by Nicole Dere
The doc probes my vulva, takes a few swabs. I feel gloved fingers exploring my inner labia, and the soothing coolness of some cream, then I am released from my bonds, and I sit up, shuffle into my knickers, mutely submit to the taking of blood from an arm, before I am allowed to escape behind the screen once more, accompanied of course by the nurse. I can’t meet her gaze as I fumble into my bra, then my thin dress, slide my feet into my chic little heeled sandals, and hey presto. Ready or not, here I come!
‘What do you think of the local girls, Crissie? There’s some stunners around, aren’t there? There’s a lot of Arab blood about on this coast. You can tell, eh? That rich black hair, that café-au-lait complexion. Gorgeous, aren’t they? I bet you’re dying to sample some of it, eh?’
I know he is still punishing me, that the degradation of my medical has not been enough for him, and the misery wells up within me, until my lip trembles and I feel my eyes grow moist yet again. Please, Simon! Don’t! I’m so sorry, I swear I won’t complain, ever again! I’m shaking. I want to throw myself at his feet, to grovel on the gritty tiles of this terrace at the port’s exclusive club, of which Simon is a guest-member for the duration of our stay out here. We sit at one of the round tables that fill the veranda, and gaze out at the afternoon haze of the Indian Ocean, the small local craft near the harbour, a large freighter further out, heading north, in the direction of the pirate-infested waters. What would the waiters make of it, in their immaculate white uniforms, the red fezzes and blue cummerbunds, if this slip of a European girl in her flowered dress and designer sunglasses should suddenly fling herself down and grovel at the feet of her handsome lover? Probably step impassively over her, or obey the bwana ’sinstructions and pick her up by wrists and ankles and drag her away with the rest of the rubbish. In any case I won’t find out, for I sit mutely, relieved that he can’t see my eyes beneath the dark lenses.
‘I think we’ll see if we can pick one up when we’re out exploring the town tonight, eh? Bring her back – maybe not here, they might frown on a ménage-a-trois in this ex-colonial stuffiness. We’ll book in at the Oceanic or somewhere and have some real fun!’
‘Then you’ll have to go along to the doc’s for a check-up!’ I speak out loud before I can stop it, and see those light grey eyes fix on me with that appraising stare for just an instant before he chuckles, and puts his hand on my knee, or rather on the flesh just above, and just below the hem of the thin dress. The long brown fingers spread spider-like on my paler skin. I feel their increasing pressure as they sink in, until I wince, and gasp. ‘You’re hurting me, Simon!’ I place my hand placatingly over his gripping tightness.
His pressure relaxes. He gives a deep, purring laugh. ‘Don’t be silly, Crissie. You know I’d never be stupid enough to have unprotected sex with a local!’
I give a small, wounded cry. ‘You told me – told me Mattius was clean! And you wanted ... you made me ...’ my breath catches, I fight back a sob.
‘Nobody made you, sweety. You wanted to do it. You chose to let Mattius shag you, didn’t you?’
‘Because you wanted me to!’ I almost scream it at him, tears blinding me behind the shield of my glasses. His hand moves from my knee, he sits back, deliberately distancing himself from me, his voice maddeningly calm, detached.
‘Not because you wanted to be screwed by one of the natives? I’ve seen you looking at him, when we’re on the beach, or out in his boat. Staring at the shape of that impressive prick of his bulging out his shorts, sneaking furtive looks, your tongue peeping out between your teeth. Wondering what it would be like to feel a dong like that humping away inside you. I just had to put you out of your misery, my love – before you started going behind my back to let half the locals shaft you. I chose Mattius because I knew he was clean. I’ve had him checked out. If your results from the lab show any sign of pox, or any other sex disease, it won’t be from Mattius, you can be certain of that.’
Even the sunglasses can’t hide my distress. I can hardly speak, my throat swells as I answer miserably, my head down, my voice low, like a little girl ashamed before her daddy. ‘That’s not true, Simon. I did it because you told me. Yes, I let him shag me! But only because you told me to – I’d never want anyone to touch me, except you. You must know that! I love you, and I belong to you. I want nothing else.’
He sits back in the chair, entirely at ease, and bathes me in that wonderful smile of his, while the tears stream down, zigzagging past the rims of my glasses in snail-like trails of diluted mascara. ‘That’s good,’ he says, in that rich, tender tone. ‘Let’s put you to the test again tonight, shall we?’
