and see her face.
'Hè? Wat?', she exclaims. I think silently to myself, 'Natalya, what have you done?'.
Aug 31, 2018
Under Water - Part 1 - Chapter 2

I look up from the inner hull of the kayak at the strange woman in the blue swimsuit,
uncertain of who she is, and more importantly, uncertain of why Natalya has left me in
this position. Natalya's job is to get me to the insertion point, and she has
abandoned me short of that goal, in what I consider to be a helpless position. I
cannot hide, or run, or fight my way out of this. The crew of the freighter told me
earlier this morning that "Plans Change". I fear that Natalya has changed the plan
once again, intentionally stranding me inside the kayak.

With my chin resting on the bottom of the hull, I am unable to see anything above her
waist, so I turn my head sideways and look up out of the corner of my left eye. The
woman in the blue swimsuit looks to be in her late 20s, with sunbleached blonde hair,
and a firm athletic body. Her attractive face bears little makeup, nor does it require
any. Rather, it enjoys the pleasant natural tone of someone with regular exposure to
sun, wind, and sea. Realizing that my head is at eye level to her crotch, she modestly
pulls Natalya's spray skirt toward her and uses it as a shield.

After the initial shock, the woman in the blue swimsuit loudly barrages me with
questions, in Dutch, appearing rather agitated to find a man unexpectedly occupying the
same kayak she is sitting in. I look up at her and try to remember one of the handful
of Dutch phrases I know, 'Ik spreek geen Nederlands'. The questions stop, and there is
momentary silence.

It is time for Plan B. Hoping I remember the correct pronounciation, I exhaust my
Dutch vocabulary, 'Medelander! Asielzoeker! Immigrant!'. The woman in the blue
swimsuit shows the universal look of "Oh", then switches to English. 'You are Safe!
We protect refugees here in Amsterdam. My name is Ilse and I work with Greenpeace. If
you know English - you are safe now.' I reply, "Ik spreek geen, English." While I
speak English well enough, if she knew that it would only invite unwelcome questions.
'Our Zodiac is too far away for me to signal and I don't have my cell phone with me.
CAN... YOU... SWIM...?", she asks, as if saying something louder and slower would
make me understand. My face returns a blank stare. 'If you can't swim, I can't risk
tipping over the kayak trying to get you out of there. It looks like a tight fit, but
you'll have to stay there for now.' She pointed her finger down at me and slowly said,
"ST-AAAA-YYYY!". She lowers her head to try to see over and around me, then says, 'If
I can reach the rudder pedals with my feet I'm going to try to paddle us to the NDSM-
Werf. We're only about 45 minutes away.' Plan B. It is working. Not as expected,
but it is working. The woman in the blue swimsuit not only accepts me as an refugee,
but is also taking me to my insertion point!

I think to myself of the supreme irony - "she works with Greenpeace". By trade, I am
an industrial saboteur, famous in certain circles, unknown in most. I practice my
craft in such a manner as to maximize financial damage, minimize casualties, and
eliminate any sign of my presence. If all goes well, the inspectors simply follow the
trail of breadcrumbs I leave behind for them, and reach whatever conclusion I want them
to find. A lithium battery fire, metal fatigue, parts failure, software crash, or
anything else of my choice. The woman, Ilse, is taking me right to the NDSM-Werf where
my targets, two Greenpeace vessels, are docked. Tonight, I will disable them so that
they cannot interfere with my employer's Arctic drilling activities. By keeping them
in port, there is no risk of political or economic fallout, unlike the clumsy French
intelligence operation that sunk a Greenpeace ship in the Bay of Auckland in 1985, or
the 2013 seizure of a Greenpeace ship in the Arctic by the Russians.

Ilse stows the spray skirt, grabs the cockpit rim with her hands to balance the kayak,
then pulls her left leg toward her body. She lowers her foot next to the right side of
my head, then repeats with her right leg. 'This is not going to be pleasant for you,
but you must have been able to handle it or you would't have gotten this far. Let's
try this.' She brings her knees together and leans back. Extending both legs at the
same time, she slides her bare feet into the tight space between my back and the deck
of the kayak, her thighs coming together directly over my head. As she extends her
legs further into the kayak, her thighs lower and force my face down into the briny
slurry swilling around the bottom of the hull. With toes pointed, she slides her feet
outward looking for the pedals, but stops abruptly. 'There's not enough room for my
feet to get down to the pedals because of the curve of the deck. I'll have to re-

