by Nicole Dere
My flimsy sandals are worse than useless, so I cast them aside as we begin the short trek, through the thick bush, then onto the wider pathway carved through the undergrowth towards that forbidding clearing and the crumbling ruin of the stone house, surrounded by those few native huts. From which now emerge several native men in loincloths and bare-breasted women, who stare then burst into shrill laughter and cries, when they notice me being led by the neck on my short chain. Their calls and the women’s high ululations echo all round, and I keep my head down, trying to hide my fear and my tears, staring at my painted toes and already grimy feet. I move gingerly forward, feeling the rough stones cutting into my tender soles as we mount the crumbling steps onto the veranda of the main building. I am taken straight to the largest room at the end, where M. Auguste had shown me the shackles, and enjoyed so much subjecting me to the rusty restraints.
I let out a startled cry at the sudden revelation of a figure folded on the ground, chained by wrist and ankles, just as I was, to the solid dark slab of timber, then realise that I should not be so surprised. There is a chink of rusted chains as the figure stirs, moves to crouch on one knee, and Wanda stares, through the tangled knots of her dishevelled black locks, her dark eyes wild. I am amazed at the transformation from the beautiful, elegant figure I have known. She is wearing a bra and pants of a coffee shade similar to her skin, except that it and her brief underwear are smeared and stained liberally with sweat and dirt. The fact that bra and knickers are of satin, edged with a narrow trimming of lace, make their soiled and ragged appearance even more shocking, as does the wildly disordered state of her tangled, limply hanging hair, through which she stares like a trapped animal.
‘You!’ The eyes are fixed only on me. She ignores the grinning men around me. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Has Simon sent you ...?’ Her voice, hoarse and rasping, as shocking to me as her appearance, dies away as she notices the collar, and the chain which the ever-grinning Mattius is holding. ‘Jesus! No! Not you too? Has he got you here too?’
‘That right, Wanda!’ Mattius’s smile is assured and triumphant. To my considerable astonishment, I observe that M. Auguste’s men from the Malaika are treating him, if not with deference, as one whose word has to be taken into account. I try to take reassurance from that fact. At least it might mean we won’t be entirely at the mercy of all the other men folk around, who must number around 20 or so, including Mattius and our four Malaika crew members. Members being the operative word here. Rousing rioting orgies in my fertile sexual fantasies are one thing – the realities of satisfying in excess of ten feet of rigid pricks, even between the two of us, are daunting to say the least.
Fears are allayed for the moment when, after shackling me by wrists and ankles next to Wanda, Mattius says, ‘We’ll leave you two ladies to get reacquainted with each other, yeah? You have everything you need.’ He nods towards a bucket, which is situated close at hand, on the other side of the baulk of timber, and whose noisome odour makes its purpose undeniably apparent. ‘I be back later.’ To my continuing surprise and immense relief, the group clustered behind Mattius turn at his gesture and move out into the daylight, laughing and chattering noisily.
‘Not bad for a beach bum!’ I try to smile at my fellow captive. Suddenly I feel tremendously nervous and unsure of myself – and afraid of the girl slumped next to me; afraid that she will see through me, to my real role. Her first words when we are alone do little to reassure me.
‘He’s a lackey of the almighty Simon. He can call the shots.’
‘But still! He’s just a local fisherman. And a beach boy. For the tourists–’
She ignores my words. Those dark eyes, ringed with strain and exhaustion, peer through the black confusion of her thick hair, piercing with their hostility and suspicion. ‘And speaking of lackeys, what the fuck are you doing here, chained up next to me? And don’t try telling me your family is loaded too, that there’s someone at home ready to pay a fat ransom for you too!’
‘No! Not at all! I don’t understand anything. I’m lost. Suddenly I’m picked up on this smart launch, with Mattius and these other guys – the ones we saw that night talking to M. Mazarin and Simon, and I’m whisked off God knows where. Chained up like a dog and brought here, to you!’
‘And you had no idea I’d be here, huh?’ Her voice is heavy with disbelief, her intense look scary. ‘You! Simon’s little slave! The little slag who’d do anything for him! You lying little cunt!’