The Sombrero is an exclusive nightclub close to the old seaport, but only for the well-heeled tourist or the richest of the locals, of all races. An Asian connection of Simon’s, who seems to have a proprietary share in the club, introduces us to Wanda – ‘like the fish!’ this glorious girl grins, when she is delivered to our table close to the tiny space of the dancefloor, which is also the stage for the erotic cabaret performances that take place in the brilliant spotlight at regular intervals. All the girls are lovely who perform in that dazzling light. They are of all shades, from ebony to magenta, to ivory and virgin-white snow, and every inch of their desirable flesh is, eventually, exposed to our gaze: full frontal, rear end, vertical, horizontal, kinky black fuzz, corn yellow curls, plucked, shaved and bald as a coot, every cranny and every crevice. Soho, eat your heart out!
Wanda isn’t in the spotlight, except later, for our eyes only, but she would grace any such candid public exhibitions, as both Simon and I can testify later, in the privacy of an opulent suite which includes bar, bed and bath for those privileged enough to afford it. She’s of the type stipulated by Simon earlier: glossy, full black hair, falling in rich waves about her shoulders; it feels quite coarse, with a wiry strength of body, which is why it looks so rich, and it smells divine, with its hint of spice and coconut and the fragrance of this tropical coast. Her eyes are big, so dark as to be black rather than brown, with superb sweeping lashes of a length to die for; lips perfectly shaped in full red bows of love; and skin, finally, that delightful, milky coffee matt shade, with the subtlest of variations – the very slightly paler cream of the generously curving buttocks, the soles of the narrow feet and palms of the hands.
Her attributes are far more than physical. Her English is excellent, carrying the merest trace of an accent which only serves to make her low, musical voice sound even more attractive, her manner is assured, without any trace of vulgarity. She is as far from a slag or a whore as you could imagine – until the moment when the three of us are alone, and Simon issues his command, in his usual casual form of question. ‘Why don’t you girls make yourselves a little more comfortable?’
Chapter Four
WANDA BEATS ME TO the draw in unzipping her full-length, off-the-shoulder gown down to the jut of her magnificent bottom and lets it fall in a ripple of silk about her ankles. A crimson lacy wisp of g-string snugs about her vulva. Her only other clothing is the pair of five-inch stiletto heels, which she steps out of in the same motion with which she steps out of the pool of her discarded gown. By which time I have managed to wriggle out of my shorter flowered dress. I stand there in my lemon bra and matching cotton briefs – and my private admiration and self-confessed envy.
‘I promised Crissie a special treat tonight. I hope you don’t mind, Wanda, but – you’re it!’ Simon chuckles, and Wanda grins back at him in perfect understanding, even before he goes on to explain further. ‘She’s been very good, but I know she’s been missing her lesbic fun lately.’
I just stand there. I don’t quite hang my head, but I can feel the blush surging up from my toes to my crown. As you already know, I’m far from the discomfited, virginal ignoramus of fairytale – I could probably match this exotic goddess blow for blow, suck for suck and fuck for fuck. But Simon has this weird effect on me, of reducing me to this tongue-tied, toe-squirming ingénue, which I thought I had discarded w
ith my last milk tooth. My mortification is not eased by the recognition that this “shrinking violet” syndrome is quite likely brought about by my knowledge that this is how Simon wants it to be. And Simon’s word, as you also well know, is my command, my raison d’être .
She approaches, smiling warmly, playing her role to perfection, as if she loves me with consuming passion, and leads me to the wide, silk-covered bed. And all at once, neither of us is acting as she stretches me out and lays her entire length along mine. She kisses me, thrusting her tongue down my throat almost, as I yield my stretched mouth to her domination. Breast to breast, belly to belly, pubis grinds on pubis. We gasp and grunt, and thrust and claw and lick and savage in the blood rush of excitement. Somehow I find myself naked. Bra and briefs have gone – and not by my own hand. Is she still wearing that minute, cute g-string of fiery lace? I don’t know, and don’t care, as I thrust up, dying to feel my smaller breasts nuzzling against her globes, feel my hard little tits rub against her darker, bigger nipples like twin pairs of Eskimos glad to see one another.