She retrieves her legs and draws her knees up to her chest. I rotate my head so that
the side of my face is out of the swill and my head is upright, my chin resting on the
hull. Ilse separates her legs, and immediately in front of my eyes is the taut blue
fabric I saw earlier. The part of her swimsuit covering her crotch is cut much
narrower than Natalya's, exposing more skin on either side. My eyes trace the well
defined creases in her skin, following a graceful 'S' curve downward from above her
thighs downward to the seat, where both curves come together. A single horizontal seam
runs across the blue fabric, just above my eye level, the center stretching slightly
upward. The fabric above the seam is completely smooth, but below is chaos. A narrow
vertical valley runs down the center, sunlight striking the ridges on either side,
leaving the valley in soft shadow. The fabric covering the ridges shimmers, clearly
defining what lay below, before falling away to each side. The smooth, clean edge of
the swimsuit fabric against her tanned skin show no sign of any hair.

'I don't know exactly how Natalya placed her legs, but I only see one way for me to
reach the rudder pedals. If you can't speak Dutch or English you can't tell me what
she did, so I'm going to put modesty aside and just do it.' She extends her legs over
my shoulders, much like Natalya did. I can feel her feet slip into the rudder pedals,
as her thighs lower and surround my head. It is apparent from the angle and relative
position of the thighs pressing in on both sides of my head, that she is much taller
than Natalya.

I hear Ilse pull the paddle out from its elastic bondage and shift slightly to get into
paddling position, bringing her blue cameltoe right up to my nose. It looks enormous
from this close. 'I'm sorry, but I can't adjust the thigh pads without a tool. The
back pad is set for a shorter person, and is forcing me to sit further forward. It's
not very far to go, but we will never get there unless we get started.'
Ilse leans forward to a vertical paddling position, which pushes her blue cameltoe
firmly against my nose, and my forehead against her lower abdomen. As I draw in
breath, it is refreshing to not smell any lingering chlorine odors left from pool
chemicals. In fact, there is very little odor of any kind from either Ilse or her
swimsuit. With my head in this position, I can no longer see anything except blue
fabric and tanned flesh. Ilse begins paddling, and I take in the entire symphony of
her lower body movements. I watch and even feel her obliques and abdominal muscles
stretching and retracting it she uses those core muscles to paddle. I remember the
term "torso rotation" from the training that Natalya and I had, it was a pleasure to
experience it from my current position.

We move along fairly well, when suddenly Ilse pushes hard on the rudder pedals, leans
to one side of the kayak and digs her paddle deep into the water, all while shouting a
number of Dutch expletives. I do not understand any of this until the first wave hits
the kayak. The combination of Ilse's body lean and the bobbing of the kayak stretches
her blue swimsuit fabric to its limits, and the left edge of fabric slips into the
crack of her cameltoe, followed closely behind by the tip of my nose. Ilse straightens
back up, pressing her thighs outward against the thigh pads, and a series of waves
follow. While Ilse is fighting to keep the kayak from tipping over, my head has no
choice but to mimick the bobbing of the kayak. My nose slides ever deeper and I can do
nothing about the situation, nor can Ilse, who has to keep both hands on her paddle,
and both eyes on the next wave. The waves gradually lose their intensity, and the
waters calm once again.

'A crazy motorboat passed right by us, going much too fast. If I had not made that
sudden stop and turn, we might have capsized. There is no way you could have gotten
out. When we reach shore, I will report them to the Harbour Patrol. Something else
odd, was that the woman piloting the motorboat looked a little like Natalya.' Another
one of Natalya's Plan Changes, I wonder to myself.

Ilse resumes paddling, my nose embedded between her cameltoe as her lower abdoman
presses against my forehead. I alternate breathing between my nose and mouth,
generally drawing in breathe through my nose, and blowing it out in a downward
direction between her thighs. Every so often I exhale through my nose, then wonder
what that must feel like to Ilse. It is a sensation I will never experience. The blue
swimsuit fabric joining me in her crack, running along the left side of my nose, begins
to dampen. The odor of womanly arousal intensifies as Ilse's torso rotation from
paddling joins together with the gentle rocking of the kayak to slowly move her crotch
back and forth against my nose, widening her crack as if my nose were nothing but a sex
toy. She tightens her thighs against my head, lessening the back-and-forth motion, but
pulling my nose even deeper and holding it there. Within seconds, the ridges on either
side of her cameltoe convulse, alternately tightening and loosening, while
spontaneously sliding up and down against my nose, independent of any other movement.
Another sensation I will never experience in the same manner.