Before I can defend myself, she rears up, sinks one hand claw-like into my limp hair and drags me down. Her leg wraps itself round me, her other arm closes across my neck, and I am pinned on the dusty, uneven floor, my left shoulder jammed agonisingly against the side of the log. The pressure of her forearm presses the buckle of my collar brutally into the softness of my throat, so that I am half choked, prevented from screaming for help. ‘Please – Wanda! You’re hurting me! I swear, I don’t know – didn’t know you’d be here. I don’t know anything, honest to God!’
Genuine tears stream down my cheeks, runnelling through the sweat and the dirt. I feel my scalp lifting at the strength with which she is tearing at my bedraggled hair, while her other hand claws painfully at my breast, rips the thin cotton of the dress clear of my bosom before her broken nails sink into the softness of my left tit and I squeal, squirm helplessly under her at the fiery torment she is inflicting on me. ‘Please!’ I make no effort to resist now, but lie limp under her onslaught. ‘I don’t know why Simon’s done this to me – to you! Don’t hurt me any more!’
My utter and abject submission wins the day, even against the hysteria of her assault and, to my vast relief, the cruel hold on my hair, and my breast, is eased, the leg thrown over mine relaxes, and she levers herself off me, panting with effort. She sits up, her breasts, half encased in the tattered bra, rise and fall magnificently, and slowly she regains control. She gives a shaky laugh, glances about her. ‘OK, Crissie, baby. I guess not even you would volunteer for this, eh?’ She reaches for me again, but this time with her accustomed gentleness. She even tries to fit the torn material over my exposed breast, whose pale round is marked by the angry red imprints of her hold. She wipes at the tear marks on my face before placing her dirty head against mine and nuzzling softly. ‘I’ve been going mad for days now. It’s just been so awful, Crissie! I honestly thought my number was up. I thought these guys were going to kill me. They still might, I reckon. Even if my family pay up. And I guess that’s pretty doubtful. They’re not exactly impressed with me, ’specially now they know what I’ve been up to.’ She gives a crooked, teary smile. ‘But we whores have got to stick together, eh?’
The tears come again, this time with huge relief on my part, as we clasp at each other, and our mouths seek the solace which, even in these unlucky circumstances, bring immediate and throbbing comfort. It would seem she has bought my story, and in spite of our perilous situation and our unsavoury condition and surroundings, our embraces become steadily more passionate until we are gnawing and clawing at each other, locked like two wrestlers in mortal combat. There is even an element of sick comedy in our loving, as our chains become entangled and twisted in complicated combination just like our writhing limbs.
‘Look, sweetheart!’ Wanda pants, after almost strangling me, this time with love, the rusted links of the wrist restraints pressing tightly across my neck in her efforts to bite and suck at my offered throat like a bride of Dracula. ‘Do what you do best! Lie back and enjoy it. I get my rocks off getting yours off. You know that by now. Let me and yourself go, sugar. Let me blow your top.’
No argument from me there. I obey, with spectacular success, so that within a few more minutes our chains are crisscrossed over my grimy flesh like the ties of a Christmas goodie, and those unkempt long strands of hair are spread about my thighs and lifting belly, and I’m whimpering in the throes of a climax which sends my clenching buttocks and dancing heels hammering on the unforgiving cold stone of our prison floor.
It is far more than I anticipated, but Wanda tells me that in the few days (she isn’t certain how many) that she has been incarcerated here, she has been left alone for hours on end. Also, just as astonishing, and I suppose encouraging, she tells me she has not been molested by any of her numerous captors. ‘What?’ I ask, even more amazed. ‘Not even Mattius?’
‘That little shit?’ she answers contemptuously. ‘He’s your master’s little poodle, isn’t he? Too scared to disobey his master’s voice!’
‘He’s already shagged me ! On the way over from the mainland in the launch!’
‘Oh dear !’ She laughs mockingly, and in that one sound all the tenderness of our loving seems to have evaporated. ‘But then Simon never did mind his boatman fucking you, did he? In fact, he held you down for him, didn’t he?’