No, her tiny triangle of underwear hasn’t gone. As she fits her mound eagerly over mine once more, I can feel the slide of silk and the ruffle of lace against my now bared, sand-coloured curls. Her longer, darker thighs slide sinuously against mine as her knees push with gentle insistence, parting my limbs. Willingly I yield to her pressure, opening my legs, surrendering to her dominance, and lie there, slack now, under her power. She hangs over me, savouring every inch, her mouth and hands taking possession of my arching body. My belly lifts only to seek the ecstasy of further submission to her conquest. Her tongue flicks its fire over my sensitised nipples, buds of hardness over which her lips fit devouringly until I moan in beating desire. I feel her fingers, stroking, her long nails scratching as they trace the length of my labia, prising the outer lips apart, to expose the pink and coral inner surface, gleaming with the wetness of my flooding hunger.
I’m lost, squirming under her, my hips rolling, wriggling to her consuming rhythm. A finger, then another, insinuate themselves into the throbbing sheath of my pussy, whose walls pulse and cling to the gentle invader. I cry out beneath her at the electric thrill sparked by the caresses on the nub of the clitoris, which sends fine tendrils of sensation from the centre of my sex through to the tips of my outspread arms and legs. I’m shivering violently, no longer aware if the thunder of “Now! Now! Now!” is in my brain or screamed aloud to the dimly lit ceiling. Then, so close to the explosive climax, the fingers, the kisses of my lover are gone, she is gone, and I am alone, bereft.
I am forced to focus my reluctant attention elsewhere than on my cunt and the imminence of orgasm, and open my tearstained eyes to see Wanda kneeling up between my widespread thighs and, behind her – very close behind her – the tanned naked form of Simon, clamped to her back, his arms through hers and his hands possessively cupping her splendid breasts. His chin rests on her left shoulder, his lips brush the glossy black hair. ‘I think you should carry on the excellent work you’re doing, my dear. But I hate to feel left out. How about a little triad here, so no one feels excluded?’
I see and feel her accommodating wiggle, feel another inner pulse of excitement at my fevered picture of her invitingly full buttocks thrust back, proffering their deep cleft and the doubtless well-lubricated, narrow shaft beneath, so ready to take the ready prick nestling and knocking at its entrance. His hands move from her breasts to light on her shoulders. He draws her back a little from my upturned belly, and gaping sex. ‘You like lezzie lollypop?’ he murmurs in her ear, and his hands push her forward, until she crouches, bowing between my thighs, her behind thrust up into his loins. I stare through my tears at the crown of that glossy head, feel the thick hair fall across my belly and inner thighs. Just for an instant, her breath is like a warm breeze on my eager slit, and I shudder, then give a little groan at the exquisite surfeit of sensation at the kiss of her plump lips, the bite of her hard teeth and the ultimate delight of the curl of her skilful tongue. It traces its lapping way the length of my labia, and its soft tip feather-strokes the peeled and revealed bud of my clit.
With wicked knowledge, she withdraws her wet mouth and chin, and my loins heave upward in a desperate plea to hold the contact, to bring on the fierce explosion of the come that is on the very edge of fruition. ‘Please don’t stop!’ This time there is no doubt. The hoarse desperation of my cry rings out in the softly humming room, and I see the smile of satisfaction on Simon’s face, gazing over Wanda’s shoulder. He is kneeling firmly upright. Now his hands move to that swelling curve of her hips and his body thrusts into her. Both of them gasp, as she raises and pushes her behind back to maximise the power of his drive deep into her. I don’t see it – only the upper curves of her proffered bottom, centred at the shallow dip by the small knob of the coccyx, and his hard belly flattened against her. But I feel every atom of their locking together, every centimetre of his rigid cock ploughing into the welcoming fit of that sheath enclosed about it.
I’m crying, my cheeks are wet, and the curls are damp about my temples and ears, but then awareness is caught, centred only on the drumming frenzy in my own core, as Wanda resumes those worrying, devouring, lapping strokes, the nipping teeth at the swollen font of my desire, my own miniature erection. I grind and buffet my vulva and belly against her soaking, still devouring face and the tempest of my orgasm erupts. The pungent mini ejaculation mingles with the girl’s fluids; her teeth press painfully at the upper folds of my sex, the consuming tongue thrusts and draws its potent path along the gleaming inner surfaces once more, and the exquisitely pleasurable torture bursts over and through me again. From my rigidly stretched neck to my heels, every muscle locks, my body lifts and arches, powerful even against the driving thrusts of Simon as he rams his prick deep into the embracing fissure that encases it.