Shortly thereafter, Ilse announces that we are approaching shore. She stops paddling,
and I hear her place the paddle across the cockpit opening above me. Her thighs loosen
and I retract my nose its sheath as her hand reaches down to pull her blue swimsuit
fabric back into place. We bump gently into something and the now wet fabric nudges
against my nose one last time. Ilse gets out of the kayak and steadies it, then
removes the front cockpit cover, and helps me out. 'I beached the kayak a little
further away from where where I said I would meet the others. Stay here while I go get
them. ST-AAAA-YYYY!', she said, pointing to the kayak. Trying to keep from looking
directly at her, I nod in agreement, knowing it is a lie. I am thankful for her choice
of landing sites, neither lonely, nor busy, and far enough away from the bustle of the
Arts Festival. After a brief walk, she blends into the crowd, and I retrieve my tool
pack from the rear storage hatch. I look around for either a derelict building or a
construction site where a former shipyard building is being turned into a trendy arts
destination. I choose a construction site, sit down among the materials, and become

I have no idea where Natalya is, and I am starting to fear her intentions. She ordered
the kayak configuration changed. While paddling, she trapped my head tightly between
her thighs and did not open her spray skirt to let in any air. She abandoned the
kayak, with me trapped inside, well short of the insertion point, leaving me to any
uncertain fate. And as the kayak neared the NDSM-Werf, was she the one piloting the
motorboat that tried to capsize the kayak? But Plan B worked perfectly for me.
Pretending to be a refugee got me to the insertion point at NDSM-Werf and Ilse is the
only one to see my face. With her sympathies toward refugees she is unlikely to report
me, and when she returns to the kayak and finds me missing, she will assume that I
merged into the Festival crowd. I pull earplugs from my pack to deaden the music from
the Festival, stretch out, and enjoy an afternoon nap to prepare for my noctural
Apr 12, 2017
I was worried in the beginning when he laid face down instead of face up. I was expecting her to sit on his face but when he went face down I was worried about just drowning him or crushing his face into the wood. Having his head lifted up though and forced into both of their crotches was great though. Might have liked more of an elaboration on his experience though. Was almost like between thighs, nose in slit, has orgasm, done. Felt a little rushed but was a good story overall. Enjoyed it a lot. Reveal of Natalya doing it on purpose and being more forceful was great. And the Dutch chick being a little forceful and in command was good too.
Aug 31, 2018
I was inspired by bootwanker's post a few weeks ago asking for a leg scissors story, and with no responses I thought I would take a stab at something quick but a little different, that combines leg scissors and face sitting. It would have been interesting to be face up in the kayak but that might create some reluctance on the guy's willingness to initially go on the mission, and it felt like a good place to get in some leg/thigh scissors. Here is chapter 3.

UNDER WATER - PART 1 - Chapter 3

Waking in the early evening, I review the contents of my pack. The Festival and music will carry on well past midnight, so I have plenty of time. I pull out three essential articles of clothing, a Greenpeace T-shirt emblazoned with the word "CREW", a fluorescent green Greenpeace jacket, and a Greenpeace hat. The T-shirt and jacket are ordinary, the hat is not. Embedded in the brim of the hat are small infrared LED lights. Invisible to the naked eye, but not to surveillance cameras, at night the LEDs will make my entire face appear as a featureless, glowing blob of brightness. I am now ready for my mission.

The plan assumes that most of the crew of the two Greenpeace ships will be off ship, attending the Arts Festival, visiting friends or relatives, or simply enjoying the nightlife of Amsterdam. The ships are not unoccupied, however, there are local Nightwatchers, and several crew are probably still aboard. If I am stopped by a crew member, I will identify as a Nightwatcher. If I am stopped by a Nightwatcher, I will identify as a crew member. The expectation that that security will be somewhat lax in their home port.

I climb up the gangway onto the first ship and as I reach the deck I am hailed. The lighting is low, so I cannot make out their face, but that also means they cannot make out mine. 'Heading in for the night', I say in English, the universal language aboard Greenpeace ships. 'OK!', was the response. I am surprised at the ease. Having studied the videos and webcams produced by Greenpeace, I am familiar with the ship layout, the remaining details filled in by our own maritime engineers. The interior passageways are not much brighter - it's great to be aboard an environmentally friendly ship!