‘Shut up! He was just testing me! Simon! He just wanted to see ... how much I ... what I would ... how far I’d go for him.’ I felt the tears mounting with the rush of colour to my dirty face, made worse by another cruel little chuckle.
‘And what about this time?’ she asks tauntingly. ‘I assume Simon wasn’t there to hold your tiny hand. Put up a hell of a struggle, did you? Did his mates have to hold you down for him? Did they have a go too?’
‘No!’ The tears spill over, my voice shakes, and it is hard to get the words out. ‘I didn’t fight him. Just like you that day at the reef! You didn’t object to Mattius then, either!’
‘That was my choice, babe. Not some sick fantasy that I was fucking Mattius for Simon’s sake. Simon says do this!’ Her laugh this time is savage in its derision, and it stings like a lash across my back.
I sniff, the tears rolling freely, making channels through the sweat and dust. But she is relentless.
‘So what’s the score now then? Why do you reckon you’re here? You’re not worth a fistful of dollars. Is it to keep an eye on me? To keep me amused?’ Typically, she does not gesture towards her dark-capped loins, somewhat inadequately covered by the filthy scrap of lace edged satin once more, but holds up her vertically extended middle finger, emblem of triumph over my too easily surrendered sex. ‘Or is he just sick to death of your candy sweet snivelling servitude, the little slave who’ll lick his boots or his arse, or anywhere else his majesty will deign to let you grovel for him? Maybe he’s just glad to get rid of you, and is killing two birds with one heist! What do you reckon, babe?’
I choke on my grief, and can’t answer her attack, which is twice as vicious and painful as her physical assault was earlier. I give a wail and turn away, burying my face in my arms, slumped on the filth-ridden ground. I think of all the countless tender or leathery bare soles who have tramped this cold stone in bondage, and wonder if any of them could have felt more desolate than I’m feeling right now. I half expect to feel Wanda’s fists and feet pummelling me, her nails raking me, haling me by my lank hair. I’d almost welcome it. Then I strive desperately to remember the loving time I have just spent with Simon, and that Wanda has no idea of the truth – that I am indeed serving him because he has entrusted me with his secret, because I am indeed so close and valued to him. But her chilling assessment is like a worm eating inside me, and I feel my confidence seeping away like the bitter tears staining my cheeks.
I wake to feel the feather-like brushing of Amanda’s long, dark, still damp hair across my thigh and my belly. Our bodies are still fresh from the prolonged dousing with gallons of stinging cold water from the nearby ocean with which our guards have just soaked us. There are still several pools lying on the damp, uneven surface, but already there is a sultry feel to the humid atmosphere, and I can imagine the salty flavour of my already drying skin on the lapping tongue which caresses my most secret flesh and sends darts of stirring fire through me. Around us in the dimness of the great shed our fellow slaves lie in similarly entwined pairs, and the air is full of sighs and murmurs, gasps and muted shriller cries of excitement.
Since they took the men slaves away, most of the women have paired off, like Amanda and myself, even those who, unlike my new lover and I, have not hitherto known the comfort and the joy of lesbian relationships, though I suspect such novices must be a very small minority. Soon, thanks to Amanda’s devoted service, I feel that stirring excitement building towards the peak of sensation which can make even our gloomy and forbidding surroundings fade in the ecstasy of sexual fulfilment.
Then our exclusive, paired world is shattered with appalling roughness, as Amanda’s head is plucked away from my yielded thighs, and a hard blow with the flat of a sword sends a stinging fire flaring across my upper leg and my flank. I gaze up in alarm at the looming figure of Josephus, the captain of the guard, who is standing over us. His left hand is wound deep in the black hair by which he has dragged and is holding the weeping Amanda aloft. ‘You filthy bitches! You’re like perverted alley cats, with your wicked unnatural couplings.’
Expertly, he releases the rings by which we are secured to the long wooden beam, while leaving our wrists and ankles still shackled by their short lengths of chain. They force us to shuffle in an ungainly, clanking run as he leads us outside, ignoring the suppressed whimpers of fear from our companions in misfortune, who have separated in terrified haste from their amatory couplings He is still dragging Amanda by her hair, and I chink along at my crouching run behind them.