Finally the whorls and seismic starburst spiral, the crescendo dies in that slow descent back to Earth and the reality of Wanda’s wet cheek lying on my wet thigh, her flubbering lips and the rhythmic jerk of her flesh on mine at the pistoning drives of Simon’s fucking. I have not yet returned to measured time. I lie empty, acknowledging Wanda’s grunts and Simon’s gasps, the syncopation of the coitus, and the tears trickle yet again from the corners of my eyes, but I don’t know why. I’m hardly aware of it. The sudden increase of violence and noise takes me unawares, like being suddenly wakened, and I’m trapped now, as Wanda falls on me once more, her body is spread over me, battering and buffeting me in the final fury of Simon’s copulation. She is sandwiched. He lies on her, and she lies on me, spreading her limbs to cover my still spreadeagled frame, and we are both pummelled in those frenetic spasms to the surging climax.
I am not like my master. I cannot mirror his emotions, as the three of us disentangle ourselves and collapse in sated exhaustion. Our sweating bodies still touch in relaxed intimacy, the distinct odours of our effusions mingle, but once thought returns after the nirvana that follows the physical bliss of orgasm, I can only reflect desolately on the differences between Simon and me. I recall far too vividly his look of warm approbation and pride, immediately following the Mattius fucking, as he held me and lifted me back into the boat, his equanimity, pleasure even, in having witnessed it. Whereas I now lie consumed with choking jealousy, my heart wounded by my knowledge of his fucking of the beautiful Wanda. I felt every thrust, not only literally in the concussion of Wanda’s frame against mine, but in my equally sensitive imagination, every stabbing plunge of his cock into her cunt.
No calmness in my mind, no pride, no proprietary pleasure in being so involved, in being part of our carnal combination. But then, I remind myself of the oh-so obvious difference. Simon is the master. I am the slave. He put me to Mattius, and he put me to Wanda – even while he shagged her until her perfect teeth rattled against my cunt. He calls every shot. My job is simply to provide the maximum pleasure in his ownership of me. I have no worth outside of this task. And I’m ashamed of the tears that gather un
der my weary eyelids, the bitter signs of my failure to perform the duty that should be my sole purpose in life.
He gets into my head. And why shouldn’t he? He owns my body, why not my mind? He is testing me. I know this, I shouldn’t fight. Shouldn’t kick against the pricks. What an apt metaphor that is! Shakespeare or the Bible – maybe both. Trust me to remember that one, and I guess you know why. Sounds like something I’ve been trying to do all my life so far. And I have to learn not to, if I want to belong to Simon, and to be valued for it. But I digress.
I know he’s testing me when he invites the lovely Wanda to return to the island with us, ‘for a few days – or as long as you like!’ I’m ashamed of my hope that she’ll turn down his invitation. Wanda’s no ordinary whore/slag/tart, and maybe not even an extraordinary category of those three. She dresses stylishly, she speaks excellent English, and although she’s on friendly terms with the local tarts (themselves of A-1 quality) who frequent The Sombrero and the first-class hotels of the seaport, she doesn’t appear to be one of them. She’s evidently on intimate terms with Mr Patel, one half of the partnership that owns the club. He tells us only that she is local and of “good stock”, and on the second day of our acquaintance, when eventually we manage to extricate ourselves from the shared double bed and emerge clothed into the tropic sunlight, she talks vaguely of “mummy” and “daddy”, and business involving sugar and sisal and pineapples and farms inland. She makes it clear she has travelled abroad, in Europe and in America. Simon listens politely, doesn’t probe, and it occurs to me that he already knows, or soon will, all about her background. He certainly made a detailed study of me before he made up his mind he wanted me – and got me! I try, with some desperation, to drive away the frightening thought that he has decided to trade me in for a newer, superior model. The sickening feeling grows. I’m a long, long way from “home”. Not that I have one, apart from with Simon, and panic lurks not far from the surface, for I can’t contemplate life without him. Even the thought of sharing his bed, of being downgraded to “No. 2”, is suddenly less terrifying than abandonment, and the wide smile is painted painfully on my face as I second Simon in my display of unbounded joy at the prospect of entertaining the lovely Wanda on our island paradise.