I work my to the engine room and find it unoccupied and dimly lit. Perfect! My first target here is the electronics. I move between several key units, looking specifically for certain connectors. I unhook them, then slip on one of my own inventions, a Signal Interupter Connector, which I refer to as SICs. The SICs are barely 1 cm thick, match the color and shape of the existing connectors, and are virtually undetectable. They sit and do nothing, at least most of the time, then randomly wake up, block all signals passing through the connector for a few minutes, then go back to sleep. If they work as expected, intermittent problems are blamed on software or hardware or wiring, all requiring extensive diagnostics, and all of which test out perfectly - until the next time my devices wake up.

I like to introduce two points of failure whenever possible, so that even if one is discovered and fixed, the other still achieves the desired result. Moreover, the continued failure casts doubt on the whether the first fix was done correctly. I lay out the other tools of my trade on the engine room floor; a syringe containing a slow working acid that I inject into cable sheaths and onto printed circuit boards, a syringe containing cyanoacrylae glue to prevent small parts from moving, and a small pointed file to weaken key metal parts. I am not here to destroy the larger and heavier equipment, such as engines, pumps, and motors - rather I am here to create conditions under which they destroy themselves. Salt water is a powerful corrosive, but I provide a little help with gaskets, O-rings, relays, and connectors. I am selective when working with these, as I do not wish to harm the crew, but after several such failures the ship will need to sit in port and be thoroughly checked several times over.

The main lights suddenly flick on and I duck low to avoid being seen. Peeking around the corner, I see Natalya on the second step of the companionway. She has switched from the white swimsuit she wore on the kayak to her "Tomb Raider" outfit - a body hugging dark brown tank top, tight black shorts, and calf-high lace up boots. Someone once told Natalya that she was too short to be Lara Croft. He corrected his mistake a few minutes later while laying on his back, with Natalya's boot pressing down on his neck. Attached to Natalya's left boot is a knife sheath, but she does not appear to be carrying any other weapons. I am wary, but she may be here to assist me. 'Natalya, turn off those lights!', I warn. 'There he is!', shouts Natalya, pointing toward me. I am stunned, but have no time to think about it, as two other sets of feet hurry down the steps, one male and one female.

The female is Ilse, who paddled me here in the kayak, thinking that I was a refugee. She is wearing the same blue swimsuit, but has added a shirt to cover her upper torso. The other is a tall male, younger and more muscular than myself. But he is untrained in hand-to-hand combat, and I quickly dispatch him, ramming his head into a steel pipe and lowering his unconcious body to the floor. I need to escape before more help comes, so I head toward the companionway steps. Ilse veers in front of me, warily assuming a defensive position. 'Let me pass and I won't hurt you.', I said. 'No! You have to tell us what you did to the ship', she yells. I easily block Ilse's attempted kick and grabbing her securely by her right arm, then spin her around toward the main engine room, pinning both arms behind her back. I warn her, 'Stand here, count to 50, and do not move', squeezing her arms tightly for emphasis. I step back from Ilse as she begins to count, 'één. twee. drie.', and turn toward the steps, but there is a blur of motion. Natalya is jumping over the railing! I react by turning away from her attack, but bump into Ilse's back knocking her forward. Natalya crashes into me, her momentum carrying her high onto my back, and together, the three of us cascade to the floor.

As I fall, I see Ilse reach her arms out to brace herself, but with my own body in the process of twisting around, the best I can do is bring my hands together in front of my body and hope for a soft impact. Ilse hits the floor first, her arms collapsing and her legs splaying apart. Ilse's bum grows rapidly in size as my face heads straight for it, and when I make contact my face buries itself between her soft cheeks. My chest and stomach crash into the steel decking, knocking the air from my lungs. Immediately behind, Natalya lands on top of me, her weight multiplied by her two meter leap from the companionway steps. Her knees crash into my upper back, and her chest slams onto the back of my head, driving my face even deeper into Ilse's bum crack. My face is pushed upward against the twin globes on each side of Ilse's crack, moving them higher on her body, and giving her the temporary equivalent of a Brazilian butt lift. I lay there stunned, my face buried in Ilse's bum, while the back of my head is held in place by Natalya's breasts, which hang down both sides of my head. My view is once again limited to Ilse's blue swimsuit and tanned flesh, only this time from her backside. It is little comfort for me to think of the millions of men who come to Amsterdam each year, hoping to be in a similar position to where I find myself right now.