We blink in the painful brightness, even though the evening sun is mellow, the shadows lengthened, including our own. The balmy air, though still heavy and redolent with the fecund aromas of the thick jungle all around, is welcomingly free from the odours of our crowded, festering communal chamber. I take deep, grateful breaths. Then my heart rate quickens, not with excitement this time, but with dread and loathing for what I know is to follow.
He leads us across the patch of beaten earth and through a narrow opening in the undergrowth and I wait to be ordered to play my already familiar role. We reach the small clearing and Amanda sinks down in the grass obediently, while Josephus beckons me impatiently forward. He does not even glance in Amanda’s direction. He knows neither of us would ever summon the courage or the foolhardiness to try and run from this deserted spot. Where would we go? We would be recaptured, probably within minutes, for this island is tiny, and we would have no chance of securing one of the native canoes or any other craft. And with our irons, we would drown if we attempted to swim.
Josephus stands there, his feet apart, and I kneel in front of him, while he unbuckles his broad leather belt and scabbard and tosses his sword carelessly aside. He rolls up the knee length gown of cotton, until he is exposed as far as the small slit of his navel. He wears no undergarment, so from the top of the thin dark straps about his muscular calves that bind his sandals, he is naked. His skin, naturally swarthy, is even darker because of the tropic sun. The long thigh muscles stand out, covered by fine dark curls, but my gaze, as always, is drawn to that already stirring thick column, and the testicles that hang heavily beneath it.
I smell the yeasty, heavy masculine aroma, of sweat, and of the unmistakable musk of sex. The helm is already fully emergent from the foreskin, its pink dome agleam with the glistening discharge of excitation which causes his prick to lift in the curving bow that presages a full erection. The tiny slit shines with its secretion and his cock rises before my face like a snake ready to strike.
I don’t need the fierce pressure of his hands on my matted, yellow hair to remind me. I
bend close until I feel that silky skin brush against my forehead and nose, then my lips pucker, and I bestow the lightest of kisses on the imperiously rising and lengthening column. It rears, presses back against my worshipful lips in response to my kiss. Gently I reach for it, feel that surging beat of muscles as it stiffens, and turning my head slightly, I stretch my mouth until it gapes, and take that majestic, swelling potency deep inside, as far as I can, until it fills me and I gag, and the breath whistles through my flared nostrils, hammers like thunder in my eardrums. I suck, then pull clear, letting my curling tongue trail its length, rim around that now denoted and massive flange at the base of its dome, then lap and gnaw like a wild animal avidly scavenging the meat from a bone, before my grip tightens, I pump the virile length, feeding its growing frenzy, then immolate myself once more on its might until it fills me to the back of my throat.
I am half faint with lack of breath when he hauls me clear, with an audible pop, and flings me down. His prick is indeed a rampant weapon, and it is my beloved Amanda who receives its length, driven to the full inside her own ready cunt, doubtless moistly coated for its impalement. Slowly my whirling senses recover, my breasts heave as I suck in the reviving air, and lie helpless, watching his clenching buttocks pumping madly, buffeting my darling between her paler, outspread limbs and upraised knees.
I awake again, this time to chilly reality. I am curved around the unconscious body of Wanda, her beautiful bum fitted into my belly and thighs. We have the log to ourselves. I am moving rhythmically against those splendid curves, my thighs tightening and relaxing, in sync with my inner hidden muscles. Right now, I’d welcome the intervention of that man of my so-frequent dreams. Joe Servis, you bastard! You never were around when I needed you!
Chapter Sixteen
GRATEFUL THOUGH WE ARE for those long hours of isolation when we are left undisturbed, we nevertheless soon grow more and more weighed down with the discomforts of our imprisonment. The food is basic – boiled rice, meat, vegetables and fruit for the main evening meal, all of which we have to eat from blue-rimmed enamel plates, using metal dessert spoons, and in the morning, a thin oatmeal (or maizemeal) gruel, all of which we wash down with very milky tea served in tin mugs. A shallow basin of lukewarm water is brought in after our breakfast, along with a bar of household soap, two flannels and two toothbrushes. This is the extent of our ablution facilities. No hairbrushes, no mirrors and no cosmetics.