The good news is that my face found something soft to crash into, preventing my head from hitting the steel decking. The bad news is that this operation has failed, the air has been knocked out of my lungs, I am in danger of capture if I cannot break free, and I have a highly trained warrior laying on my back with a knife in her sheath. One thing at a time, I need air. I take several deep breaths through my nose, drawing in a mixture of smells from my "nose wedgie" position in Ilse's bum crack. But I need more air, quickly, so I switch to mouth breathing, but even then my lungs are challenged to inflate by the weight of Natalya on my back.

If I try to lift myself up off Ilse, Natalya is in perfect position to apply a strangle hold on my neck, one that will be a challenge to break. Natalya's hands are already probing my neck, but instead of using my own hands to ward her off, I reach under Ilse and wrap my arms around her stomach. If I can keep my face buried in Ilse's bum, Natalya will not be able to apply any neck holds. I had never before looked at an attractive woman's butt crack and considered it a place of safety. I do consider all contact with women to be sensual, any place on their body. With Ilse's swimsuit pushed into her crack ahead of my nose, there is considerable skin-to-skin contact between my face and her bum. I am always amazed at the softness and the smoothness and the warmth of a woman's skin. As much as I would like to stay in this position longer, I need to escape, and that means getting Natalya off my back. I squeeze Ilse tightly around her waist, trying to lift both her and I and Natalya with just my core muscle group. I fail miserably and we collapse back to the steel decking. Natalya abandons her assault on my neck, and as she scrabbles on my back for a new position I feel her arse land on my back, then see her legs shoot forward on either side of my head. She is now sitting on my back! Natalya slides forward, her bum now sitting on the back of my head, pushing my face deeper into Ilse's crack. Unsuccessful in prying my head up from Ilse's bum, Natalya is now pushing it deeper in hopes of suffocating me!

My last hope is to start a double body roll. Natalya will need to roll off or risk being pinned beneath both Ilse and I. As we roll, I feel Natalya break off in the direction of the roll, and I hope to continue the roll with Ilse such that she ends up between me and Natalya. I have always admired the ability of a woman's bum to conform to anything pressed against it, such as one of my hands, and my current position only increases that appreciation. As we pass through the first 1/4 of the roll, Ilse and I are laying on our right side, and I feel the effects of gravity on her bum. Her left cheek presses down on the left side of my face, spreading out and feeling heavier. Continuing the roll, I am on my back, and with my face in her crack, all of the weight in her hips presses down onto my face. The softness of both cheeks spreads outward, completely covering my face. We continue the roll and end up on our left sides, my arms still around Ilse's waist, and my face still in her bum. Gravity pulls her left bum cheek downward, leaving a small gap on that side of my face, while her right cheek spreads out on the top side of my face.

After completing the 3/4 roll, I do a partial reversal to get onto my back, hoping to get up and get away, but I have trouble freeing my left arm from under Ilse. I reverse again in the direction of the original roll, and after another 1/4 turn, pushing Ilse away to the side. I am once again on my stomach, but at least Natalya is off my back. That doesn't last for long, as Natalya jumps over Ilse and takes a sitting postion on my back, her thighs straddling my head and her legs pointed straight out. She reaches down with both hands to grab me under the chin, then leans back slightly while pulling up with her hands. Then Natalya quickly pulls in her right leg, bends it slightly, and catches my neck in the crook of her knee. Her left leg crosses over her right foot, and as she bends her left knee she tucks her right foot behind it, then secures the hold by grabbing her left foot with her left hand. The entire move takes barely more than a second. My head is now trapped within her leg lock, the bulging muscle of her upper calf pressing against my chin while her thighs squeeze both sides of my head. The blood inside my head tries to fight its way through my veins, but cannot escape the constriction. I use my hands to try pulling apart her thighs, but they are hopelessly outmatched, so I discontinue my efforts and instead look for any small thing that can help me escape. I see the sheen of sweat on Natalya's legs from her exertions in the warm engine room. I see several fine, light colored hairs along the side of Natalya's legs, invisible unless viewed from my current vantage point. The tensed muscles in her thighs and calf are outlined against her skin, but in between are soft valleys of smooth skin. I look down and to the right, and trace her faint scar, the one that ended her competitive career. Looking down and to the left I see her right boot locked behind her left knee, as her left arm pulls on her left boot to prevent my escape. Boot? Boot? That's it!
Aug 31, 2018
UNDER WATER - PART 1 - Chapter 4

I look at Natalya's left boot and see the sheath for the knife she always carries. I
decide against reaching for it, as it would be foolish to bring a knife into play while I
am in her submission hold. Natalya could have easily pulled it out earlier had she wanted,
so I am hoping her intent is capture rather than kill. But seeing the boot this close up
brings back a memory, one I had almost forgotten. Natalya is ticklish!

I discovered this during one of our training sessions three years ago, but Natalya forbade
me from ever tickling her again, or from telling anyone else. I reach up with my right arm
and grab her right wrist to keep it that arm from interfering. Then I work my left hand
into position and begin softly running my fingers against the hairs under her left armpit.
She clamps her arm to her side, but undeterred, I wriggle and flex my fingers inside her
pit. Within seconds, Natalya's torso begins twitching as she fights my efforts. It is
working, so I apply the finishing touch, 'Coochy coo! Coochy coo!'. I continue tickling
until I hear her yell, 'You bastard!', then watch as her left hand releases her left foot.
Natalya tries to grab my tickling hand, but her leg lock is broken, so I use my chance and
spin onto my stomach. As Natalya untangles her own legs from the aborted hold, I use my
temporary advantage to push her onto her back. Backing away from her, I get to my feet,
where my longer arms and heavier weight almost even the odds.

Natalya and I do some hand sparring as she tries to get a grip in her favor. I am not
interested in gaining a hold on her, but rather to keep her away until I can make my way
around to the companionway steps. Blocking one of her attempts, our hands lock, but I use
my leverage to push her away. She is momentarily off balance so I break for the steps.
Natalya responds quickly, and in a slide-like move she takes out one of my legs and I fall
to the metal decking, only a body length away from the steps. We continue to wrestle, but
on the ground the advantage shifting to Natalya, who outclasses me in both speed and
wrestling skills. I try to hold her off with my longer arms, but that just allows her to
maneuver her more nimble body inside my reach.

Each time Natalya makes a move that I cannot not block or counter, I end up with my head,
neck, or torso locked in some manner between Natalya's thighs, or arms or feet or elbows.
When my head is not being squeezed by some part of Natalya's body, my face is being
forceably pressed against some part of Natalya's body, whether it be the back of her knees,
her thighs, the crook of her elbow, her bum, her breasts, or even her feet! I never get
both arms loose at the same time, one is always bent, twisted, or pulled into an
unnaturally painful position. I use my training to break free, but Natalya's speed and
quickness places me immediately back in a different hold. My entire body is rolled around
at her will, and I always end up beneath her. I am using up more energy breaking the holds
than Natalya is spending applying them, so the longer this goes on, the harder it will be
for me to complete my escape.

After one exchange, I end up on my back, with Natalya sitting on my chest, her legs
straddling my head. Natalya slides forward, pressing her crotch against my chin. She
grabs my hair with her right hand, pulling my head upward, then clamps it between her
thighs. I am familiar with this hold from my sparring sessions with Natalya. It is her
leg scissors submission hold. Natalya overlaps her feet, and squeezes my head between her
powerful thighs. I have never broken this hold, and we both know it. When we first
started sparring, I tried to fight my way out of it rather than submit, but that only
angered her. Natalya would keep me locked in her leg scissors, ask for her cell phone,
point it down at my scarlet face, and make me plead to be released. And plead I did.
Later, when she became bored with that, she made praise her beauty, her wrestling skills,
and various parts of her body. And praise I did. But over time, even that wasn't enough.
She eventually made me promise to do things to her, things that were well beyond my comfort
level. As her requests became even more extreme, I opted instead to passively surrender
and remain quiet while I awaited release from the hold. Others were not as quick to learn,
and Natalya's collection of videos has grown over the years, with the most recent additions
being several embarassed crewmen from the freighter that dropped us off this morning.

I reach my arms up and around, trying to pull her thighs apart, but with her feet locked
together and her arms firmly spread and planted behind her for balance, this is hopeless.
Knowing that I am running out of time, I decide to play dirty, moving my hands up from her
thighs, trying to reach her face. But there is nothing there, only air where her face
should be. She is leaning back too far. My arms flail helplessly, until my hand bumps
into something soft. Natalya's breasts! Now with a renewed purpose, I pull at her tank
top to expose her breasts, then grab her nipples between my thumb and forefinger. With her
supporting arms behind her, Natalya cannot interfere. 'Release your hold', I yell, pulling
her teats outward and squeezing harder. I hear a loud 'Owwww!'. Her thighs release and
her legs separate, but rather than play tit-for-tat, I release her teats and try to escape.
Natalya starts to sit forward, which will free her hands, so I reach behind her and
position my hands to push her hips forward, then try to slide my head out from underneath
her. But as my head moves under her crotch, Natalya lowers her arse. She reaches back and
grabs both my hands, pulls my arms around my body and up over my head, and traps me once
again. She lets her bum settle onto my face, then squeezes her gluteal muscles together
several times in a sign of victory, knowing that I cannot escape. There is nothing soft
about Natalya's bum, or her heart. Her "Tomb Raider" shorts cover my nose and mouth, but I
am thankful for the taut fabric as it prevents my face from slipping into her crack. My
eyes are still uncovered, and through the gap between her legs I can see Natalya leaning
forward, applying pressure on to control my arms.

'Ilse, go and get help, I can't hold him down much longer', yells Natalya. Both Natalya
and I know this to be a lie. I look up and see Ilse approach. Ilse and Natalya converse
in Dutch, purposely excluding me, and at the end Natalya nods her head in the universal
symbol of "Yes". Ilse stands in front of Natalya and while looking down at me says, 'I
don't even know your name, but today you stuck your nose in my pussy, your face up my arse,
you lied to me about being a refugee, you lied to me about speaking English, you pushed me
around, and now you are trying to disable the ships I work on. I hate you! You're a
despicable loser! You are the lowest of the low. I see you have found your place in this
world, under a woman's arse. I'm going to make sure you never get up. You're going to
stay down there forever, and if one arse can't keep you down, maybe two will'. Ilse is
right above me. One of her legs disappears around Natalya to my left, the other to my
right. Then I see Ilse begin to squat down. As her bum lowers, the familiar blue swimsuit
fabric strains against the expansion, but for some reason she pauses, 'Your face and my
arse have spent a lot of time together today. Enjoy it, because I want it to be the last
thing you see'. Ilse resumes lowering her bum, and from the angle of her thighs, her legs
must be wrapped around Natalya's waist. As Ilse's thighs settle on top of Natalya's, I see
Natalya shift slightly forward, covering my eyes and nose with her crotch, and sealing me
in darkness. A moment later, the combined weight of the two women presses down on my
skull. With the back of my head resting on the steel decking, there is nothing soft, above
or below me. Natalya's ischial bones, at the base of her bum, press deep into my eye
sockets. Even though my eyes are closed, I see flashes of light against my inner eyelids,
and the unrelenting pressure brings to mind an image of grapes being crushed. The strong
taut fabric covering the crotch of Natalya's shorts spreads their combined weight across
the bridge of my nose and my facial cheeks. I hear the cartilage in my nose pop as it is
flattened, and with my nose useless, I try to grab a breath through my newly uncovered

In intense pain, and seeing no way to break free, my last hope is to talk my way out.
'Natalya, let me go. We have our orders.', I plead. 'No!', she says forcefully. It is
the only answer I expected. 'Why are you doing this?', I ask. She replies, 'Plans Change!
Greenpeace showed me things. Things I didn't know. Things you don't know. We are
working for the wrong side!'

Several months later, near the Arctic Circle:

The men in the control room seem content to remain there on this cold, snowy night. I
finish installing the last Signal Interupter Connector on an oil transfer pump. 'Hurry',
says Natalya, 'you're taking too long.' Wet snow clings to her Ocean Survival Suit. 'I'm
done, that was the last one. It's hard to install the connectors in this cold. Did you
get the banner hung?', I ask. 'All done. Now get back down to the Zodiac', orders
Natalya, "Ilse and I are freezing our arses off out here. She wants to use your face again
tonight in order to warm her bum, but I told her she has to share.' I smile to myself,
thinking of what lay ahead once we get back our cabin aboard the Class A ocean going yacht.
Natalya's father had transferred ownership to her two years ago in order to avoid UK-
imposed sanctions, and now it serves as the flagship for our new, independent three person
mission team. The pay stinks, but oh my, the benefits!.